**Tears in Silence: The Heartbreak of Evelyn**
The kettle whistled softly as Evelyn busied herself in her tidy cottage on the outskirts of Oakmere. The creak of the garden gate startled her, and there stood Margaret, her neighbour, burdened with two heavy bags. Her face was grim, her eyes shadowed with worry.
“Hello, love—still keeping busy?” Margaret asked, setting the bags down by the doorstep.
“What else is there to do, Maggie? While I’ve still got strength, I’ll help the children,” Evelyn replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just packing some treats for them in the city—can’t let them go without.”
“Evelyn, don’t be cross, but I’ve got to tell you straight,” Margaret said, lowering her voice.
“What’s happened?” Evelyn froze, her heart clenching with dread.
“See these bags? Don’t you recognise them?” Margaret nodded at the parcels at her feet.
Evelyn looked—and went cold. The emptiness in her chest spread like ice, realisation dawning like a winter’s breath.
“How could they?” was all she managed, gripping the edge of the table.
—
Evelyn had lived alone for three years, since her husband passed. Her children—Thomas, Charlotte, and little Edward—had long since moved away, leaving her in the village. They rarely called, and Evelyn never imposed, afraid of being a burden.
Though past ninety, she carried herself like a woman twenty years younger—neat as a pin, with a crisp apron and a snowy kerchief tied over her hair. Her cottage gleamed, her garden flourished, and her dairy—thick cream, sharp cheese, and rich butter—was the pride of Oakmere. Even city folk came for her wares. She didn’t need much for herself, but the extra shillings never hurt.
“Maggie! Come in, love—fresh cheese just made!” Evelyn called as her neighbour stepped into the yard.
“How d’you manage it, Evelyn? At your age?” Margaret marvelled.
“Oh, don’t ask,” Evelyn sighed, though her eyes shone. “I wake up, think of the goats unfed, the weeds in the rows—and somehow, the strength comes. Can’t sit idle.”
“Sell the lot and retire, I say,” Margaret tutted.
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Evelyn waved her off. “While I can, I’ll work.”
“Any word from the children?” Margaret settled onto the bench.
“Charlotte rang the other day,” Evelyn answered, though her voice wavered. “Sent her a parcel, but she wasn’t pleased. Said shops have everything now. As if any of it compares to home.”
“Too right,” Margaret agreed. “Your jam alone! Anyway, ta—I’d best dash. Lizzie’ll fetch the eggs you set aside.”
“Aye, tell her to come by,” Evelyn smiled. “And thank you, love.”
Alone again, Evelyn turned back to her chores. The garden wouldn’t tend itself—potatoes, carrots, courgettes, tomatoes, herbs—every inch was thriving. Neighbours often wondered at her energy.
“What’s the secret?” she’d laugh. “Living for others. While they need me, I won’t give up. Packing treats for the children, helping a neighbour—that’s all there is to it.”
And it was true. At her age, she could pass for sixty—strong, clear-eyed, the heart of Oakmere. She carried baskets to widows, slipped coins to the struggling, mended clothes for the orphaned down the lane. Her children weighed on her mind: whenever she heard someone was heading to London, she’d pile up eggs, cheese, jars of honey. At holidays, she sent money for the grandchildren’s gifts. She never visited the city herself—the farm couldn’t be left, and the children never asked, wrapped up in their own lives. She never blamed them—but at night, in the quiet, the tears came unbidden.
A stray kitten had saved her. Marmalade, plump and playful as a dandelion, became her joy. Evenings, he’d curl at her feet, purring, and Evelyn would smile, stroking his soft fur.
“Evelyn! My Harry’s off to London!” Margaret called over the fence. “Anything for the children?”
“Oh, perfect!” Evelyn brightened. “Made pies—let me pack them!”
“Take your time,” Margaret said.
“Your Harry’s going again?” Evelyn asked, bundling parcels.
“Potatoes to sell,” Margaret explained. “You ought to sell something too, love. Too much for one.”
