Diary Entry, 23rd October 2023
The carrier bags weighed me down like sandbags as I trudged up the crooked London street, my knuckles brushing against the icicle-strewn lampposts. My back ached from hauling the day’s groceries for Mother’s 85th birthday. I fumbled for my phone, hoping perhaps—*somehow*—Emily had texted. She hadn’t. Of course not. Work was her excuse these days, that and the usual list of obligations. I tightened my coat collar against the wind and kept walking.
“Em! There you are!” Doris from the *first* floor poked her head out, her cheeks still glowing from the sherry she’d smuggled into her front room. “How’s Margaret faring? Word is it’s her big day?”
“Still 84,” I muttered, my voice frayed from the cold. “Her spine’s not holding up, but the mind’s as sharp as ever.”
“Don’t be churlish, love! I’ll bring her a scone or two for the big day,” she offered, puffing on a cigarette. “Tell her to keep her front room fire stoked, eh?”
I mumbled the reply, left the bags on the stoop, and vanished indoors. The flat reeked of stale tea and unwashed laundry, a graveyard of silence save for the ticking grandfather clock that had outlived us all. I slumped onto the kitchen stool, my joints creaking like door hinges. The day had begun at 5 a.m. for the bakery shift, then a dash to Stevenage to help Mother plant the marigolds in her overgrown garden, then shops for the party. Now the only thing I craved was sleep.
The front door clanged open.
“Emma? ’Ow are you taking tea?” Peter’s voice was gravel-crushed, as always. He dropped his tie on the floor like a used bandage and slumped beside me, his head lolling back.
“No biscuits left,” I said flatly. He’d meant to ask about the groceries. He’d meant to ask about Mother. But he only asked, “Bring the kettle on, love?”
I heated the water, watching his hands—those workman’s hands with the knuckles blistered from decades of bricklaying. Once, I thought he was solid. Now they trembled slightly, as if life had polished them smooth but hollow.
“She called,” he said suddenly. “Mother, I mean.”
“What did she want?”
“To know if we’d be at the fete on Saturday.”
“Said we’d be there,” I replied, stirring the teabags with false calm. “You promised her.”
He nodded, sipping in silence. We used to talk—*really talks*—but now our conversations dangled like loose wires, sparking only when necessary.
Emily ambled in just before dawn the next day to help Mother tidy the sitting room. Peter offered to drive her, which caught me off guard. “You’re not working?” I asked.
“Got the day to myself,” he muttered, staring at the rain-streaked windows.
I watched them go, Emily clutching her thinned coat closed, Peter’s silhouette hunched in the steering wheel. Their silences felt heavier than usual, as if what *used* to hang between them had now been replaced by an even deadlier quiet.
Mother’s home was a hive of chaos by Saturday. My sister Lydia and her twins were already unloading the cake boxes, their voices sharp over the clatter of crockery. Emily bustled about with the polish, muttering about “*what a bloody undertaking*,” while Mother, spruced up in her floral apron, directed everyone with military precision.
“Don’t panic,” I reminded her as the doorbell rang. “It’s just another Saturday to her.”
But when Susan, the old friend from the misma Rolls, arrived—leaning on her cane, her eyes bright despite the stiffness—Mother froze mid-sentence.
“Susan, I didn’t expect to see you,” she said, voice brittle.
“Thought you’d want a proper birthday,” Susan replied, handing over a biscuit tin. “The ones with the orange zest. You always took them after Sunday Mass.”
Their eyes met, and I saw it: the unspoken history, the decades of pride and resentment, now folded into a passive-aggressive smile. Mother thanked her with a nod but didn’t invite her in farther.
At the fete, the tension lingered like uninvited smoke. Susan talked to the neighbors, but Mother refused to acknowledge her beyond the pretense of politeness. Emily tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Why are they like this?”
“She’s always had her pride,” I said. “So did your father.”
Emily blinked. “But *why*? It’s just Susan.”
“They had a falling out. A long time ago,” I replied, watching Mother stare out the window, the snowflakes painting the glass like tombstones.
Later, as Susan’s footsteps receded into the night, Emily caught her in the hallway. “Mum, you’re being ridiculous,” she said. “It’s your *birthday*. She brought orange zest biscuits for a reason.”
Mother’s voice wavered. “I know, love. Susan always was too kind. But pride is a curse, isn’t it? I’d rather die in a box than admit I was wrong.”
Emily stayed late after the guests left, the two of them deep in conversation over cups of strong coffee. I didn’t hear what was said, but by morning, the frost had cracked. Mother sent Emily off with a card—and a bundle of vouchers for a European cruise. “There’s five years before the silver wedding,” she said. “Best to plan ahead.”
At last, Peter and I were alone. He stirred his tea, glancing at the empty mantelpiece.
“Do you ever think we’re doing this right?” he asked. “The marriage, I mean?”
I stared at the steam. “No. We haven’t spoken in months. I thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore. That the job and the bills and the *noise* had pushed me out of your life.”
He gripped my hand, his thumb tracing the callouses. “I thought you’d stopped loving me,” he said simply.
The silence between us no longer felt like a canyon. It felt like a bridge.
We’ll never be the kind of people who shout our feelings at one another. But we’ll talk. We’ll *listen*. Because if I learned anything from watching Mother—apple not fall far from the tree—it’s that pride is a rot. And all of us, in the end, are just trying not to let it root us to the ground.