Harmony11 (2025)

28/07/2025

Lonely in a Crowd of Kin

"Mum, why must you always fret so?" snapped Margaret, not even looking up from her phone. "Honestly, what’s the fuss if they didn’t come for your birthday? People have their own lives."

"What lives?" murmured Beatrice softly, twisting a napkin in her hands. "Emily promised to bring the children. Daniel said he’d clear his schedule. And Michael insisted he’d already bought your gift."

"And?" Margaret finally glanced up. "Emily’s children are ill, Daniel’s swamped at work, and Michael’s stuck on a business trip. No one’s doing this on purpose."

Beatrice said nothing as she set the dining table with her finest china, the kind saved only for special occasions. Seventy years—wasn’t that special enough? She’d spent all week shopping, cooking since dawn—Emily’s favourite fish pie, Daniel’s roasted potatoes with mushrooms, Michael’s beloved Victoria sponge.

"Maggie, perhaps we should call them again?" she ventured. "Maybe they could still make it?"

"Mum, enough!" Margaret stood abruptly. "I need to get home. Harry’s been alone with the kids all day—he’ll be exhausted."

"But we’ve barely eaten..."

"And what’s here? Just a few side dishes. I’ll have a proper meal at home."

Beatrice watched as her youngest daughter gathered her things hastily, as if terrified of missing something far more important.

"Right then, Mum. Cheer up. Next time, they’ll all come, you’ll see."

A peck on the cheek, the slam of the door. Beatrice sat alone at the table set for six.

She lingered, staring at the empty plates. The flat was silent but for the ticking of the wall clock—the one her late husband had given her for their thirtieth anniversary. How many celebrations had this table seen? Birthdays, Christmases, graduations, weddings...

Rising, she began clearing away. Packed the fish pie into a container—she’d take it to old Mrs. Wilkins tomorrow. The potatoes went into the fridge. Cut the cake into slices, far too many for one.

When everything was tidied, she sank into her husband’s old armchair and checked her phone. Unread messages glowed on the screen.

"Mum, happy birthday! So sorry I couldn’t come. The children are ill, temperatures sky-high. I’ll visit this weekend. Love you." —Emily.

"Mum, happy birthday! Work’s a nightmare—might lose my job. Can’t step away. Maggie’ll bring your gift. Take care." —Daniel, ever brief.

"Mum, happy 70th! Stranded in Edinburgh—flight cancelled. I’ll make it up to you. Love you." —Michael, her baby.

All apologies, all love, all promises to visit later. Beatrice tucked the phone away and closed her eyes. Exhaustion settled over her like a damp shroud.

The next morning, a knock at the door roused her. Mrs. Wilkins stood on the step with a bouquet of daisies.

"Bea, happy belated birthday!" she beamed. "Sorry I missed it yesterday—my grandson had his football finals."

"Thank you, Nora," Beatrice took the flowers. "Come in, let’s have tea."

"How was the celebration? Did the children come?"

Beatrice filled the kettle and stayed silent. Nora’s smile faltered.

"They couldn’t make it again?"

"They’ve their own lives," Beatrice murmured. "Work, sick children..."

"Bea, have you told them how much it meant to you?"

"Why should I? They’re grown—they ought to know."

Nora shook her head.

"Ought to, but don’t. Mine are the same. Unless you spell it out, it never dawns on them."

They drank tea with the last of the Victoria sponge. Nora praised it, asked for the recipe, chattered about her grandchildren. Beatrice listened, thinking how much easier conversation flowed with her neighbour than with her own flesh and blood.

"Bea, why don’t we join a club?" Nora suggested. "The community centre’s got music, painting, even ballroom dancing."

"Oh, Nora. That’s not for me."

"Then what is? Your children are grown. Why not live for yourself a while?"

After Nora left, Beatrice dwelled on her words. Live for herself? How? She’d spent her life serving others—first her parents, then her husband, then the children. Even after Walter’s death, her world revolved around them. Babysitting, cooking, laundering whenever they dropped off their piles of washing.

That evening, Emily rang.

"Mum, how are you? How was your birthday?"

"Fine," Beatrice said.

