Ann, here comes the trouble again. That old harridan has probably invited us over this weekend! Simon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You always say yes, as usual.”
“Stop calling her that,” Ann sighed. “Margaret is your mother’s mother, and she’s alone. Don’t you ever feel bad for her?”
“She’d feel bad if she had a mind,” Simon snapped. “The past five years, we’ve dragged ourselves out here every weekend. Has she ever said thank you? Always grumbles—soup too bland, the floor never clean enough…”
Ann said nothing, staring out the window at the passing trees. The drive to Margaret’s cottage seemed endless, even though it was just a half-hour from Manchester. These visits had been a point of contention in their marriage for years, but Ann persisted. Something in her refused to leave a lonely woman behind.
“And besides,” Simon continued, “why should we take care of her now that Dad’s gone? She’s got your brother, Victor. Why doesn’t he help?”
“You know he lives in London,” Ann replied. “Can’t he come once a year? Or send money? Oh, right—he’s busy with his big corporate job.”
The car turned onto a dirt road, and ahead was the plain white cottage with a red-iron gate. Despite its age, the garden was tidy—raked paths, neat rows of vegetables, and fruit trees.
“We’re here,” Ann murmured.
Simon killed the engine and looked at her. “Hope she doesn’t start her sick complaints today.”
“Simon! She’s eighty-three. Of course she’s going to have health issues.”
As the car pulled in, Margaret appeared on the porch in a floral dressing gown and apron. Her silver hair was pinned up, and her old-fashioned spectacles gleamed in the sunlight.
“Welcome, darling!” her voice rang out, surprisingly lively for her age. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come this time.”
“Hello, Margaret,” Ann smiled, grabbing the groceries from the backseat.
Simon nodded and trudged toward the door.
“I’ve made pies—apple and cabbage. I know Simmy loves the cabbage ones,” Margaret chirped.
Ann followed her into the cottage, where the scent of baked goods mingled with lavender. The table, always set with a lace cloth, already had a teapot and plates. Margaret always prepared.
“Margaret, you shouldn’t stay on your feet too long,” Ann scolded gently. “We could’ve brought something.”
“Nonsense, old habits die hard,” Margaret shrugged. “I’ve been cooking for decades—whether it was for my husband or the work canteen. These hands still know what to do.”
Simon returned with an armload of logs.
“Margaret, you’re running low. I’ll ask John at the farm to drop some off tomorrow,” he offered.
“Thank you, Simmy,” she beamed. “You’re just like your father—always helpful. The good Lord take him.”
Simon clenched his jaw. Their father had passed five years ago from a long illness. He’d worked at the factory, raised his sons, while Victor, his brother, had moved to London, got married, and drifted away from their family.
“Sit down for tea,” Margaret insisted. “Ann, fetch the strawberry jam from the pantry. I saved it for you.”
Over tea, Margaret questioned them about Manchester life, their jobs, their health. Simon answered tersely, but Ann filled the gaps, sharing stories.
“And when will you start a family?” Margaret asked suddenly. “I’d love to see a few grandchildren before I’m gone.”
Simon sputtered into his tea. This question came every time, and every time they dodged it.
“Margaret,” Ann began softly, “we’re both busy. Simon’s up for a promotion, and I’ve just started at a new school…”
“Work and life pass by,” Margaret sighed. “My Reg held on to work until the end, and then—gone. Children are the joy of old age. You two are all I have left…”
She fell quiet, staring out the window as dusk settled.
After tea, Ann washed the dishes while Simon patched the shed roof. Margaret sat in her armchair with the old photo album.
“Ann,” she called once the dishes were done. “Come sit with me, look at these pictures.”
Ann joined her. This ritual never changed—Margaret always pulled out the album and retold the same stories. But today, something felt different.
“Look here,” Margaret pointed to a yellowing photo of a young beautiful woman next to a tall man. “That’s me with Reg, my husband. Just after we married.”
“You looked so lovely,” Ann admired.
“I was the village beauty back then,” Margaret chuckled faintly. “Reg pursued me for three years, and I turned him down. Too proud.”
She flipped the page.
“These are the boys—Simon and Victor. Simon took after Reg, serious and responsible. Victor—the best of me, quick and lively.”
“Margaret, why do you rarely see Victor?” Ann asked cautiously.
Margaret sighed, closing the album. “I’m the one to blame. I always favored Simon. He was the older one, the help. Victor… he was the same as me—rebellious. We fought constantly.”
Ann stared at her mother-in-law, startled. In five years, Margaret had never acknowledged her guilt toward the younger son.
“When Reg passed, Simon was a grown man, working, building a family. Victor was still a boy. It was hard—three jobs to raise them both. Simon helped—worked overtime, never shirked. But Victor…” Margaret trailed off, fiddling with her apron.
“He ran away from me when he graduated school. Left for London, said there was no future here. Maybe he was right, but his words still sting. I gave him no love, only complaints. All my love went to Simon.”
Simon walked in, covered in dust and sawdust. “Fixed the roof—it’ll hold until next summer.”
“Thank you, dear,” Margaret said, standing to go to the kitchen. “Wash up. I’ll bring you some cold soup. I remember how much you’ve always loved it.”
Simon hesitated, then nodded. In all the years they’d known her, Margaret had never called him “dear.”
The evening passed calmly. Margaret asked about their vacation plans, gave gardening tips (Ann had a small backyard plot) and laughed at family memories. Simon gradually relaxed, even laughed a few times with his grandmother.
When it was time to leave, Margaret packed them a basket: jars of jam, pickles, and pies.
“They’re too many,” Ann protested. “We’ll be back next week.”
“Take them,” Margaret insisted. “I can’t eat this much anyway.”
As they drove away, Simon broke the silence.
“Margaret was different today,” he mused.
