The fruit basket sat on the kitchen table like a silent rebuke. Margaret glanced at it again and sighed deeply. From the living room came the sound of the telly—her husband, Thomas, absorbed in yet another fishing programme. Nothing ever seemed to bother him.
«Meg, you coming? Tea’s getting cold,» Thomas called.
She winced. Couldn’t he even reheat his own tea?
«Be right there,» she replied, fetching jam from the fridge.
Passing the hallway mirror, Margaret instinctively tucked back a stray grey strand. Time flew. It felt like yesterday she’d married Thomas, and now they were celebrating their daughter’s fortieth birthday.
Daughter. At the thought of Emily, her chest tightened. A week since their row, and still no call. As usual, Margaret bore the blame. She’d only wanted the best.
Beside Thomas’s unwashed mug lay a framed wedding photo—young, beaming, Margaret in lace, Thomas in a sharp suit. Who’d have guessed forty years would reduce them to this? A life of half-spoken grievances.
«You stuck out there?» Thomas’s voice snapped her back.
Margaret shook off the memory and carried in the tea tray.
«Still stewing over it?» Thomas asked, eyes glued to the screen.
«Unlike you, clearly!» she burst out. «You could’ve rung Emily. Apologised.»
«For what? Giving her a present? Bloody ridiculous.»
Margaret set the tray down and perched on the sofa edge.
«It was a terrible gift, Tom. Even I see that.»
«Just a nice tea set,» he shrugged. «Cost us two hundred quid, mind.»
«It’s not about the money. You should’ve seen her face when she opened it. She hated that set thirty years ago, and we dug it out for her birthday! She thought we were mocking her.»
«We weren’t! It’s a lovely antique piece.»
Margaret shook her head. Men never grasped nuance. They’d received that set from Thomas’s distant relatives at their wedding. She remembered young Emily holding a cup, sneering, *»Mum, who even likes these dusty old flowers?»* It had gathered dust in the cabinet until they’d had the bright idea to regift it.
«Tastes change,» Thomas insisted. «Vintage is all the rage now.»
«Emily’s not some hipster! She’s a CFO, for heaven’s sake. Her flat’s all minimalist, not granny’s china cabinet.»
«She could’ve just said *thanks* and binned it,» he grumbled. «Not made a scene in front of everyone.»
Margaret recalled the moment: Emily opening the box, staring, then looking up, pale. *»Is this… the set from your cabinet?»*
*»Yes, love!»* Margaret had beamed. *»You always said how pretty it was.»*
Silence. Then, icy: *»I never called it pretty. I loathed it, and you knew.»*
«Now you’re exaggerating,» Thomas sipped his tea. «So she didn’t like it. Big deal.»
«The big deal is we don’t know our own daughter. What she likes, how she lives.»
Thomas snorted. «Don’t be dramatic. She’s just high-strung—takes after you.»
Margaret opened her mouth, but the phone rang. She lunged for it, hoping for Emily.
«Hello?»
«Meg? It’s Doris,» chirred their neighbour. «Could you pop over? These new pills have instructions like hieroglyphics.»
«On my way,» Margaret said, hanging up.
«Who was that?» Thomas asked.
«Doris. Just helping with her meds.»
«Charity case again,» he muttered. «Who’s making lunch?»
She sighed. «Stew’s in the fridge. Heat it up.»
Outside, the stairwell smelled of fried fish and cigarettes. Doris answered immediately, ushering her in.
«Come in, dear! Made a Victoria sponge—we’ll have tea.»
Margaret protested half-heartedly as Doris bustled about. Photos lined the walls: Doris with family, all smiles.
«How’s Emily?» Doris asked, setting down tea. «Managing since the divorce?»
«Managing,» Margaret evaded.
«And young Harry? At uni now?»
«Second year.»
Doris studied her. «You’re down today. What’s wrong?»
The story tumbled out: the tea set, the row, Thomas’s obstinacy.
«Listen,» Doris said after, «just talk to Emily. Just the two of you. Admit you messed up.»