"Maggie said it was just the two of you. I did explain, it’s been chaos here. Tommy’s feverish, Lily’s coughing. We had to call the doctor."

"I understand, love. Children come first."

"Don’t say it like that. You know I adore you. It’s just rotten timing."

"I know."

"Listen, could you pop over Saturday? Just mind the children for a few hours? I’ve a doctor’s appointment—they won’t let me bring sick kids."

Beatrice hesitated.

"Alright. I’ll come."

"Oh, you’re an angel! Best mum ever!"

After hanging up, Beatrice sat by the window watching the courtyard below. Children played in the sandpit; mothers chatted on benches. An ordinary evening scene, yet today it felt distant, unreachable.

On Saturday, she went to Emily’s. The children were indeed ill, though recovering. Tommy whined endlessly for attention; Lily clung to her, begging for stories.

"Grandma, why don’t you visit every day?" Lily asked, settling on her lap.

"Why every day?"

"So we can be together. Mummy’s always busy, Daddy’s at work. But you’re fun."

Beatrice hugged her granddaughter tighter. At least someone needed her.

Emily returned three hours later.

"Mum, thank you so much!" She looked drained. "Doctor says it’s just a cold."

"That’s good."

"Listen, could you come tomorrow too? I’ve work, and Stephen’s away on business."

"Tomorrow’s Sunday."

"Yes...?"

Beatrice wanted to say Sundays were for rest, that she too needed time to herself. But seeing Emily’s weary face, she nodded.

"Alright. I’ll come."

On the bus home, Lily’s question echoed. "Why don’t you visit every day?" Why indeed? What kept her tethered to an empty flat, the telly, occasional calls from children who’d long since flown the nest?

At home, a surprise awaited. Daniel stood on her doorstep, arms laden with gift bags.

"Hi, Mum!" He embraced her. "So sorry about yesterday. Madness at the office."

"It’s fine, love. Come in."

He set the bags on the kitchen table.

"New tea set, a cashmere shawl, and chocolates."

"Lovely. Thank you."

"Mum, why so glum?" Daniel studied her. "Still upset about your birthday?"

Beatrice sat across from him. He had his father’s grey eyes, the same habit of frowning when thinking.

"Daniel, tell me truthfully—do you still need me?"

"Mum, what kind of question? Of course we do!"

"For what?"

Daniel floundered.

"What do you mean? You’re our mum."

"I know that. But beyond that? What do I give you now, in your grown-up lives?"

He paused, choosing words carefully.

"Well... You support us. Help Emily with the kids, Maggie with errands. You advise me."

"And if I stopped? If I wanted to live for myself?"

"Live for yourself?"

"Yes. Travel, perhaps…
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28/07/2025

"You're Nobody Here"

"Margaret, you can't talk to me like that! I've been working here for six months!" Lena's voice trembled with indignation.

"I've been here fifteen years," snapped the department head, cutting her off sharply. "And remember this—you're nobody here! Until you earn respect, you do as you're told and keep your mouth shut."

Eleanor stood in the middle of the open-plan office, acutely aware of her colleagues' eyes on her. Some looked away, others pretended to be engrossed in their screens. Only Sophie from the next cubicle shook her head sympathetically.

"But I’ve done everything right! Reports on time, clients happy—no complaints!"

"No complaints?" Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Then who was it yesterday yelling about being kept waiting half an hour?"

"I had another important meeting! I can’t be in two places at once!" Lena felt her cheeks burn.

"Exactly! You *can’t*. Because you’ve got no experience, no understanding! What, you think just because you got a university degree, you know everything?" Margaret’s voice grew louder, relishing the moment. "I’ve seen dozens like you—strut in like you own the place, only to be crying in the loos a month later!"

Eleanor clenched her fists, her stomach twisting with humiliation. She knew full well the entire office was eavesdropping, and by teatime tomorrow, this would be lunch-break gossip.

"Fine," she said quietly. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Now there’s a sensible question!" Margaret nodded in satisfaction. "You’ll sort out the archive. Three years' worth of documents, all in a mess. Once that’s done, we’ll talk about *real* work."

"But that’s not my job! I’m a sales executive, not a filing clerk!"

