I know it hurts you too without me…
*”What are you two whispering about behind my back? Out with it—what’s the plan?”* asked Margaret Whitmore.
Her son-in-law and daughter exchanged glances.
*”Speak up. Don’t keep me waiting.”*
*”Mum, we thought we’d spend this weekend at the cottage to celebrate Old New Year. Once the workweek starts, we won’t have the chance,”* said Emily.
*”Wasn’t New Year’s enough for you? Go ahead. The weather’s mild, not much snow, the roads are clear. Or is there something else you’re not telling me?”* Margaret eyed them suspiciously.
*”Well… we—meaning* you’re *coming with us,”* Emily blurted out.
*”Me? What do you need me for?”*
Margaret noticed her daughter casting a helpless look at her husband.
*”What have you two cooked up? I’m not going anywhere. You’re young, restless—I’m perfectly fine here. I’ve no interest in celebrating, least of all Old New Year. If you want to go, go. Just remember, the cottage will be freezing and damp. You’ll need to stoke the hearth properly.”*
*”That’s exactly what we wanted to say. James went up yesterday and took care of everything,”* Emily said quickly.
*”How very efficient. Though I suspect this isn’t just about a weekend away.”*
*”We wanted a change of scenery. The long holiday’s over, and we haven’t had a proper escape. It’s peaceful there, the air’s crisp. The cottage is warm and dry,”* James added.
*”When did you find the time? You lit the hearth yourself? Didn’t burn the place down?”* Margaret said skeptically.
*”Took a day off. Emily wouldn’t stop going on about how you always spent New Year’s there. We thought…”* James trailed off.
Margaret didn’t miss the way Emily nudged him, her eyes sharp.
*”Mum, please. Come with us. It’s a family holiday. We’ll be back by Sunday.”* Emily’s plea was so earnest that Margaret relented.
*”Fine. What am I to do with you?”* She sighed.
*”Pack what you’ll need for the cottage. We’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”* Before Margaret could change her mind, Emily and James said their goodbyes and left.
Margaret decided a weekend away wouldn’t hurt. She packed a few things and went to bed.
Outside the city, snow lined the motorway, thin but present. Winters used to be harsher. This time of year, the frost bit deep.
They *had* celebrated every New Year at the cottage. Just the two of them at first, then with Emily, for whom the trip was an adventure. Friends often joined. It was a tradition started by Margaret’s father.
On the thirtieth, they’d arrive, decorate one tree inside and another outside the windows. Built snowmen. How long ago that felt. Where had it all gone? Emily grew up, started celebrating with friends. The last two years, she and her husband had stayed home. Then he left. Or rather, Margaret threw him out.
She’d come home early once and found him with the neighbor. They weren’t naked in bed—that would’ve been unbearable. They sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea. But it was just as intimate.
Margaret lingered in the hallway, listening to their whispers and laughter. They didn’t notice her at first, sitting close, shoulders touching.
*”What’s going on here?”* she demanded.
The pair startled apart. The neighbor—young, pretty, new to the building—fled, flustered. Her husband babbled excuses, swore nothing happened.
As if she’d believe that. How long had they been alone? Plenty of time for everything. Unlikely they’d spent it telling jokes.
Even now, the memory rankled. She’d screamed, made a scene, thrown his things into a suitcase and shoved it into the hall.
Emily begged her to forgive him, but Margaret couldn’t. She missed him, wept, raged—but forgiveness eluded her. She didn’t care where he went, so long as it wasn’t to that woman. She’d glare at the neighbor in the lift or courtyard, turn away pointedly. Eventually, the woman moved out. Margaret calmed, somewhat. But forgiveness? No.
They’d been married twenty-six years. The worst part wasn’t the betrayal—it was that it happened *in their home*, on their sofa or bed. How could she forgive that? He swore it was a one-time mistake. How could she trust him? What stopped them from meeting again? If she hadn’t come home early, she might never have known.
His sister visited, said George was living with her, that he was miserable. As if Margaret wasn’t? As if *she* wasn’t suffering?
*”Forgive him. It happens. If you don’t, some other woman will snap him up, and you’ll regret it.”*
Honestly, Margaret had considered it. Emily was married, living elsewhere. The loneliness was unbearable. If George had called or come by… But he hadn’t. Pride and hurt kept her from reaching out first.
So they’d lived apart six months. Emily saw her father occasionally, said he’d lost weight, looked ill. Urged her to reconcile.
Margaret couldn’t imagine sharing a roof—or a bed—with him again. Seeing him would mean reliving it all. Or living like strangers? No. Better alone than like that.
She unbuttoned her coat, loosened her scarf. The car had grown stuffy. Emily and James murmured up front. The engine’s hum lulled Margaret into a doze. She woke as the car stopped at the cottage gate. Stepping out, she inhaled the crisp air. Tire tracks and footprints marred the slushy snow. James *had* been here.
A tree adorned with baubles and tinsel stood before the windows. The one from her childhood was long gone—too overgrown, blocking light. George had planted a new spruce years ago. It had shot up since last winter.
*”Lovely, isn’t it?”* Emily joined her.
James unloaded bags from the boot, carried them to the door.
*”Mum, take the eggs.”* Emily handed her a basket.
Margaret took it but didn’t move.
*”Go on, you’ll freeze. We’ll catch up.”*
Margaret *was* cold. Emily and James lingered by the car, whispering. Noticing her gaze, Emily waved her on.
Margaret hesitated. For some reason, entering the cottage frightened her. Memories of happier times would crash over her, times she couldn’t reclaim. She reached the door and glanced back. Emily and James followed. Reassured, she turned the handle. The door was unlocked. Stepping inside, she froze in the narrow hallway.
The living room door stood ajar. A white-clothed table gleamed, set with glasses and candles. Chairs circled it. The cottage awaited them. Then—*click*. The lock snapped shut behind her. Margaret whirled, jiggled the handle. Locked from outside.
*”Emily! What kind of joke is this? Open up!”* she shouted.
*”We’ll fetch you Sunday, Mum,”* Emily called through the door.
*”Margaret?”* A voice from inside.
She nearly dropped the basket. George’s voice. She spun. He stood in the doorway, blocking the light.
*”What are you doing here? Was this your idea? A rotten joke. Open this door!”* She stamped her foot like a child. An engine rumbled in the distance.
*”What’s the meaning of this? You plotted this?”*
*”I think our daughter’s playing matchmaker. I swear, I didn’t know. Emily called, asked me to come. Said they’d be here too, told me to light the hearth. Now they’ve left us alone. Coming in, or will you chase after them?”* George’s tone was wry.
*”Open it now, or I’ll—”* She glanced at the basket.
*”Calm down. Come inside, rest. We’ll decide what to do. If you want, I’ll drive you back.”*
*”So James didn’t come? You did all this?”* She nodded at the table set for three.
*”Yes. Like I said, Emily called. Let me take your coat.”* He reached for her, but she stepped back.
*”I can manage.”*
She wandered the room. Nothing had changed. It was all as it had been.
*”Emily brought food. Bags are outside.”*
George fetched them.
*”Champagne, fruit, sausage… We’ll feast. Shall we celebrate?”* He set the champagne on the table.
Soon, the table groaned with roast, salads, fruit. The savory smells made Margaret’s mouth water.
George sat opposite her, popped the cork,As they clinked glasses, a warmth long forgotten settled between them, and for the first time in months, Margaret allowed herself to hope.
