Long ago, in a small village nestled in the Yorkshire countryside, there lived a woman named Margaret. She was known for her sharp tongue and restless spirit, but beneath her hardened exterior lay a heart heavy with regrets.
Margaret had spent her youth in toil, working long hours at a greengrocer’s shop in Sheffield. Though she had been clever at school—earning marks that ought to have opened doors—fortune had not favoured her.
«Look at Alice,» she often muttered to herself. «Barely scraped through her exams, yet her father’s connections landed her a place at university. What did I have? A hardworking father with hands of gold, but no influence—only a bottle that never left his grip.»
Her mother, Agnes, had worked as a cleaner in the local infirmary, wages meagre, raising three daughters in a cramped cottage on the edge of the moors. Life was harsh, each penny stretched to breaking.
Margaret sometimes confided in her workmate, Lucy, when they were in the mood for talk. Other days, they quarrelled and wouldn’t speak for a week. They often stole moments in the stockroom, sharing cigarettes and woes.
«Oh, Lucy, Mam kept us on a tight leash,» Margaret would sigh. «While other girls ran off to dances or the pictures, we were stuck at home. If one of us so much as glanced at a lad, she’d chase him off. No wonder we grew up timid, unsure of ourselves.»
Lucy would shrug. «Your mother was too strict. Mine let me come and go as I pleased.»
After school, each sister had to make her own way. Agnes could spare no coin, so they lived off the garden, chickens pecking in the yard. The eldest, Edith, trained as a seamstress, found work at a mill, and took pride in her tiny flat. She seldom visited, and never with gifts.
The middle sister, Florence, married a shiftless lad named Paul after falling with child. «Aye, I’ll marry you,» he’d grumbled. «A babe ought to have a father.» They lived in a dingy lodging house, waiting for a council flat that never came.
Margaret, the youngest, trained as a hairdresser but ended up behind the counter at the greengrocer’s. «On my feet all day, wages eaten by shortages,» she complained.
Then, for a time, luck turned. At a pub one evening, she met Edward—a jovial, sporty fellow. They wed quickly, but the marriage soured. Edward, so charming among friends, proved a brute at home. They parted ways after three years, leaving Margaret to raise their son, Thomas, alone.
Life was a struggle. She took odd jobs—selling spirits, hawking wares at the market—but it was never enough. «No one to rely on,» she’d whisper at night. «Mam sends vegetables from her garden, but that won’t buy Thomas shoes.»
Years passed, hardening her. Her mother’s advice grated most of all.
One evening, as Margaret touched up her lipstick, a knock came at the door. Agnes stood there, breathless from the climb up the stairs, arms laden with sacks of potatoes and greens.
«Didn’t expect you tonight,» Margaret said flatly. She had plans—Edward (another Edward, a builder this time) was waiting at the pub.
Agnes prattled on about the crowded bus, the broken lift. Margaret barely listened, stashing the produce away.
«I’ve got to go, Mam. Thomas will be home soon—see he’s fed.»
Agnes sighed. «Off you go, then.»
At the pub, Edward frowned. «Thought we’d go to yours.»
Margaret smirked. «We’ll borrow a key from Betty’s flat.»
She stumbled home at three in the morning to find Agnes waiting, lips pressed thin.
The next day, over aspirin and weak tea, Agnes scolded. «Out all hours, and Thomas left to his own devices! He reeks of smoke—might even be drinking. You’ll lose him if you carry on like this.»
Margaret scowled. «I’m a grown woman. Thomas isn’t a child—all the lads his age are the same.»
Agnes shook her head. «You’ll regret it.»
Margaret stormed out, seething. «Easy for her to preach. We raised ourselves, really. All she did was bark orders.»
Time wore on. When she divorced Edward, Margaret embraced freedom—flitting from man to man, taking what she could. But then the builder, Edward, stayed. He was shrewd, good with money, and after six months, he proposed.
«Margaret, love—flowers, a ring, and my hand. Will you have me?»
She smiled. «Course I will.»
For a while, life was sweet. They moved to a proper house, had a daughter, Jane. Her sisters, once distant, now visited often—always with hands out. At first, Margaret obliged. Then they grew bold, acting as though she owed them.
She cut ties, changed her number. When Agnes fell ill, she didn’t visit. «Let the others tend to her,» she thought.
Margaret had changed. She sneered at her mother’s honest, joyless life. What good had it done? Agnes had stifled them, left them ignorant of the world. No wonder their marriages faltered.
Years slipped by. Margaret had another son. Her parents died, one after the other. She attended the funerals, but left swiftly. A neighbour, Ethel, chided her: «You’re a hard woman, Margaret. Your mother loved you, aye, and worried over you till the end.»
Margaret walked away.
But as she aged, sleep grew fitful. Some nights, she wept quietly, guilt gnawing at her. She began slipping into church, lighting candles, whispering prayers. Now she longs to beg forgiveness, to make her mother understand.
But it’s too late.