"And what did I just say? You’re *nobody* here. Until I say otherwise, you do as you’re told. And if you don’t like it—the door’s right there."

Margaret turned on her heel and marched off, her stilettos clicking against the linoleum. Eleanor stood there, fury and resentment boiling inside her.

"Don’t take it to heart," Sophie whispered, sidling over. "She’s like this with all the newbies."

"How can anyone treat people like this?" Eleanor hissed. "I work hard, I do my best—"

"Listen," Sophie glanced around, making sure Margaret was out of earshot, "she started the same way. Her old boss, Patricia, was a proper nightmare—made her scrub toilets, fetch coffees, the lot. Now she’s just passing it on."

"That’s no excuse," Eleanor fumed.

"Course not. But survival of the fittest, innit? Those who stick it out, stay. The rest…" Sophie shrugged.

Eleanor gathered her things, hands shaking with rage. She pictured going home, ranting to her husband, James. He’d say, "Quit, we’ll find something else." But where? Jobs were scarce, and they needed the money.

"Where you off to?" called Tom from the next department.

"The archive. Margaret’s orders."

"Oof, caught her on a bad day, eh?" He winced. "What set her off?"

"Just a client who had to wait. Big deal."

"Ah, was it Pearson? Absolute nightmare, that one. Margaret’s terrified of him—he’s mates with the CEO."

"So *that’s* why," Eleanor muttered. "And I get the fallout."

"Hey, don’t sweat it. First year’s the worst. Margaret’s not evil—just old-school. Tests every new hire."

Eleanor grabbed a stack of files and headed downstairs to the archive—a dim, windowless room with rickety shelves and a wobbly desk. A single bulb flickered over towers of disorganised folders.

"Some sales career," she thought bitterly, sinking into the lone chair.

At home, James greeted her with the usual "How was your day?"

"Awful," she admitted, kicking off her heels. "Publicly humiliated and banished to the basement to file paperwork."

"What happened?"

She recounted the exchange, sparing no detail.

"How *dare* she speak to you like that!" James exploded. "You’re not putting up with this, are you?"

"What choice do I have? Quit? Your teacher’s salary barely covers the bills!"

"We’ll manage. There’s *got* to be something better."

"James, we searched for *months* before this! You said take what we can get!"

He sighed and pulled her into a hug. "Fine. But if it gets unbearable, tell me. We’ll figure it out."

Next morning, Eleanor tackled the archive with grim determination. She’d prove them all wrong—sort every page, leave no room for criticism. By lunch, one shelf gleamed with orderly files.

"How’s it going?" Sophie appeared, sandwich in hand.

"Getting there. What brings you down here?"

"Needed a break. Upstairs, Margaret’s tearing into Olivia from Accounts over some ‘incorrect’ report—which was *fine*, by the way."

"Why does no one stand up to her?"

Sophie perched on the desk’s edge. "Remember Katie? Three years ago—smart, capable. *Once* she talked back. Next week? Sacked. Margaret told the CEO she was ‘rude and incompetent.’ And guess what? He believed her."

"So everyone’s just… scared?"

"Not just scared. Pragmatic. Jobs are scarce. Mortgages don’t pay themselves."

Eleanor nodded. She understood the logic—but swallowing it was another matter.

Later, Margaret herself descended, scrutinised the shelves, and pursed her lips.

"Slow. Should’ve done more by now."

"I’m prioritising accuracy," Eleanor said carefully.

"Accuracy?" Margaret snorted. "You sorted these *alphabetically*?"

"By year and document type, like standard practice—"

"I want them *by client name*. Redo it."

"But that’ll make searches chaotic—"

"Did I *ask* for your opinion? Do it *again*!"

Eleanor stared at the perfectly arranged files. Redo *everything*? Insane.

Yet what option did she have? She began reshuffling, cursing herself for ever accepting this job.

By week’s end, the archive was pristine. Eleanor stayed late, determined to impress. James grumbled about her exhaustion but understood their predicament.

"Finished?" Margaret asked Friday evening.

"Yes."

"Let’s see…" She yanked drawers open, rifled through folders. "Where’s the Alpha Corp contract?"

