«You’re a stranger to him, and I’m his mother,» hissed the mother-in-law.
«You shouldnt have called that private doctor,» said Evelyn Whitmore, adjusting the black shawl on her head. «Our local GP has always done right by us.»
Molly silently placed another plate of simnel cake on the table. Guests had trickled away, leaving only the closest family. The kitchen felt cramped for so many, but no one dared eat in the loungewhere the coffin stood.
«Why so quiet?» Evelyn pressed. «Regretting the money spent on proper treatment? Twenty grand for that surgery, and what good did it do?»
«Evelyn, not now,» murmured Auntie Clara from next door, but she wasnt listening.
«When, then?» The womans eyes were rednot from tears, but fury. «He was *my* son. I brought him into this world, raised him. And *she*… she just married him.»
Molly clenched a tea towel in her hands. She wanted to scream, to boltbut today was Simons funeral. She had to hold it together.
«Mum, enough,» sighed Vincent, Simons younger brother. «Today isnt the day.»
«Oh, when is? After weve buried him?» Evelyns voice spiked. «I should stay quiet while *she* calls the shots? This is *my* home. Simon was born here. He should rest here.»
Molly flinched. Theyd argued for a week about where to hold the wake. Evelyn insisted on her tiny terraced house; Molly suggested a café. But as usual, Evelyn had her way.
«Ill air out the lounge,» Molly whispered, slipping away.
The room was stifling, thick with flowers and incense. Simon lay in the coffin, unfamiliar in a black suit hed never have chosen»Too stuffy,» hed say, preferring jeans and jumpers.
«Why did you leave me?» Molly murmured, stepping closer. «How do I do this alone?»
Footsteps behind her.
«Love, dont torture yourself,» said Auntie Clara, resting a hand on her shoulder. «It wasnt his fault. Bloody cancer.»
«She says I didnt fight hard enough. That I skimped on his care.»
«Dont listen. Shes grieving. He was her only boy, her pride and joy.»
«And what, Im not grieving?» Molly turned, eyes swollen. «Twelve years together. *Twelve*. I nursed him, quit my job to take him to appointments»
«I know, love. You were a good wife.»
«And she calls me a *stranger*. How? We married in church. We wanted children»
Molly bit her lip. That hurt too much. Theyd tried, then Simon fell ill, and dreams faded.
From the kitchen, Evelyns voice carried: Simons childhood bike accident, the midnight taxi to A&E. «The doctor said I got him there just in time,» she boasted.
Molly remembered Simon laughing about ithow *his* retelling was all about Evelyns panic, not his scraped knee.
«He was always brave,» Evelyn went on. «Stood up to bullies. Joined the Armycouldve been an officer.»
Molly thought of his letters from basic training: missing her roast dinners, doodling hearts by her name.
«Molly, come see,» called cousin Ellie from the kitchen. «Evelyns showing photos.»
An old album lay open. «LookYear One,» Evelyn said. «Top of his class.»
Molly studied the boy in the pictures: Simon grinning, hugging a teddy, building sandcastles.
«And here, at technical college,» Evelyn flipped a page. «Could fix anythingcars, boilers, you name it.»
«He never minded when I wrecked the clutch,» Molly said softly.
Evelyn shot her a look. «Well, he was kind to *everyone*.»
Awkward silence. Ellie coughed. «More photos?»
«After the Army,» Evelyn pointed to a shot of Simon in leathers by his motorbike. «Girls fancied him rotten.»
Molly remembered their meet-cute: hed offered her a lift home, cracking jokes all the way.
«Plenty of girlfriends,» Evelyn sighed. «Never serious. Said he wasnt ready… till *her*.»
«Mum, really?» Vincent groaned.
«What? Its true. And *I* paid for the wedding cake. *And* her dress.»
«I had a job,» Molly muttered.
«Barely. Simon earned proper wages at the factory.»
Molly thought of their savingsfor a house, then wiped out by treatments.
«He wanted kids,» she blurted. «Always said, Once Im better»
Evelyn shut the album. «We should lay the table. The vicars due soon.»
Later, alone with Vincent, Molly scrubbed plates while he smoked on the patio.
«Dont take it to heart,» he said. «She loved him too much, maybe.»
«I get that. But stranger?»
«Youre not. Youre his wife. *Were* his wife.»
«Were,» Molly echoed. «Now what? A widow? Sounds like someone else.»
«Youre family. Always.»
But Molly knew better. After the funeral, shed return to the flat theyd rented. No more Christmas invites from Evelyn.
That night, post-wake, Evelyn found Molly by the coffin, clutching Simons photo.
«Burials tomorrow,» Evelyn said. «Highgate Cemetery, near his dad.»
Molly nodded. Theyd settled it that morning.
«His things… dyou want them, or?»
«Ill decide later?»
«Fine. Theyll keep.»
They stood inches apart, grief a wall between them.
«Youre a stranger to him,» Evelyn whisperedor did she? Exhaustion blurred everything.
Molly studied the photo: Simons bright grin, back when forever felt possible.
«Forgive me,» she murmuredto him? To Evelyn?
The evening deepened outside. Somewhere beyond, life lurched forwardno Simon, no jokes, no plans. Just Molly, learning who she was without him.
