Tears in Silence: The Heartbreak of Matilda
Matilda busied herself in her tidy cottage on the outskirts of Willowbrook when the gate creaked. Her neighbor, Margaret, stood at the doorstep, burdened with two heavy bags. Her face was grim, her eyes clouded with worry.
“Hello, Tillie, still keeping busy?” Margaret asked, setting the bags down.
“What else is there to do, Maggie? While I’ve got the strength, I’ll help the children,” Matilda smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just packing some treats for them in the city—got to keep at it.”
“Tillie, don’t be cross, but I’d best speak plainly,” Margaret said, lowering her voice.
“What’s happened?” Matilda froze, her heart tightening with dread.
“I brought these bags. Don’t you recognize them?” Margaret nodded at her feet.
Matilda looked—and went cold. Emptiness flooded her chest, realization swirling like a storm in her mind.
“How could this be?” she whispered, clutching the edge of the table.
Matilda had lived alone for three years since her husband passed. Her children—George, Emily, and little Arthur—had long since scattered to cities, leaving her in the village. They rarely called, and she never pushed, afraid of being a burden. Though she was over ninety, she seemed younger—strong, upright, always with a white kerchief on her head and a starched apron. Her home gleamed, her little farm prospered. Her milk, cream, and cheese were famous in the village; even city folk came for them. It made her happy—she didn’t need much for herself, and a little extra money never hurt.
“Tillie, I’ve come for the cheese!” Margaret called, stepping into the yard.
“Come in, I’ve fresh curds!” Matilda replied, fetching a jar from the cellar.
“How do you manage it, Tillie?” Margaret marveled. “You’re not as young as you were.”
“Oh, Maggie, don’t ask,” Matilda sighed, but her eyes sparkled. “I wake up thinking the animals aren’t fed, the garden’s not weeded—and somehow, the strength comes. I can’t sit idle.”
“Sell the farm, take a rest,” Margaret urged.
“I’ll rest in the next life,” Matilda waved her off. “While I’ve strength, I’ll work.”
“Do the children call?” Margaret asked, sitting on the bench.
“Emily phoned the other day,” Matilda answered, but her voice wavered. “Sent her a parcel, but she wasn’t pleased. Said she didn’t need it, shops have everything. But can shop-bought compare to home?”
“Amen to that,” Margaret agreed. “Your goods are a blessing. Right, Tillie, I’d best be off. I’ll tell Lizzie to fetch the eggs you asked for.”
“Do, let her take them,” Matilda smiled. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Margaret left, and Matilda turned back to her work. The garden waited—potatoes, carrots, courgettes, tomatoes, herbs—every inch tended. Neighbors often asked her secret to such tireless energy.
“What secret?” she’d laugh. “I live for others. While I’m needed, I can’t give up. Packing treats for the children, helping neighbors—that’s the secret.”
And truly, at her age, Matilda looked sixty. Sturdy, sharp-eyed, she was the village’s heart. She took food to widows, helped orphans, lent money to the frail. She fretted over her children—hearing someone was going to town, she’d pack vegetables, eggs, cheese, cream. Sent money at holidays for the grandchildren’s gifts. She never went to the city—couldn’t leave the farm, and the children never invited her, busy with their lives. She didn’t blame them, but at night, in silence, tears rolled down her cheeks. A stray kitten saved her—Ginger, plump and playful as a dandelion, became her joy. Evenings, he’d rub against her legs, purring, and she’d smile, stroking his soft fur.
“Tillie, my Tom’s off to the city!” Margaret called over the fence. “Anything for the children?”
“Oh, perfect!” Matilda brightened. “I’ve baked pies—just let me pack them!”
“Don’t rush, I’ll wait,” Margaret said.
“Tom’s going again?” Matilda asked, bundling the parcels.
“Taking potatoes to sell,” Margaret explained. “You ought to sell some too, Tillie. It’s too much for one.”
“I can’t go to the city,” Matilda shook her head. “Everything’s strange there. Here, the air’s fresh, the water’s clean. Here—this bag’s for George, this for Arthur. Emily doesn’t want anything, she scolded me, says they’ve got plenty. Thank Tom for me, he’s a blessing.”
“Don’t mention it, Tillie, we owe you,” Margaret waved. “Right, I’m off. Need anything from town?”
“Nothing at all,” Matilda smiled. “Safe travels.”
She saw Margaret off, then went to widowed Sarah, with her three children. Left her a basket of vegetables and eggs, sighing over her hard lot. Back home, Matilda worked on, but by evening, she felt weak. Age? Illness? Her legs buckled, her chest ached. Finishing her chores, she lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. That day, George arrived without warning.
“Mum, hello!” he called from the doorstep. “Not even greeting your son?”
“George, love!” Matilda struggled up. “Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Battling weakness, she shuffled to the kitchen, fetched jam, brewed tea.
“Sit, son, I’ll fry eggs just how you like.”
“Don’t bother, Mum,” George brushed her off, scanning the house. “Bit sparse here, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been poorly,” she said guiltily. “Didn’t know you were coming, or I’d have made stew, baked pies.”
“Never mind,” he grunted. “Just passing through. No feast, no warmth—like popping in for salt.”
“George!” she gasped. “Stay, I’ll knead dough—”
“No time,” he cut in. “See you, Mum.”
“At least have tea,” she pleaded.
“Next time,” he tossed back, and left.
Matilda lay down, tears burning her eyes. Ashamed she hadn’t welcomed him properly. By evening, Margaret returned, storm-faced, with those same bags.
“Tillie, don’t be angry, but I’ll say it straight,” she began. “Tom took your parcels to your children. They refused them. Sent everything back.”
Matilda looked at the bags—the ones she’d packed with love.
“How can this be?” she whispered, sinking onto a chair.
“Keep one for yourself, give the other to Sarah,” she said softly. “She’s got the children to feed.”
“Tillie, you’re pale,” Margaret fretted. “What’s wrong?”
“Just tired,” Matilda waved her off, but her voice shook.
After that, she fell gravely ill. Strength left her; the farm became a weight. She called Sarah.
“Sarah, come quick—there’s something to settle.”
Sarah, who loved Matilda like family, rushed over.
“Aunt Tillie, what’s happened?” she asked, seeing her pale face.
“I’ve gone poorly,” Matilda sighed. “Can’t tend the farm or garden now. Come, take it all—milk, eggs, vegetables. Your children need feeding.”
“Aunt Tillie, no!” Sarah protested. “I’ll help—you’ve done so much for us!”
“Take it, I say,” Matilda insisted. “Your children need it. Me… I don’t anymore.”
“Send it to your children,” Sarah offered.
“I did,” Matilda smiled bitterly. “They sent it back. They don’t want me, or my treats.”
“Don’t dwell on it, they’re young, they’ll come round,” Sarah soothed.
“Too late,” Matilda shook her head.
She cooked in small batches—a pot of soup, a little pie, in case the children visited. But days passed, and the house stayed empty. When her strength failed entirely, she called them.
“My darlings, I’m poorly,” she said faintly. “Come, we must talk. Maybe one of you could take me in…”
But the children didn’t hurry. Each had their own lives, their own cares. Matilda sold the livestock, gave Sarah part of the farm. On her last evening, she felt time slipping. With effort, she tidied the house, kneaded dough, baked a cabbage pie—the kind the children loved. She gathered her savings, split them three ways. Taking paper, she wrote:
“My dear George, Emily, Arthur. I love you more than life. When I’She closed her eyes as the evening light faded, and Ginger curled against her side, purring softly, while the scent of fresh-baked pie still lingered in the silent house.