Greta glanced at her mum, still struggling to believe she was really here. Even though she’d died less than a year ago, Greta had already forgotten there was a slight croak in her voice, as if she smoked too many cigarettes a week. Marjorie’s lips twitched just before she smiled, and it had always been tricky to tell whether her eyes were blue or grey. The colour shifted depending on the light.
‘You keep looking at me like I might disappear.’ Marjorie laughed. ‘Do I have a smudge on my nose or something?’
‘No. It’s just really great to see you,’ Greta said, the words swelling in her throat.
Marjorie shook out a napkin and placed it on her lap. ‘It’s Lottie’s special day at school. Where else would I be?’
Where else indeed?
Her mum being here only added to Greta’s dilemma. It was like a metronome was ticking in her mind, swinging between staying and leaving Mapleville. And she had no idea where it would stop.
Now that her mum was here, too, everything was becoming clearer. The scales were tipping, ever so gently, in Maple- ville’s favour.
Greta could ask her mum all the things she hadn’t had the chance to before Marjorie passed away—like the name of the first play Greta ever starred in, and which flowers could survive her forgetting to water them. She could tell her how deeply she loved her, and how she wished she’d said it more often.
Greta would have someone to love her unconditionally, even when she made mistakes. Her mum had always loved Jim, and been the steady voice of reason during some of their rockier times—advice Greta still needed. Maybe more than ever.
And Lottie? Lottie could grow up with her grandma in her life, a warm, mischievous presence who could tease her about her teenage moods, share old photos in a way she wouldn’t tolerate from Greta, and pass on stories, family recipes, and the kind of wisdom that only grandparents knew.
Greta wondered if she’d ever be able to forget about her mum’s death. The funeral, the numbness, and the grief that felt never-ending. Would those terrible memories simply fade here, as if they’d never happened at all?
When Marjorie had been admitted to hospital for her final days, Greta had kept vigil at her bedside, holding her hand while knowing nothing could be done to save her. The nurses flitted around her bed, taking her temperature, making her comfortable, checking the monitors. They smiled, but Greta could see the truth in their eyes—that there was no hope. They had never sugar-coated things for Marjorie, just told her calmly and kindly that her cancer had spread too widely.
Greta had once read that hearing was the last sense to go. She hated the thought that her mum might hear the quiet conversations around her, so she whispered in her ear.
‘When you’re feeling better, Mum, we’ll go for a coffee,’ she’d said, fighting back her tears. ‘You can pick wherever you want to go, and I’ll pay. We’ll have those brightly coloured macarons you like, with the crispy shells and soft centres.’
As the end drew closer, she preferred her mum to hear a sweet lie rather than the awful truth. Greta had tried to appear calm, though she felt like a landslide was taking place inside her.
When Marjorie finally passed, Greta hoped more than anything that her last thoughts had been of those shiny French biscuits rather than the beep of the hospital machinery.
But now she didn’t have to think about any of those things. Because her mum was here, sitting opposite Greta in a coffee shop, with a pink glow to her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.
‘How are you doing, love?’ her mum asked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
(Oh gosh, Greta had forgotten how she used to say that. That anda good cup ofcoffeecan solve most things)
‘Things are really great,’ Greta replied. ‘I loved Lottie’s act. Did you?’
‘Of course. She’s a clever girl. Takes after her mum.’
Greta smiled, but felt it wavering. The emotion of her mum being here was overwhelming. She glanced out of the window at the sunlit street. A girl glided past on roller skates, performing an effortless pirouette. A young couple held hands and swirled along the pavement together like a scene out of a Hollywood musical. ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is. I always love days like this. I can still picture you on your bike in summer, pedalling with streamers on the handles flying,’ Marjorie said. ‘Remember we used to put ice cream in a bowl to melt, then drink it through a straw? Such fun.’
Greta gave a surprised laugh. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten about that. And you were brilliant at making daisy chains, whereas mine always fell apart.’
She’d forgotten about that, too.
‘You just need a sharp fingernail to pierce the stem, and a little patience.’ Marjorie mimed the motion, then put the pretend strand around her neck. She paused, then lowered her hands. ‘I can tell something is on your mind, love . . .’
‘Me? No, I’m absolutely fine.’ Greta batted a hand. ‘I’m having a lovely time catching up with you. Let’s not talk about . . . other things.’
But her mum folded her arms, just like she used to do. She gave Greta a knowing look. ‘You can’t fool me.’
She’d always had a sixth sense when it came to Greta’s emotions.
Greta eyed her, then let her words spill out, like she’d been holding on to them for far too long. ‘I just feel lost, Mum. Like I’m not living the life I’m meant to. I’ve made a few choices lately, and I don’t know if they’re the right ones.