"Under ‘A,’ where it belongs."

"It belongs under ‘C,’ for *Contracts*."

"But you *said* alphabetical!"

"Alphabetical *within categories*! Use your *brain*!"

Something in Eleanor snapped. This wasn’t incompetence—it was *sabotage*. Deliberate, demeaning sabotage.

"Margaret," she kept her voice steady, "could you clarify exactly *how* you want this organised?"

"Figure it out! Or do I need to hold your hand? I’ve got *one* A-level, and I still outwork every graduate!"

"I never said—"

"You *implied* it! Strutting around like you’re too good for grunt work!"

"I just want to do my job well!"

"Your job is *what I say it is*! Until you grasp that, the basement’s your kingdom!"

Margaret stormed off, leaving Eleanor staring at shelves she’d now rearrange *a third time*.

She sat and cried—not from hurt, but helplessness. This was a game she couldn’t win. Margaret would break her or…
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28/07/2025

**Diary Entry**

The phone rang just as I was sitting down with a cuppa. "Hello? Margaret? It's me, Beatrice! Good heavens, don’t you recognise my voice? I’m your—well, your *former*—" A pause, then she pressed on. "Right, Oliver’s mother! We need to talk. Urgently."

I nearly dropped the receiver. My heart shot up into my throat, thoughts racing. The last time we’d spoken was four years ago, at the divorce. Beatrice had screamed then that I’d ruined their family, stolen her son’s happiness.

"What... what’s happened?" I managed, sinking onto the stool by the phone.

"This has happened!" Her voice trembled with outrage. "Your ex-husband is getting *married*! To some little madam half his age! Twenty-three, can you imagine? He’s forty-five! It’s a disgrace!"

Silence. I let it sink in. Oliver remarrying. So what? We were divorced—free to start anew. But why ring *me*?

"Beatrice, what’s it got to do with me? Oliver and I have been over for—"

"Everything!" she cut in. "That girl’s twisted him round her finger! He’s selling the flat—our three-bedroom, where my late husband and I spent half our lives! Says they’ll buy something smaller and blow the rest on a honeymoon in Spain! *Spain*, Margaret! D’you hear?"

I almost laughed. Oliver in Spain. Back when we were married, he called holidays abroad a waste of good money.

"What d’you want me to do about it?"

"Talk to him!" A pleading note crept in. "He always listened to you. Maybe you can talk sense into him! A man his age shouldn’t be losing his head like this!"

"Beatrice..." I rubbed my temples. "We’re divorced. He’s not my husband; I’m not his wife. Why should I care who he marries?"

"Margaret!" A stifled sob. "Don’t be cruel. I’m not asking as your ex-mother-in-law—I’m asking as one decent person to another! You’re sensible—you *know* what this sort of ‘love’ is at his age! She’s after his money, and he’s daft enough to believe her!"

I stood, pacing the kitchen. Rain tapped at the window, grey clouds overhead—same as the day I’d packed my things and left.

"Or maybe he’s just happy?" I said quietly. "Maybe she truly loves him."

"Loves him!" A scoff. "Oh, I’m sure! Loves his bank account! You should see how she looks at him—like a cat at cream! Demands gifts, trips here and there. And Oliver? Wrapped round her little finger! Gone completely mad!"

I sat back down, fiddling with the phone cord. Odd—it stung a bit, hearing Oliver would do *anything* for her. When we were married, he’d been so... thrifty. Romance? Hardly.

"Beatrice," I said finally. "I won’t interfere. His life, his choice."

"But what about Emily!" Desperation now. "Your daughter! She loved him like a father! And now? A stepmother barely older than her!"

That hit a nerve. Emily. Twenty now, the girl Oliver had embraced as his own. Still asked sometimes, *Mum, why did you and Dad Oliver split?* And I’d say, *It just didn’t work out, love. Happens.*

"Emily’s grown. She’ll handle it." But my voice wavered.

"And grandchildren!" Beatrice pressed. "That girl’ll have babies! Where’s that leave Emily? He’ll forget her entirely! He pays her university top-ups, doesn’t he?"

