«Sweet Grandmother Who Lacked Love»
– Emily, I swear, this old cow will invite us again today! – Jack drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. – And you’ll agree as always!
– Stop calling her that, – Emily sighed. – Margaret is your father’s mother, and she’s alone now. Don’t you feel a bit sorry for her?
– Sorry for a bee’s leg, – Jack snapped. – The past five years, we’ve driven out here every weekend. And what about her? Has she ever said thank you? Always complains: the broth isn’t seasoned enough, the floor wasn’t mopped properly…
Emily said nothing, staring out the window at the passing trees. The bumpy road to Jack’s mother-in-law’s house always felt endless, even though it was just a thirty-minute drive from the city. These visits had become a source of tension in their marriage, but Emily insisted on continuing. Something inside her refused to abandon the lonely old woman.
– Besides, why should we take care of her after Dad died? – Jack grumbled. – She has another son, William – my uncle, for heaven’s sake. Why doesn’t he help?
– He lives in another city…
– So what? Can’t he visit once a year? Or send a few pounds? Oh, right – he’s too busy with his affairs!
The car turned onto a gravel track. A small, weathered cottage with a white picket fence came into view. The garden was neatly kept: a tidy path, vegetables in rows, apple trees in the orchard.
– We’re here, – Emily murmured.
Jack killed the engine and glanced at her.
– I hope she doesn’t start moaning about her ailments today.
– Jack! She’s eighty-three. People get ill at that age. It’s normal.
Margaret, a frail woman in a neat apron and pearls, appeared on the porch. Her silver hair was pinned up, and her old-fashioned glasses perched on her nose.
– Oh, you two are here! – she said, her voice surprisingly vibrant. – I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come today.
– Hello, Margaret, – Emily smiled, unloading groceries from the car.
Jack nodded a greeting and trudged toward the house without a word.
– I baked scones and meat pies, – Margaret bustled. – Knows how Jack loves the meaty ones…
Emily followed her inside. The house was clean, smelling of tea and lavender. The dining table, laid with a lace cloth, already had a teapot and plates. Margaret always prepared for their visits.
– Margaret, you shouldn’t stand for so long, – Emily scolded gently. – We could have cooked something.
– Oh, dear, old habits die hard. I’ve spent my life cooking – in the factory canteen, for my husband, the boys. My hands still knead dough, even when my legs refuse.
Jack returned, carrying a pile of firewood.
– Margaret, you’re running low on logs. I’ll ask the neighbor to deliver more tomorrow.
– Thank you, sweetheart, – she smiled. – Just like your father – always looking after others. Rest in peace…
Jack’s lips tightened. His father, Thomas, had died five years ago after a long illness. He’d worked at the factory, raised Jack, while his younger brother William moved to London and drifted away from the family.
– Sit and have some tea, – Margaret urged. – Emily, fetch the jam from the pantry. I’ve saved the raspberry one for you.
Over tea, Margaret chattered about the town, work, health. Jack replied in short sentences; Emily tried to keep the conversation going with news from their life.
– And when are you two planning to have children? – Margaret suddenly asked. – I’d love to spoil a grandchild before I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Jack choked on his tea. This question came up every time, and they always avoided it.
– Margaret, – Emily began softly, – you know we’re still busy with work. Jack is aiming for a promotion, I just transferred to a new school…
– Work, work, work. But life passes you by. My Thomas worked himself to the grave – and now I have only you two left.
Margaret fell silent, gazing out the window where twilight deepened.
After tea, Emily washed the dishes while Jack repaired the overgrown shed. Margaret sat in her favorite armchair, pulling out an old photo album.
– Emily! – she called when Emily finished. – Come sit and look at these.
Emily joined her. The same routine unfolded as always, but something felt different today.
– See this picture? – Margaret pointed to a yellowed photo of a young woman beside a tall man. – That’s me with Thomas. We were newlyweds.
– You were so beautiful, – Emily said sincerely.
– I was considered the prettiest girl in the village, – Margaret smiled faintly. – Thomas courted me for three years, and I kept turning him away. Too proud, I suppose.
She flipped the page.
– Those are my lads – Thomas and William. Thomas was the spitting image of his father – serious, responsible. William was like me – quick, mischievous.
– Margaret, why don’t you see William more often? – Emily asked cautiously.
Margaret sighed and closed the album.
– I’m to blame for that, – she said unexpectedly. – I always favored Thomas. He was older, more helpful. William… Well, he came later, when I’d run out of energy and was as stubborn as him. We argued constantly.
Emily stared at her mother-in-law, surprised. In five years, Margaret had never admitted this.
– When Thomas died, your father was grown, working and raising a family. William was still in school. It was hard. I worked three jobs to support them. Thomas helped – he supplemented the income, served in the military like the right son should. But William…
Margaret’s fingers fidgeted with her apron.
– He ran away when he finished school. Left for London, said there was no future here. Maybe he was right, but those words still cut deep. I gave him so little love. All went to Thomas.
Jack’s footsteps creaked at the door. He entered, covered in dust.
– Fixed the shed roof, – he said. – Should hold until next summer.
– Thank you, dear, – Margaret stood up. – Come and wash your hands. I’ll pour you some of that homemade soup you love.
Jack hesitated but nodded. Surprise flickered in his eyes – Margaret rarely called him «dear.»
The evening passed in comfort. Margaret asked about their weekend plans, gave advice on their garden (they owned a small plot outside the city), and regaled them with funny stories. Jack gradually softened, even laughing at a few.
When it was time to leave, Margaret insisted on packing gifts – scones, pickled vegetables, and meat pies.
– Margaret, we’ll come again next week! – Emily protested.
– Take them, – Margaret insisted. – I’ll miss them more than you.
