“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” Said My Husband — “Those Clothes Belong to My Mum. Why Did You Pack Them Away?” My Husband’s Voice Was Strange, Almost Unfamiliar “We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter blankets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere,” I replied, continuing to briskly remove modest blouses, skirts, and light dresses that belonged to my late mother-in-law. Valentina always hung her clothes so neatly, and she managed to pass that habit on to her son. Unlike me—with my usual wardrobe chaos and desperate morning hunts for something presentable, ending up ironing crumpled tops that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve said a final goodbye to his mother. She needed treatment—mostly palliative—and peace and quiet. The cancer was merciless in its speed. So she came to stay with us, fading away within the month. Now, coming home after work, Steve saw her things strewn mid-corridor like worthless junk and just froze. Was this it? Is that all his mother deserved—tossed out and so quickly forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like I’m some enemy of the people?” I retorted, stepping aside. “Do not touch these things.” His words came through gritted teeth, his face darkening dangerously; he briefly lost sensation in his hands and feet as anger rushed to his head. “For goodness’ sake, they’re just old clothes!” I shot back, my patience thin. “What do you want, a museum? She isn’t here anymore, Steve. You have to accept that. Maybe if you’d cared for her this much when she was alive, maybe visited more, you’d have known how ill she really was!” Those words hit him, hard. “Leave, before I do something I regret,” Steve managed, his breathing ragged. I snorted. “Fine. Suit yourself.” Anyone who disagreed with me must be crazy—or so I’d decided. Steve didn’t even take off his shoes as he headed for the hallway cupboard, flinging open the very top doors and hauling down one of our old checkered bags from the move—there were about seven of them. He packed all of Valentina’s belongings inside—not just stuffing, but folding each one carefully. Her jacket and a bag of shoes went on top. Our three-year-old son whirled around his father, “helping” by throwing his toy tractor into the bag. Steve hunted out a key from a drawer and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” He managed a tight smile. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go find Mummy.” “Wait!” I called. “Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?” “No need, I’ve lost my appetite for your attitude towards my mother.” “Oh come on, are you really upset over nothing? Where do you think you’re going this late?” Not looking back, Steve left with the bag. He drove around the ring road, letting the roar of tyres drown his thoughts—work, holidays, even his favourite Facebook jokes—everything faded away except the heavy ache of loss and the accusation that maybe he’d failed his mum when she needed him most. She’d never wanted to bother him, never wanted to be a burden, and he’d started calling less, visiting less, always busy, always something else to do. Halfway there, he stopped at a roadside café, grabbed a quick bite, and drove the remaining three hours in silence. He barely noticed the sunset, just the faint memory of his childhood home drawing nearer. He arrived late, fumbled at the garden gate with his phone torch, ignoring five missed calls from me. The scent of fading bird-cherry blossom hung thick in the dark. Inside, Valentina’s old slippers waited in the porch, her house shoes by the inner door—blue and worn, with little red bunnies, a present from Steve years ago. He stood, staring, and finally entered his mother’s world for one last time. Everything was just as she’d left it—neat, a little damp-smelling, the furniture faded. Her makeup and comb, a packet of pasta marked ‘basic price’, the newer settee and telly he’d bought her, and in her room the bed piled with pillows. Steve sank onto the edge. He remembered sharing the room with his late brother, the old table by the window, now replaced with Valentina’s cherished sewing machine; her wardrobe now holding her lifetime’s treasures. The house was silent. Steve pressed his face into his knees, shook, and sobbed—he’d never found the right words to thank her; he’d sat dumb as she squeezed his hand, thousands of things left unsaid. He wished he could thank her for his safe childhood, her sacrifices, the sense of home you could always come back to, where mistakes didn’t matter and love was unconditional. But nothing he could say now felt real—our modern world, he thought, was quick with sarcasm, but never had the words for gratitude or grief. He left everything just as it was and finally slept, waking at seven as always. The morning was cool and fresh, the birch trees glowing outside the old garden fence. Steve carried the bag of his mother’s things upstairs and put everything back in its place with gentle care. He called work: “Family emergency, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He even sent me a text—apologising for his temper. After picking early tulips, daffodils and lilies of the valley, he made three small bouquets—one for each of his loved ones at the cemetery. Stopping at the shop, the old shopkeeper fussed over him, offering cheese; Steve bought some, just as his mum once did. At the grave, Steve shared breakfast—with his father, his brother, and his mum—laying out chocolate and cheese in silent tribute. He spoke to them in his mind, remembered childhood mischief with his brother, early morning fishing trips with his dad, his mum’s echoing call for dinner that he’d once found so embarrassing. He stroked the fresh earth of his mum’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… It shouldn’t feel this empty without you. So much I wish I’d said. You were the best parents anyone could ask for. Thank you—for everything. We’re selfish, me and Olya; you were never like that. Thank you, Vasya, too, little brother.” It was time to go. On the way, Steve met old Serge, drunk as ever, declaring it World Turtle Day. Steve looked at him, weary. “Look after your mother, mate. She’s gold, and she won’t be around forever.” And so, with that, Steve walked on—leaving his friend in the dust, and carrying his mother’s memory home.

Dont you dare touch my mothers things, said her husband.

These clothes belong to my mum. Why have you packed them all up? His voice sounded distant and cold.

Well throw them out. What do we need them for, Edward? Theyre taking up half the wardrobe and I need the space. I want to put the winter duvets and spare pillows somewhere its chaos everywhere.