True. Oliver had no obligation, yet he’d always say, *She’s as good as my own.*

"Listen," I steadied myself. "Even if I spoke to him, what good would it do? He won’t listen. We divorced for a reason."

"And why *did* you?" she snapped. "I’ve never understood. You had a good life. Quiet, steady. Oliver didn’t drink, didn’t stray, brought his wages home. What more did you want?"

I shut my eyes. How to explain? The suffocation of that quiet life? Feeling like furniture in my own home? Oliver treated me as part of the decor—necessary, useful, but never stirring anything deeper.

"There just wasn’t love," I said simply.

"Love!" A sneer. "At your age! And look where it’s got him—lost his senses!"

I sighed. Talk to Oliver... and say what? *Don’t marry young, because your mum says so?* Ridiculous.

"Fine," I heard myself say. "I’ll think about it."

"Really? Oh, Margaret, I knew you’d see sense! You were always the reasonable one! Maybe he’ll remember what a good wife you were!"

*A good wife.* A bitter smile. Yes, I’d been good. Cooked, cleaned, never nagged. And Oliver? Took it for granted. Not a single *thank you*, never flowers just because. Now? Ready to move mountains for this girl.

"I’ll call you back," I said curtly, hanging up.

I sank into the armchair by the window. Rain drummed harder. Oliver. That girl. Emily. And me.

When we divorced, everyone gasped, *But you had such a nice life!* No one saw how invisible I’d been. Oliver came home, parked in front of the telly, I served supper, he nodded. Read the paper while I washed up. At bedtime: *Early start tomorrow.* Year after year.

I’d wanted conversation. Wanted him to ask how my day was. Wanted trips out—theatre, even just a walk. But he’d called it frivolous.

Now? Lavishing time and money on her. Did it hurt? A little. Not from jealousy—from the sting of knowing he *could* have, but chose not to.

The phone rang again. Emily’s bright voice spilled through. "Mum! Is it true Dad Oliver’s getting married?"

"How d’you know?"

"Beatrice called, weeping down the line. Said he’s lost the plot, marrying some girl. True?"

A beat. "Seems so."

"Blimey!" Curiosity, not dismay. "What’s she like? Pretty?"

"How should I know? Never met her."

"You’re not upset, are you?"

Was I? Hard to say. Surprised—yes. A twinge of resentment—yes. But upset?

"No, love. We’ve been over for years. He’s entitled to happiness."

"Exactly!" Cheerful. "Honestly, I’m dead curious to meet her. Wonder what she’s like, turning Dad Oliver’s head like this."

The call lightened something. Emily was fine—even intrigued. Not the catastrophe Beatrice painted.

Yet the thought nagged. What if Beatrice was right? What if the girl *was* a gold-digger?

I dug out Oliver’s number. We spoke rarely, last time six months ago. My fingers shook dialling.

"Hello?" His voice, hesitant.

"It’s Margaret."

A pause. "Everything alright? Emily—?"

"Fine. She’s fine. I just... heard your news."

Another pause. "Mum rang you?" Weariness.

"She did. She’s worried."

"Margaret, I know how it sounds. A man my age, falling in love... But it’s real. I love her."

His tone—soft, tender. One I hadn’t heard in years. Not even during our marriage.

…
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28/07/2025

Margaret Elizabeth stood by the window, watching Mrs. Jenkins from flat eight hanging her washing in the courtyard. The neighbour hummed to herself, shaking out the sheets as the wind tousled her grey hair. An ordinary morning, ordinary chores. Yet Margaret couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

"Mum, are you coming for breakfast?" called Katherine from the kitchen.

"Coming, coming," Margaret replied, but she didn’t move from the window.

Katherine appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel. She’d always been lovely, but at thirty-seven, she’d blossomed even more—her hair neatly pinned up, her eyes bright, though her lips were pressed tight, as they always were when she was thinking something over.

"Mum, I need to talk to you," Katherine said, sitting at the table and pouring tea into their cups.

"I’m listening, love."

Margaret sat opposite, cradling the steaming cup. The tea was strong and fragrant, just as her late mother-in-law had liked it. Funny how she still thought of her—six months gone, but the memory lingered.

"I’ve been offered a promotion," Katherine began, eyes down. "A good position, double the salary."