“In what way?” Ann asked, turning to him.
“More… open. Usually, she complains and gripes. Today she asked more about us.”
“Including Victor,” Ann added.
Simon raised an eyebrow. “She admitted she was unfair to him?”
“She did,” Ann nodded. “She never said it before.”
At home, unpacking the basket, Ann found an envelope addressed to her. Inside was a letter, written in small, slightly shaky handwriting.
*“Dear Ann,*
*I write this because I can’t say it aloud. Old habits and pride, I suppose. Thank you for everything you do for me—for dragging Simon here even though he’d rather not. I see the way he winces each time. I don’t mind—I’ve earned it.*
*I gave my sons little love. I taught Simon responsibility, not affection. Victor I drove away with my strictness. Now I’m alone. But when I see you two, and how you support each other… it brings me comfort. Perhaps I didn’t teach you all bad.*
*If you have children, teach them not to forget their grandmother—even though I’m grumpy. I’ve missed the sound of a child’s laugh in this house.*
*Take care of Simon and yourself,*
*Your Margaret.”*
Ann read it several times, eyes stinging. She hadn’t realized Margaret felt so alone.
The next day, Ann called the directory and, after a long search, found Victor’s number in London. When he answered, silence followed.
“Who’s this?” he finally asked.
“My name is Ann. I’m Simon’s wife. Margaret… your mother… she’s feeling lonely.”
Prolonged silence.
“Tell her I’m busy,” Victor replied flatly. “I have my own life.”
“Victor, she admits she was unfair to you,” Ann rushed to say, fearing the line would drop. “She often looks at your childhood photos…”
“She’s too late for that,” Victor snapped. “I’ve spent a lifetime being her burden. Even when I got into university, she never celebrated—just asked when I’d send money. Now she remembers her son exists?”
“People change,” Ann said.
“Not at 83,” he cut her off. “Goodbye.”
The call ended with a click.
For days, Ann replayed the conversation. On Friday night, she confronted Simon.
“Simon, we need to go to Margaret’s as early as possible. We need to help her in the garden.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “The garden? That’s odd—we usually go in the afternoon…”
“Something tells me she needs us more than ever,” Ann said.
The next day, they left early. Ann told Simon about the letter and failed call. He listened, gripping the wheel tightly.
“I never thought she cared about that,” he finally said. “She always seemed so… self-sufficient.”
“She was protecting herself,” Ann said softly. “She just lacks love. We all do.”
When they reached Margaret’s, Simon noticed the gate was unlocked. That was strange—Margaret always locked it at night.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, hurrying inside.
The door was ajar. Inside, silence.
“Grandma?” Simon called. “Margaret?”
No answer. They searched the house—empty, except for the neatly made bed and clean dishes.
In the garden, they found Margaret. She slumped against an apple tree, the photo album open in her lap, a picture of the two boys inside.
“Grandma,” Simon whispered, already knowing.
Margaret was gone when they found her. The funeral was small—neighbors, a few old coworkers. Victor didn’t come. Ann called but received no response.
After the burial, sorting Margaret’s things, Ann found another letter—this one for Victor. Written in the same shaky hand, dated months earlier.
*“My dear Victor,*
*I write this although I know you’ll never read it. Years have passed, and I still can’t send it. I’m afraid you’ll throw it away.
*Forgive me, if you can. I never learned to love properly. I thought love meant feeding, clothing, sheltering. I never asked what was in your heart. I didn’t pamper Simon, but he had the advantage of being first. You always lived in his shadow.*
*Do you remember your poems in school? I always told you to ‘stick to real work, not nonsense.’ But your teacher, Miss Carol, came by and said you had a gift. That gift is long gone…*
*Every day I recall the day you left. Standing on the porch, so determined, so distant. I never found the words to stop you, never said I loved you. Just, ‘Don’t forget to send money.’*
*Forgive me. I didn’t know love was about speaking it, about hugging, about pride without reason. I understood too late.
*
*Your mother.”*
A month later, when Simon and Ann returned to Margaret’s to collect her remaining belongings, a black car with London plates sat in the yard.
On the porch, a gray-haired man stood—an older version of Simon. He looked up as they approached.
“Hello, cousin,” Victor said. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral.”
Simon nodded silently.
“I got your messages,” Victor said, looking at Ann. “Thank you for looking after her all these years.”
They entered the cottage together. Victor wandered the rooms, touched objects, stared at the photos. Stopped at the old cabinet with the photo album.
“I never hated her,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t understand. It’s too late to fix anything now.”
“Maybe not,” Ann said softly, handing him a letter.
Victor read it by the cabinet. His shoulders trembled.
“I didn’t know,” he said at last, turning. His eyes were red. “I didn’t know she remembered the poems… I thought she didn’t care.”
They sat together in the evening, Victor telling stories of London, his work as an architect, his wife and daughter, his infant granddaughter.
“I named her Margaret, after Nana,” he smiled. “She would’ve loved to meet her.”
As they departed, Victor stood by the grave, placing a wildflower bouquet.
“I’ll return,” he said, facing Simon. “Not as often as you two, but I will. That’s what she’d want.”
A year later, in Margaret’s garden, the apple trees bloomed again. Victor had hired builders to repair the house, adding a new garden bench and a pergola.
“We’re the same,” Simon said one day, sitting with Ann. “I never realized how lonely she was. She loved us all—just couldn’t show it.”
Ann smiled, placing a hand on her belly, now round.
“We’ll learn,” she said. “We’ll teach them love the way they won’t doubt. Even if Nana was grumpy.”
Inside, the photo album lay open on the table, now with new pictures: Victor and Simon planting an apple tree, Ann with her hand on her belly, Victor’s daughter taking her first steps.
The cottage held new beginnings, born from the life of a woman who once lacked love but united her family after her passing.