Silence Between Two
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The SILLY GOOSE Came Back When No One Expected
27 May
1416
11 min
John’s hand froze midway as he gripped the grocery bag. Margery Brown stood in their London flat’s doorway, her white hair in disarray from the wind, a faded tartan shawl draped over her shoulders.
“By Jove! You haven’t changed in three years,” she scoffed, yanking her umbrella from the stand. “I suppose you expected a Martian?”
John fumbled the handle of her two bulging suitcases, his mind racing. For three years, his wife Emily had clung to the belief her mother had retired happily to St. Ives, painting sunrises and sipping clotted cream tea in a seaside cottage.
“Where’s Em?” Margery demanded, peering into the dim hallway. “I’ve missed that freckled face of hers since I left! You’ve had the curtains replaced, I see. *Ugh.* I warned her this horrid gingham wouldn’t hold up to the rain.”
“She’s working late,” John mumbled, setting the suitcases down. “Margery—why didn’t you call? We could’ve… prepared.”
“Prepared for what? A surprise visit from a doting mother?” she barked, clumping past him into the living room. John eyed the broken draft on the window frame, the half-empty teacups from yesterday.
Margery plopped onto the threadbare sofa. “I sold the St. Ives flat. The sea air’s no substitute for London winters, and honestly, how expensive it is to heat a damp boathouse! Em’s my only daughter. What else was I to do?”
John felt the cold seep from the walls. The tiny one-bed flat had been a sanctuary after Emily’s mother left—no more unsolicited advice on how to “man up” during tea, no more midnight sermons on proper butter curls for toast.
“Are you staying at the guesthouse still?” he asked.
Margery threw a blanket over her knees. “Of course not. I’m with you, silly goose. Temporarily—just until I find something. A one-bedroom, perhaps. The sale went quite well. Though I must say, this flat is positively *spartan.*”
Emily barged in, her chestnut hair matted, coat rumpled from the rain. “John! I bought tea and—*Margery?*”
“Emily!” Margery sprang up, arms wide, though her voice softened into something almost tender. “My darling! I’ve missed your back squashes!”
Emily’s cheeks paled. “But I thought you were in St. Ives.”
“A holiday, love. Nothing more. The sea air agreed with me about as much as a cold bath. Come, give me a hug!”
John hovered in the doorway as Emily awkwardly embraced her mother, glancing at him like a trapped fox. After a decade of marriages, they’d built their life with hushed compromise—matching houseplants, shared jam jars, the unspoken vow to *avoid* Margery’s orbit.
“I phoned Mrs. Harcourt,” Margery added, flopping back on the couch. “The one with the three-story townhouse? Would’ve been glad to take me in—*but why would I?*” Her eyes brightened. “You’re my daughter! No arguments. We do have things to discuss, don’t we? Like why you haven’t had a child in three years?”
The teacup in John’s hand clacked against the saucer.
Margery whipped out a knitting basket. “I’ll mend these socks while Em unpacks her groceries. In the meantime, I’ve made a list of local colleges. You two must think about *starters.*”
That night, Emily’s teary muttering echoed in the bathroom. “Her constant meddling—*what if she never leaves?*”
But Margery was already asleep by ten, snoring rhythmically on the sofa. John watched the ceiling cracks, dreading the dawn.
The next morning, he awoke to the acrid scent of burnt eggs. Margery had substituted the salt for sugar, set the pan on fire, and was now bemoaning the inadequacy of their cutlery.
“Emily, you need proper meals,” she declared, holding up a fork. “All these salads and kale—no wonder your hair’s brittle.”
By midday, the flat brimmed with Margery’s judgments. The curtains were “tacky,” the unplugged kettle chilled, the bookshelf “choked with trifles.”
“You could’ve at least dusted,” she snapped, dusting a novel. “I suppose Mr. Smith’s garden gnomes are the next accessories?”
At dusk, Emily collapsed into a chair. “How do I say *no* without breaking her?”
John gripped her hand. “We’re adults. We’ll manage. Come Sunday, we’ll find her a rental.”
But when a call came the following evening—Margery had tripped on the cobblestones, twisted her ankle—resistance dissolved. The emergency room confirmed a sprain, nothing more, though Margery wheezed like she’d shattered her soul.
“Now’s my chance to stay, I imagine?” she grinned, leaning on the hospital bed.
For two weeks, the flat descended into chaos. Margery dictated dinner menus, critiqued Emily’s arm curls, and insisted John place *exactly* three polystyrene ice cubes in his tea.
“Mothers don’t retire, sweetheart,” she told John one night, as Emily scrubbed the kitchen. “We simply evolve into something… *more.*”
Then, one morning, Margery appeared with a laptop, her usual scowl dimmed.
“I’ve been looking at properties,” she said. “Just a flat up the road. Half an hour’s walk, but *within earshot.*”
John’s pulse quickened. “What changed your mind?”
“Your ear,” she replied, eyes glinting. “I’ve spent years shouting, and for what? To earn a few more memories than I deserve? No, son. I learned something in St. Ives. People need space to grow—and that’s not my job. It’s yours.”
The move took a day. Margery insisted on new curtains, a modern kettle, and a framed photo of the family taken during her first holiday in Cornwall.
“Come for cream teas every Sunday,” she insisted, handing Emily a jam tin. “But knock first. We’ll work on new traditions, won’t we?”
As John and Emily stepped onto the street, the air felt lighter. Birds chirped faintly, the flat’s clutter seemed smaller, the world just a bit kinder.
And when Margery called a week later with “just one favor”—a cousin in Bristol wanted to stay with her—Emily said, with a firm yet tender tone, “I think he’s Bella’s problem, Ma.”
Margery’s laughter crackled through the phone. “Very well, muffin. I’ll make scones instead. But only if you bring a proper clotted cream.”
In the silence of their home, John hugged her close. “You taught her something, love.”
“Eh,” Emily said, smiling into his shirt. “No. She taught *me.*”