"That’s wonderful!" Margaret smiled. "About time—you’re their best by far."

"But I’d have to move to Edinburgh."

The words hung in the air. Margaret set her cup down without taking a sip.

"Edinburgh?"

"Yes. They’re opening a new branch, and they need a department head. I’ve thought it through, Mum. It’s a real opportunity."

"And what about me?" The words slipped out before Margaret could stop them.

Katherine finally looked up, and Margaret saw the same resolve she’d known for years. The same look Katherine had given her at sixteen when she’d declared she wouldn’t study teaching, as Margaret had hoped, but engineering instead. The same when she’d divorced her husband despite all the pleading.

"Mum, you’re not a child. You’ll manage. And it’s not as if I’m going to the ends of the earth. Edinburgh isn’t Australia."

"But—" Margaret faltered. What did she mean to say? That she was afraid of being alone? That she’d grown used to Katherine’s footsteps in the morning, her voice from the kitchen, having someone to confide in, to complain to, to simply sit with in comfortable silence?

"Mum, I’m thirty-seven. I need to try something new before it’s too late."

"Is it so bad here?" Margaret’s gaze swept over the kitchen, where so many years had passed—where Katherine had done her homework at this very table, where they’d shared tea through the hard days after her father’s death.

"Not bad. But not what I want. I need—" Katherine hesitated, searching for words. "I need to feel like I’m living my own life, not just trudging along the same old path."

Margaret took a sip of her cooling tea. Bitter. She’d forgotten the sugar.

"When do you plan to… leave?"

"Two weeks. The paperwork needs sorting before they give the role to someone else."

Fourteen days. Margaret tried to picture mornings without Katherine—silence, an empty kitchen, no one to ask how her day had been, to open a stubborn jam jar, or simply listen.

"Have you thought of everything? A flat, the job—"

"It’s all sorted. The firm’s helping with accommodation, and they’ll find a replacement here. Mum, please, try to understand."

Margaret nodded, though she didn’t want to understand. She wanted to shout, to cry, to call Katherine selfish for leaving her to face old age alone. But hadn’t she once dreamed of leaving her parents’ home too? Of course, back then it had been different—post-war austerity, no time for dreams. Now times had changed, and her daughter had every right to choose.

"All right," she said at last. "If that’s what you’ve decided."

Katherine exhaled in relief.

"Thank you, Mum. I knew you’d understand."

The next days passed in a whirlwind—Katherine darting between offices, resigning, packing documents. She came home late, exhausted, and they barely spoke. Margaret didn’t ask for details, afraid of making the departure feel any more real.

She carried on as usual—cooking, cleaning, watching the telly. Only now, every action was tinged with the thought: soon, I’ll be doing this alone. Cooking porridge for one, washing a single plate, talking to the cat because there’d be no one else.

"Mum, remember that holiday we took with Dad to Cornwall?" Katherine asked one evening, flipping through old photos.

"Of course. You were seven, always trying to dash into the sea alone."

"And Dad carried me on his shoulders, called me his little mermaid," Katherine smiled. "Those were good days."

"They were."

Margaret picked up a faded photo. There they were, the three of them on the beach—her husband tanned and laughing, Katherine on his shoulders waving her arms, and herself, young and happy, without the weariness that had settled in her eyes after he’d gone.

"Sometimes I think," Katherine murmured, "if Dad were here, he’d have understood. He’d have wanted me to try."

"Your father always did support you," Margaret agreed. "Perhaps too much."

"What do you mean, too much?"

"Nothing, love. Only that he adored you. Sometimes more than himself."

Katherine set the photos aside and hugged her mother’s shoulders.

"Mum, I love you too. I’m not abandoning you. I just… need to live differently for a while."

Margaret leaned into her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. When Katherine was small, she’d hugged her just like this before bed, read her stories, sung lullabies. Now her daughter was grown, with her own path to walk, and she had no right to keep her tethered out of fear of loneliness.

The night before departure, Katherine brought home boxes, packing her things. Margaret helped, folding books, wrapping china in newspaper. Ordinary objects that had lived in their house for years now felt foreign, ready for a new home.

