**Shadows of the Past: The Breaking of Family Ties**
Margaret Whitmore packed her modest bag and set off from her village to distant Manchester, eager to visit her son and daughter-in-law. The young couple greeted her warmly in their spacious riverside flat overlooking the Mersey, offering her a guest room with a view. The next morning, her son left for work, leaving Margaret alone with his wife. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Eleanor, the daughter-in-law, hurried to answer. A man in his fifties strode in—confident, smiling—and extended a hand.
“Good afternoon, I’m Richard Fairfax, Eleanor’s father. How was your journey?”
“I’m Margaret Whitmore. It was fine, thank you,” she replied, returning the smile.
“Look what I’ve brought the newlyweds!” Richard announced proudly, unfurling a large canvas.
Margaret stared at the painting, her breath catching at what she saw.
***
“Arthur, love, I’ve been thinking… I’d like to visit you in Manchester!” Margaret’s voice trembled over the phone. “I’ve never even met my granddaughter. I’ve got time off, money for the ticket—I’m coming. It’ll be nice to get to know Eleanor properly.”
“Mum, why bother? It’s a long trip, expensive, and trains aren’t comfortable these days,” Arthur sighed. “Maybe I’ll come to you instead.”
“Why? Because I miss you! I want to see you—hug you. Just give me the address, don’t worry, I travel fine.”
Reluctantly, he did, but added, “Mum, really… maybe it’s not a good idea.”
“No, I’m coming. I’ve the right—you’re my only son. And I want to meet my grandchild. Had you late, a miracle, really. Shame your father left us when you were small, but I raised you well—look at you now, living in the big city…”
“Eleanor’s father helped me, like I told you. He’s well-connected here.”
“Sounds like a good man. I’m happy for you, love…”
Margaret carefully tucked a nightdress, two dresses, a jar of homemade blackberry jam, and a head of garden garlic into her bag. For her granddaughter, she’d bought a toy—a bright plastic tractor, remembering how Arthur loved such things as a boy. But what could she give Eleanor, raised in privilege?
She’d poured her life into Arthur, working tirelessly so he’d want for nothing. After school, he’d left for Manchester on a scholarship, met Eleanor—daughter of influence—and soon announced their engagement. Once, he’d brought her to the village, but only for a fleeting visit.
Eleanor was striking—tall, sleek-haired, immaculately dressed, as if plucked from a magazine. Beside her, Arthur seemed altered—stiff, speaking differently. Margaret sensed her son’s shame—of her work-worn hands, greying hair, plain dress. Eleanor was cool, distant, but Margaret didn’t mind. She knew her place: simple, unrefined.
Her cottage was humble but clean, its old furniture sturdy. Arthur called weekly with updates. From him, she learned there’d be no wedding—just a registry office. She’d saved £500 for a gift, taking extra shifts, scrimping.
Then a granddaughter arrived—Sophia. Margaret fondly called her “Sophie,” but Arthur corrected her—it was “foreign, sophisticated.” She didn’t argue.
Soon, she’d hold the child. Arthur sent photos—Sophia had his eyes, his stubborn chin. Margaret, mastering his old smartphone, proudly showed fellow passengers, her heart full.
Arthur couldn’t greet her at the station—”an important meeting.” Suggested a taxi. Shocked by the fare, she paid anyway.
Eleanor met her with measured politeness. “How was the journey?”
“Fine, Ellie—thank you. Just pricey, that taxi… Let me hold Sophia, I’ve waited so long!”
“Margaret, please—’Eleanor.’ And it’s ‘Sophia.’ Different names entirely.”
“It’s just habit… I’ll try.”
Sophia shied away, clinging to her mother.
“She doesn’t know you. We have routines—quiet until nine, no cooking, takeaway meals, cleaners for the house. Is this all you brought?”
“Don’t need much. I’ve brought jam, garlic—good for you.”
“We don’t eat jam. Garlic disagrees with me. But… kind of you.”
She offered the tractor to Sophia.
“Wait—it needs washing! Who knows where it’s been?” Eleanor snatched it away.
Alone, Margaret kissed the baby’s cheeks.
“Margaret! That’s unhygienic! Only we kiss her.”
“But I’ve always—… Fine, I won’t.”
“Hungry? There’s roasted cauliflower and parsnip purée. Sophia eats jarred food.”
“Just a sandwich… Not fond of cauliflower.”
“No bread—rye crackers, some cheese.”
Margaret nibbled, feeling out of place.
That evening, Arthur’s embrace was stiff, his talk all work. Her heart ached.
Next morning, she woke at six but forced herself to wait until eight. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, she brewed herbal tea—no coffee—staying quiet.
Eleanor stormed in. “I asked for silence! We could’ve slept another hour!”
“Sorry, Elea—… Eleanor.”
To avoid tension, Margaret wandered Manchester, lunching in a café—hearty soup and pies, pricey but delicious.
Returning, she played with Sophia—toys everywhere, robots, building sets. The child laughed. Eleanor, engrossed in a “feminine energy” podcast, hissed, “Quieter.”
Then the doorbell. Richard entered.
“Didn’t know you’d arrived! How was the trip?”
“Margaret. Call me Maggie. It was fine.”
“Look at this portrait! Commissioned from their wedding photo! Gorgeous, yes?”
Margaret froze. “But… they didn’t have a wedding. Just the registry.”
“Of course they did! Three hundred guests! Pity you were ill—Arthur said it was an emergency surgery…”
The room spun. Her son had lied. No invitation, just excuses.
“Yes… I was poorly. Haven’t seen the pictures.”
Richard was kind, joking, treating her with respect. But the sting lingered.
That night, she said nothing.
Next morning, finding the kitchen empty, she cooked a roast—found vegetables, a chicken joint. Homely comfort.
Eleanor recoiled. “What’s that smell? You cooked?”
“A roast. Thought Arthur might—”
“We don’t eat roast! I’ve said—no cooking! Now the flat reeks!”
Margaret’s gaze fell. Effort wasted.
Later, she gave Sophia a spoonful of jam. The child grinned.
“Margaret! No sugar for her!”
“It’s just a bit! Children always—”
“You’ll lecture me? I’ve taken nutrition courses! Keep your village habits to yourself!”
Margaret stepped back. Eleanor ruled—and Arthur obeyed. Love? Or debt?
Overheard: “Arthur, your mother cooked! Fed Sophia jam! Unbearable—make her leave!”
Silently, Margaret packed. Left an envelope—then took it back. They hadn’t earned it.
She left without goodbyes.
At the station, luckily, there was a ticket. On the train, she stared out, aching but resigned. If this was Arthur’s choice, so be it. In their polished world, she had no place.