“I couldn’t bear the city,” Evelyn shook her head. “All noise and strangers. Here, the air’s clean, the water’s sweet. These are for Thomas, that one’s for Edward. Charlotte doesn’t want any—said they’ve enough. Thank Harry for me.”
“Don’t be silly—we owe you,” Margaret waved. “Right, off I go. Anything from London?”
“Nothing needed,” Evelyn smiled. “Safe travels.”
She saw Margaret off, then carried a basket to Alice, the widow down the lane with three little ones, leaving her eggs and greens with a sigh for her hardship. Home again, Evelyn worked until dusk, but exhaustion crept in—her legs trembled, her chest ached. She lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. Then, out of nowhere, Thomas arrived.
“Mum! Hullo!” he called from the door. “Not even a welcome?”
“Tom, love!” Evelyn struggled up. “Come in—I’ll put the kettle on.”
Battling weakness, she shuffled to the kitchen, fetched jam, brewed tea.
“Sit down, son—I’ll fry eggs, just how you like.”
“Don’t bother,” Thomas waved, eyeing the room. “Bit bare, isn’t it?”
“I’ve not been well,” Evelyn admitted. “Didn’t know you were coming—I’d have made soup, baked a pie—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Just passing through. Feels like popping in for sugar, not seeing Mum.”
“Tom!” Evelyn gasped. “Wait, I’ll knead dough—”
“No time,” he cut in. “See you.”
“At least have tea—” she pleaded.
“Next time,” he tossed over his shoulder, and was gone.
Evelyn lay down, tears scalding her cheeks. Ashamed she hadn’t welcomed him properly. By evening, Margaret returned, storm-faced, with *those* bags.
“Evelyn, don’t be angry, but I’ll say it plain,” she began. “Harry took your parcels. They sent them back.”
Evelyn stared at the bags—the ones she’d packed with love.
“How could they?” she whispered, sinking onto the chair.
“Keep one, give the other to Alice—her little ones need it,” she murmured.
“Evelyn, you’re pale—what’s wrong?” Margaret fretted.
“Just tired,” Evelyn brushed her off, but her voice cracked.
After that, she fell ill. Strength ebbed; the farm became a chore. She called Alice.
“Alice, come—there’s something to discuss.”
Alice, who loved her like a mother, hurried over.
“Auntie, what is it?” she asked, seeing Evelyn’s pallor.
“I’m fading,” Evelyn sighed. “Can’t manage the farm. Take whatever you need—milk, eggs, veg. The children must eat.”
“Don’t say that!” Alice protested. “We’ll help—you’ve done so much!”
“Take it,” Evelyn insisted. “They need it. I… I don’t.”
“Send it to your children,” Alice offered.
“I did,” Evelyn smiled bitterly. “They returned it. They don’t want me—or my gifts.”
“Don’t dwell on it—they’ll come round,” Alice soothed.
“Too late,” Evelyn shook her head.
She cooked in small batches—a pot of soup, a little pie—just in case they visited. But the days passed, and the house stayed empty. When her strength failed entirely, she called the children.
“My dears, I’m poorly,” she rasped. “Come home—we must talk. Perhaps… one of you could take me in?”
But they didn’t hurry. Each had lives, obligations. Evelyn sold the livestock, gave Alice half the farm. On her last evening, she knew time was short. She cleaned, kneaded dough, baked a cabbage pie—the one the children had loved. She divided her savings into three. Then she wrote:
*My darlings, Tom, Lottie, Ned—*
*I love you more than life. When I’m gone, don’t quarrel—look after each other. Here’s money—not much, but share it fairly. Buy something to remember me by. If you sell the house, take the icon—it kept me safe. And don’t abandon Marmalade. He’ll be lost without me.*
*Your mum, always with you.*
She left theThey stood in silence by the cold hearth, the scent of her final pie still lingering in the air, and for the first time in years, they wept—not for her, but for all they’d failed to say.