"Mum, I’ll leave you the keys to my room," Katherine said. "In case you want to rearrange or have guests."

"What guests?" Margaret chuckled. "Who’d visit me?"

"You never know. Aunt Mabel’s been saying for years she’ll come from Manchester."

"Aunt Mabel’s been saying that for five years."

They laughed, and for a moment, it was easier—like the old days when they were just mother and daughter, not two women divided by choice and distance.

That evening, Katherine spent ages on the phone to a friend, gushing about the new job, her plans. Her voice was bright, excited. Listening from the kitchen, Margaret knew: her daughter was already there, in her new life. Here, there was only the past.

In the morning, Katherine rose early though her train wasn’t till evening. She fussed over documents, phoned the office. Breakfast passed in silence, and Margaret felt an invisible wall rising between them—not anger, not resentment, just the knowledge that after today, nothing would be the same.

"I need to pop by the bank," Katherine said, finishing her coffee. "And the office for some papers. I’ll be back by lunch, then we’ll head to the station."

"Right," Margaret nodded. "I’ll pack you something for the journey."

After Katherine left, the flat felt unbearably quiet. Margaret drifted from room to room, straightening already tidy things, dusting absently. In Katherine’s room, a suitcase lay open on the bed, a stack of abandoned books on the desk. Margaret picked one up—a collection of Wordsworth. They’d read those poems aloud together once, Katherine declaring she wished she could write half as beautifully.

…
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28/07/2025

A Grudge for Life

"Don’t you dare touch me!" shouted Lydia, snatching her hand away from her sister’s outstretched palm. "You should have thought of that twenty years ago!"

"Liddy, please, just listen to me," pleaded Vanessa, standing on the doorstep clutching a wilting bouquet of daisies. "I never meant for any of it to happen—"

"Never meant it?" Lydia’s voice rose to a shriek. "You stole my fiancé a week before the wedding! A week, Ness! My dress was hanging in the wardrobe, the guests were invited!"

Vanessa tried to step inside, but Lydia blocked her path, bracing an arm against the doorframe.

"Go away. I have nothing to say to you."

"But Mum’s dying!" Vanessa cried desperately. "She’s begging for us to make peace! She wants to see her daughters together before it’s too late!"

Lydia stiffened, though her face remained hard.

"You should have thought of that sooner. When you and Edmund were kissing right in front of her at my birthday party."

Vanessa lowered the flowers, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her coat.

"Liddy, I know I was wrong. But it’s been so many years—"

"To me, it was yesterday," Lydia snapped, slamming the door shut.

She leaned against it, sliding slowly to the floor of the hallway, trembling. Twenty years had passed, yet the pain was as sharp as the day it happened.

Lydia closed her eyes and saw herself again at twenty-five—happy, in love. Edmund Whitmore, an engineer from the nearby factory, handsome, clever, attentive. A year of courtship, a proposal, an engagement. Mum had been overjoyed, saying her eldest daughter was finally settling down.

But Vanessa, fresh out of university, was young, pretty, with curls and dimples. Men turned to look at her, and she’d just laugh, saying she was too young to marry.

Lydia pushed herself up and walked to the study. On the desk stood an old photograph—their family, whole. Mum, Dad, her, and Ness. Taken at Dad’s birthday, all smiling, arms around each other. A time when the sisters had been inseparable.

The phone rang, slicing through the quiet. It was Aunt Maggie, Mum’s neighbour.

"Hello," Lydia said wearily.

"Liddy, love," came the old woman’s agitated voice, "your mum’s taken a turn. The doctor says it won’t be long now. Ness hasn’t left her side. She keeps asking for you."

Lydia gripped the receiver.

"Aunt Maggie, I can’t. I can’t stand to be near Ness."

"For heaven’s sake!" the neighbour exclaimed. "Your mother’s dying, and you two are still at each other’s throats! Over what, I ask you? Over some man who’s been married twice since?"

"It’s not about the man," Lydia whispered. "It’s about betrayal."

She hung up and went to the window. Children played in the street below, young mothers pushed prams—life went on. Meanwhile, in another part of town, her mother lay dying, unseen by her for half a year.

