23October2025
Today I watched the house fall into a strange quiet. Mary Whitfield, my ninetysevenyearold mother, dropped her slippers from the bed and declared, We must get a baby as soon as possible. Shes long since forgotten what that means, yet my son Victor and his son Henry keep nudging her with a cane, urging her onward.
Stay home and think of the old days, youll be left with a blue stocking and regret it when its too late, Victor warned, tapping his cane against the floor.
Now Mary has grown sullen. She refuses to rise, mutters at everyoneWhat have I done, you lot, to make you sleep till noon?and the pots clang in the kitchen at half past six in the morning. The whole family is on edge.
Fiveyearold Ethel, my greatgranddaughter, asked, Grandma, why dont you swore at us any more?
My time is near, love, my time is near, Mary sighed, half in sadness for the life slipping away, half in hope for something beyond the stew weve all stopped knowing how to make.
Ethel slipped away to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the family huddled. Grandmas groundhog is dead! she announced, reporting the latest reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked Victor, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked like a character out of an old folk tale, the sort of man who feels the wind on his face when he walks the lane.
Probably just an old thing, Ethel shrugged, as if shed never seen the creatureshed never been shown it by Mary.
The adults exchanged glances.
The next day a composed doctor, DrJames Clarke, paid us a visit.
Somethings not right with your mother, he said.
Of course it is, Victor snapped, slapping his thighs. What would we call you otherwise? The doctor stared at Victor, then at his wife, before saying, Agerelated, no serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when lunch or dinner should be on the table! All her life she poked at me with her nose, saying my hands werent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Victors wife, Margaret, replied in a trembling voice, already looking as old as the house herself.
The family council with the doctor concluded it was a worrying sign. Exhausted, we all went to bed, as if we might slip into a deep sleep and never wake.
In the night Victor was roused by the familiar shuffling of slippers. This time it wasnt the urgent call to rise and face the day.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the dark hallway.
A hoarse voice answered, Well?
Whats the matter?
Thought Id run off to meet Mick Yakovlev for a date while youre all asleep, the voice said, the tone shifting to a faint grin. Im heading to the loo, where else?
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle to boil, and sat down, head in his hands.
Hungry? Mary asked from the doorway, eyes bright despite the lateness.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that?
Mary shuffled to the table. Its been five days Ive been cooped up in my room, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down and waited. Days passed, then tonight I woke up thinking, Wouldnt it be better if this omen ran off to the woods and left me to live my life under the covers? Pour me a strong cup of tea, make it hot. Weve barely spoken these past three days, son, but well catch up.
Victor finally fell asleep around half past five in the morning, while Mary remained at the kitchen stove, insisting on making breakfast herselfshe declared that no other hands could feed the children properly.
Looking back, I realise that stubbornness and fear can keep a family locked in silence, but the smallest actspouring tea, opening a kitchen doorbreak the spell. Ive learned that listening to the frail voices in our home, even when they sound like old superstitions, can keep us from drifting too far from each other.
