Shadows of the Past: A Family Drama with Mary
Mary trudged up the creaky stairs of the old terraced house in central Windermere, hauling heavy bags full of treats. The door to her daughter’s flat groaned open, and there stood Lydia, her eldest, frowning at the sight of her mother weighed down with groceries.
“Mum, why on earth did you bring so much?” Lydia huffed, eyeing Mary’s tired face. “We don’t even eat this stuff, you know!”
“Just wanted to spoil you a bit,” Mary said softly, forcing a smile. “There’s some for Sophie and James too.”
They moved into the kitchen, where the smell of slightly burnt stew hung in the air. Lydia dropped the bags on the floor and called down the hallway, “Sophie, come say hello—Grandma’s here!”
Mary went to wash her hands, but as she passed the narrow corridor, she overheard Lydia and Sophie talking—about her. Her chest tightened. She froze, and the words that reached her stung like a hot iron.
—
Mary sat on the bench outside the building, catching her breath. The bags full of veggies and preserves from her allotment sat beside her. She always brought homemade things for her daughter and granddaughter—potatoes, pickles, jam. How else? In the city, they lived on ready meals, frozen pizzas, or takeaways. Mary sighed. The journey had been long—half a day on a stuffy train, then a bus ride through Windermere’s dusty streets. No one had come to meet her, not that she’d expected it. She’d called Lydia the day before to say she was coming. It had been ages since she’d seen them, and her heart ached for her girl and her little Sophie.
“Mum, why drag all this here?” Lydia sighed as they stepped inside. “We’ve got no space—where are we supposed to put it?”
“Didn’t bring it for myself,” Mary said gently, warmth in her eyes. “It’s for Sophie and James. Smoked bacon, pickles, raspberry jam—Sophie used to love it.”
Lydia lifted one of the bags with a strained exhale, irritation flickering in her gaze. Mary just smiled, remembering how much she’d longed for a daughter after her firstborn, a son, had come along. Her boy had moved up north years ago—too far for regular visits. But Lydia was here, just a few hours away. Yet every time Mary visited, it felt like she brought an awkward shadow with her.
—
Lydia had Sophie right after college. The father, some contractor from out of town, was married and wanted nothing to do with the baby. His wife had even convinced Mary to let them adopt Lydia’s first child—a little boy, born when she was just a girl herself. Mary still ached remembering that baby. He’d looked just like her late husband, the girls’ grandad. She hadn’t wanted to let him go. But Lydia had moved to the city, married James, had Sophie. And the boy stayed with another family, leaving a hole in Mary’s heart.
Sophie bounded out of her room—curly-haired, big-eyed. Mary, forgetting her weariness, reached to hug her, but the girl squirmed away.
“Gran, please,” Sophie muttered, stepping back.
“You’ve grown so much,” Mary whispered, wiping a tear. “I knitted you a hat, some warm socks—” She reached for the bag, but Sophie had already slipped back into her room.
—
Dinner was quiet. Lydia slid a plate of vegetable stew in front of Mary.
“This is all we’ve got. Can do you pasta if you want,” she offered, voice flat.
Mary, hungry from the journey, nodded but still felt out of place.
“Let me get some of the things I brought—make it proper,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.
Lydia grimaced but stayed silent. Mary ate the thin stew—no cream, no meat. A bit of bread helped, but the hollowness inside stayed. The bags of treats sat untouched in the kitchen corner. Maybe money was tight, Mary thought. She quietly sliced some of the bacon, layered it on bread with onion, and ate it fast, glancing around like she was doing something wrong.
Later, James came home. He said hello but didn’t ask Mary to join them for supper. She sat in Sophie’s room, where they’d made up a bed for her. Her granddaughter, glued to her tablet with headphones on, didn’t even glance up. Mary felt like a stranger. Same as last time—cold politeness, stiff silences.
—
Next morning, Lydia and Sophie rushed off to work and school, James right behind them. Mary stayed behind. To keep busy, she made scrambled eggs, washed the pile of dishes left out, then scrubbed the flat till it shone. But the cleanliness didn’t ease the loneliness.
When Lydia came back that evening, she avoided Mary’s eyes.
“Mum, I got your train ticket for tomorrow. Saves you queueing. You said you weren’t staying long.”
Mary blinked. She’d planned to stay the week, like she’d told her husband.
“But I just got here,” she said, confused. “Though… maybe you’re right. It’s cramped, and I’m just in the way.”
Lydia brightened, like a weight had lifted. Then Mary heard Sophie whining:
“Gran was tossing all night, sighing—kept me awake.”
“Just till tomorrow,” Lydia murmured back.
The words cut like a knife. Mary looked at the jars of jam and pickles still sitting in the corner. The hat and socks she’d knitted for Sophie had been tossed carelessly into a drawer.
“Gran, no one wears stuff like this,” Sophie had scoffed, rolling her eyes.
Mary leaned against the wall, tears burning. That night, she lay stiff as a board, terrified of disturbing Sophie. In the morning, James wordlessly drove her to the station. Her bag held just some bacon and a couple of jars—Lydia had kept the rest. Mary gave a bitter smile. At least some of it was wanted.
—
Back home, her husband, John, welcomed her with open arms.
“Mary, love, you’re back!” he fussed. “Had a nice time with the girls?”
She forced a smile.
“Your son rang,” John went on. “They’re all coming down—might stay the whole summer!”
For the first time in days, warmth flickered in Mary’s chest. At least someone still needed them. She looked around their little home and thought, despite the hurt, family was worth it. But deep down, she knew—the wound from Lydia’s indifference would take a long time to heal.