Lydia remembered their last conversation. Mum had tried to convince her to forgive, saying family mattered more than grudges. But Lydia, stubborn as ever, had refused.

"Mum, you don’t understand," she’d said. "She knew I loved him. Knew we were planning a wedding! And still, she took him from me!"

"Liddy, love isn’t something you can steal," Mum had replied gently. "If Edmund left for Ness, he never truly loved you."

"He did!" Lydia had shouted. "Ness just bewitched him! She was always prettier, younger—she did it on purpose!"

Mum had only sighed and dropped the subject.

Now, Lydia sank into her chair and pulled out an old album. Photos of her and Ness as children—plaits, matching dresses, innocent grins. School days—Lydia in her final year, Ness a few years younger, already brighter, more noticed.

Then the fateful birthday photo. Them all together—her, Edmund, Ness, a few friends. Lydia studied it closely, searching for signs she’d missed. Edmund’s arm around her, yet his gaze tilted toward Ness.

How blind she’d been!

That evening, they’d gone to the pub to celebrate. Ness wore a tight, striking dress. Lydia remembered the men staring, how proud she’d been of her pretty little sister.

Edmund had been distracted all night. Lydia had thought it was work.

"Ed, what’s wrong?" she’d asked, linking her arm in his. "Don’t you like how we’re celebrating?"

"It’s perfect," he’d said with a forced smile. "Just tired."

Ness sat across the table, telling some lively story about university, laughing, curls bouncing. Edmund’s eyes kept flicking to her.

"Vanessa, tell another," he’d said. "You tell it so well."

Lydia hadn’t thought much of it. Just politeness, surely.

The week after, Edmund barely called. Work, he’d said. She’d believed him, worried he was overdoing it.

"Ed, should we postpone the wedding?" she’d asked.

"No," he’d said quickly. "Everything’s fine."

Then, the Friday before the wedding, disaster.

Lydia came home exhausted but happy—tomorrow, final preparations; Sunday, her big day. The dress hung ready, shoes polished, bouquet ordered.

Mum sat at the kitchen table in tears. Ness stood by the window, back turned.

"What’s happened?" Lydia had asked. "Mum, why are you crying?"

"Liddy, sit down," Mum had said softly. "We need to talk."

"Is it Edmund?"

Ness had whirled around, face red, eyes swollen.

"Liddy, I’m so sorry," she’d whispered. "I never meant... It just happened..."

"What just happened?" Cold dread had spread through Lydia.

"Edmund rang," Mum had said. "The wedding’s off."

"What?" Lydia had clutched the chair. "Why?"

"He fell in love," Ness had murmured. "With me."

The world had stopped.

"We met near the uni," Ness had said, staring at the floor. "Talked. He walked me home. We kept meeting... We fell in love."

"You’ve been seeing my fiancé?" Lydia’s voice had sounded distant. "Behind my back?"

"Liddy, we didn’t plan it... It just happened..."

Lydia had stepped closer.

"You fell in love with him a week before our wedding?"

"It wasn’t just a week... Since your birthday, I knew..."

Lydia barely recalled the slap. Only the sound, Mum’s gasp.

"What are you doing?" Mum had cried.

"What was she doing?" Lydia had hissed. "Stealing him? Plotting behind my back?"

Ness had sobbed. "I love him, Liddy!"

"And I didn’t?" Lydia had screamed. "I waited two years for him! Bought a dress! Sent invitations! Mum ordered the cake!"

She’d hurled a glass at the wall. Shards everywhere.

Mum had begged her to stop.

"Stop? Should they have stopped betraying me?"

She’d locked herself in her room, numb.

The next day, Mum cancelled the wedding.

By Sunday, Ness had moved in with Edmund. They married quietly a month later—no family from the bride’s side.

Lydia saw him just once more, when he came for Ness’s things.

"Lydia," he’d said at the door, "let me explain—"

"Don’t," she’d cut in. "Live how you want. Just stay away from me."

"We don’t have to be enemies."

"Oh, we do."

He’d left. She never saw him again.

With…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

Harmony11

28/07/2025

28/07/2025

28/07/2025

28/07/2025

28/07/2025

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