«She won’t answer.»
«Then *go* there! She’s not in Timbuktu.»
Margaret hesitated. Pride? Or fear of hearing they’d become two clueless old fools?
«You’re right. I’ll visit today.»
«Good girl,» Doris nodded. «Now, try this sponge.»
At home, Thomas hadn’t budged.
«Tom, I’m seeing Emily.»
«Why?»
«To apologise.»
«Not this again!» He turned. «So she didn’t like the set. Big deal.»
«It’s *not* about the set. It’s that we don’t *listen* to her.»
«Fine,» he conceded. «But don’t say I caved. That set *was* nice.»
Margaret rolled her eyes. Forty years, and still stubborn as a mule.
Emily lived in a sleek new high-rise. On the bus, Margaret watched the city blur past, thinking how hard it was to talk to those closest to you.
Harry answered the door.
«Gran? Didn’t know you were coming!»
«Surprise,» she smiled, handing over scones. «Mum home?»
«In her study. Come in!»
The flat always gave Margaret a pang—all clean lines and pale wood. No china cabinets, no wall-to-wall carpet. A different world.
Emily emerged, tense. «Mum? Everything alright?»
«Fine. Just wanted to talk.»
Emily checked her watch. «I’ve a Zoom call in twenty.»
«Won’t take long. Emily, I’m sorry about that gift. You were right—it was thoughtless.»
Emily blinked. «You came to apologise for the *tea set*?»
«Not just that. That we don’t… *know* you. We’re stuck in the past.»
Emily sank into a chair. «Mum, it’s not the set. It’s that you’ve never asked what *I* like. My music, my books—you assume I’m still twelve.»
«You’re right,» Margaret whispered. «Parents forget their children grow up.»
«And I’m guilty too,» Emily admitted. «I just drop by monthly with groceries like it’s a chore.»
Margaret smiled through tears. «We’ve time to fix this, haven’t we?»
Emily nodded.
«Then tell me—what *do* you listen to?»
Emily laughed. «Seriously?»
«Deadly.»
«Jazz, mostly ’50s. I read finance stuff, but for fun—crime novels. And I’m learning Spanish. Dream of seeing Barcelona.»
Margaret listened, marvelling at this stranger who was her daughter. So much missed.
«And… anyone special?» she ventured. «Since the divorce?»
Emily blushed. «Someone. Didn’t mention it—he’s seven years younger. Thought you’d disapprove.»
«We’re old, not daft. If he’s kind—»
«He is. Teaches history. Harry likes him.»
«Bring him for Sunday roast,» Margaret said. «Promise—no regifted china!»
They laughed.
«Actually,» Emily mused, «that set’s growing on me. Proper vintage now. Might use it at the cottage.»
«Don’t humour me,» Margaret chided.
«No, really! We bought a place in Devon last spring—did I tell you?»
Margaret’s heart sank. «No. See how much we don’t share?»
«Let’s change that,» Emily said, glancing at the clock. «Come Sunday? Bring Dad. I’ll show you photos.»
They hugged, and Margaret felt something precious click back into place.
On the way home, she bought wine and chocolates. Thomas met her at the door.
«Well? Sorted?»
«Sorted,» she smiled, handing him the bag. «And—get this—Emily now *likes* the set. Wants it for her cottage.»
«Ha! Told you it was a cracker!»
She let him have his victory. Peace was worth more than pride.
«Tom,» she said later, pouring wine, «did you know Emily’s learning Spanish? Planning a Barcelona trip.»
«What? At her age?»
«Life doesn’t stop at forty,» Margaret said. «Or sixty. Maybe we could learn something new too?»
Thomas frowned. «Like what?»
«Listening. And—no more presents from the attic.»
«Deal,» he clinked her glass.
The fruit basket still sat there, but Margaret saw it differently now. Sometimes the worst gifts lead to the best newAs the evening sunlight filtered through the curtains, Margaret realised that the greatest gift wasn’t in the wrapping, but in the second chances they’d just given each other.