In the car, Jack broke the silence.
– Margaret seems different today…
– In what way? – Emily asked, glancing at him.
– More open. Usually, she complains, but she asked about us today.
– I noticed. She mentioned William… Admitted she was unfair to him.
– Really? I wouldn’t have guessed she could admit that.
That night, unpacking the gifts, Emily found a letter in a bag addressed to her. The handwriting was neat but shaky.
*»Dear Emily,
I write this because I can’t say it aloud. I’m old, but stubbornness stays with me. Thank you for everything you do. For dragging Jack here, even though he complains. I see how he winces, but I understand.
I never gave my children enough love. I trained Thomas for responsibility rather than affection. Pushed William away with my strictness. Now I’m alone. But when I see how you and Jack support each other – it eases my heart.
If you have children someday, teach them not to forget their grandmother. She’s a grumpy old thing, yes, but I wish for the laughter of grandchildren in this house.
Take care of Jack and yourself.
Your Margaret»*
Emily read the letter again, eyes stinging. She’d never imagined the old woman felt such loneliness.
The next day, Emily found William’s number in London. When he finally answered, he asked where she’d gotten his details.
– I’m Jack’s wife. Your mother… Margaret, she misses you.
Silence.
– Tell her I’m busy, – he said flatly. – I have my own life.
– She admits she was unfair to you, – Emily rushed. – She often looks at your childhood photos…
– You’re Tanya? – he asked.
– Emily.
– Emily. I’m forty-seven. It’s too late for her to suddenly care. I was always a burden to her, an extra mouth. Even when I got into university, she didn’t celebrate – only asked when I’d start sending money. And now she pretends she remembers her second son?
– People change…
– Not at eighty-three, – he cut her off. – Goodbye.
The line went dead.
For days, Emily worried about Margaret. On Friday evening, she confronted Jack.
– Want to visit the garden tomorrow? Early. We need to dig up the soil.
Jack raised an eyebrow.
– Early? We usually come in the afternoon…
– I think she needs us right now.
They arrived before dawn. Walking the path, Emily told Jack about the letter and the failed call. Jack listened, hands clenched around the steering wheel.
– I never thought she felt that way, – he said finally. – She always seemed so… independent.
– It’s a defense mechanism, – Emily said gently. – She just lacks love – like all of us.
When they reached the house, Jack noticed the gate was unlocked – strange, Margaret always locked it.
– Something’s wrong, – he muttered, rushing toward the cottage.
The door was open. Inside, silence prevailed.
– Margaret! – he called. No answer. The house was empty, the bed made, dishes clean. She’d vanished.
In the garden, they found her. She sat on a bench under the apple tree, leaning against the trunk, the photo album in her lap, flipped to the page with the two boys.
– Margaret, – Jack whispered, but knew she couldn’t hear him.
The funeral was low-key. Neighbors and former colleagues attended. William didn’t come, despite Emily’s call.
After the burial, sorting through Margaret’s belongings, Emily found another letter – addressed to William. The handwriting was the same, dated years earlier.
*»My darling William,
I write this knowing you won’t read it. So many years, yet I can’t send it. Fearing you’ll discard it unread.
Forgive me, if you can. I didn’t know how to love properly. I thought love was feeding, clothing, sheltering. I never asked about your soul. I neglected Thomas too, but he was easier – older, respected. You were always in his shadow.
Do you remember your poetry in school? I always said, “Get on with your work, not silly nonsense.” Yet your teacher, Miss Evelyn, said you had a gift. Where is that gift now?
Every day, I remember you walking out the door with your suitcase, so determined, so distant. I never found the words to stop you, to say I loved you. Just, “Don’t forget to send money.”
Forgive me, my son. I didn’t know love was in words, in hugs, in pride without reason. I learned too late.
Your mother»*
A month later, when Emily and Jack returned to Margaret’s cottage, a black London car sat in the yard.
William leaned against the porch, looking oddly like Jack. He looked up as they approached.
– Hello, cousin, – he said. – Sorry about the funeral.
Jack nodded.
– I got a note from your wife, – William said, glancing at Emily. – Thank you for taking care of my mother.
They stepped inside. William walked the rooms, tracing the photographs. Then he paused at the closet where the photo album lay.
– You know, – he said, not turning around, – I never hated her. Just didn’t understand. I guess it’s too late now.
– Maybe not yet, – Emily said softly, handing him the letter.
William read it at the closet. His shoulders trembled.
– I didn’t know, – he said, turning. His eyes were red. – That she remembered the poems… I thought she didn’t care.
That evening, they sat together in the house. William shared stories of his life in London, his work as an architect, his wife and daughter, who’d just given him a grandson.
– Named him Thomas, after his grandfather, – he smiled. – Too bad his grandmother missed him.
Before leaving, William stood by Margaret’s grave, placing a bouquet of wildflowers and remaining silent. Then he turned to Jack.
– I’ll visit. Not as often as you, but I will. She’d have wanted that.
A year later, the apple trees in Margaret’s orchard bloomed again. The house had been restored – William had hired builders to reinforce the foundation and repair the roof. New benches and a garden shelter now stood in the yard.
– You know, – Jack said one day to Emily, sitting in the shelter, – I only just realized how much she missed simple human warmth. She really loved us all. Just didn’t know how to show it.
Emily smiled, placing a hand on her belly, now rounded with new life.
– I know, love. But we’ll learn. We’ll teach our children and grandchildren love so they never doubt it.
On the table lay the photo album, open to a fresh page. Beside the yellowed pictures were new snapshots: William and Jack planting an apple tree, Emily in her garden, their newborn son wobbling along the path where once walked a kind woman who’d lacked love in life but united the family after her passing.