Charlotte, putting on an air of practical decisiveness, kept pulling her late mother-in-laws modest jumpers, skirts, and summer dresses from hangers. Mrs. Margaret Brown had always kept her things neatly arranged on hangers to keep them tidy and had raised Edward to do the same. Charlottes own wardrobes, however, were a shambles; every morning she rummaged around for tops and blouses, moaned about having nothing to wear, then furiously attempted to steam the creased shirts which invariably looked as though a dog had found them first.

Its been only three weeks since Edward buried his mother. Mrs. Brown had needed treatment that really amounted to little more than hope, and rest. It was stage four cancerthere was little to be done. Edward had taken his mum to live with them, and shed faded in the space of a month. Now, coming home from work, he finds her clothes tossed haphazardly in the hallway like rubbish, and hes stunned. Is that it? Just thrown away and forgotten?

Why are you staring at me like youre judging all of London? said Charlotte, backing away.

Dont touch those things, Edward hissed through gritted teeth, rage rushing to his headhe could barely feel his hands or feet.

That old stuff is useless! Charlotte spat, temper rising. What, are you trying to turn the house into a museum? Your mums gone, Edwardaccept it! Maybe if youd actually cared for her whilst she was alive and visited her more often, youd know how ill she was!

Her words hit Edward like a whip.

Just go, he growled, his voice trembling, before I say something Ill regret.

Charlotte scoffed, Right. Must be losing your mindagain.

Anyone who dared disagree with Charlotte was automatically deemed a lunatic.

Still with his shoes on, Edward went to the hall cupboard, swung open the top doors close to the ceiling, got the stepstool, and fished out one of their big checkered shopping bagsone of the half dozen theyd used during their move. He started packing Mrs. Browns clothes, folding each piece neatly as if it were a relic, not carelessly cramming but making tidy rectangles from her dresses and cardigans. He placed her coat and her shoes on top. All the while, his three-year-old son, Ben, trailed alongside, helping by tossing in a toy digger. At the end, Edward rummaged through the drawer in the hallway, found the front door key, and slipped it into his pocket.

Dad, where are you going?

Edward gave a tight smile and touched the door handle. I wont be long, poppet. Go to your mum.

Wait! Charlotte appeared anxiously in the lounge doorway. Are you going out? Where? What about dinner?

Im not really hungry for the way you treat my mum, he replied.

Oh come off it, whats got into you now? she fumed. Take off your coat and tell me where youre going at this hour!

Edward ignored her and left with the bag. He got into his car, drove out onto the main road, and headed for the M25. He zoomed along, tuning out the roar of traffic and not caring about the destinationthe everyday routine, his projects at work, summer holiday plans, even the funny posts he sometimes scrolled through to relax, all fell away. Only one heavy, leaden thought dragged itself through his mind; he saw everything through the filter of that one grief. All else seemed blackened, trivial, scorched in the fire of consciencethe only things he hadnt lost were his children, his wife … and his mother. He blamed himselfshouldve done more, shouldve visited more often, shouldve paid more attention, but always some task or distraction intervened. His mother had never wanted to be a burden, always insisted she was fine, and eventually hed started visiting less and calling lessconversations growing shorter and more rushed.

About a third of the way through, he stopped at a motorway café for a quick sandwich before driving for another three hours without stopping. Just once, he looked at the sunset: the clouded sky was suddenly split open by streaks of scarletit looked as though the sun was stubbornly clinging to the edge of the world with just a few feeble rays. At last, in full darkness, he turned off into the village, wound his way along the potholed lanes, and parked outside the home where hed grown up.

Artist: Sean Ferguson

It was pitch black. He struggled with the latch, lighting his way with his phone screen. Five missed calls from Charlotte. Not tonight. The phone would stay on silent. The air was humid with the sweet scent of late-blooming hawthorn, summoning night moths; its white blossoms almost ghostly in the dark. The windowpanes dimly reflected the inky sky. Edward let himself in, groped for the light, and a dusty bulb flickered on in the porch.

By the door sat his mums house slippersthe ones she wore around the garden. Beside the next door to the living area were her blue, well-worn indoor shoes, each with little red rabbits on the toes. Edward had bought them for her eight years ago. He stood gazing at them for a long moment, then shook himself and put the key in the lock.

Hello, Mum. Were you waiting for me?

But no one was waiting now.

Inside, the air was tinged with the smell of damp and old English furniture, as though water seeped up from the cellar below. The house got musty very quicklyyou had to keep the heating on or the walls would grow mould. Her hairbrush and a few modest bits of makeup were still on the dresser. On a hook, a transparent bag of trusty Tesco pasta, Everyday Value, as she called it, hung waiting for its next meal. In the lounge, the new sofa stood outEdward had bought her that, along with her TV. The fridge stood open in the kitchen, as though the house itself was sighing with loneliness. Her bedroomher little snug oppositewas just as shed kept it: her bed still made, a small mound of pillows beneath a white throw. Edward sat on the edge.

This had once been his room as a childhis parents had the larger one. Against the wall had once stood his brothers bed, beside his own; theyd shared a chair by the window for their homework. That spot was now home to a sewing machineMums pride and joy. The extra bed had been replaced by a wardrobe for her things.

Edward sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe as if a ghost might step out. At length he slumped, buried his hands in his hair, doubled over til his face was in his knees, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He toppled onto the snowy throw atop the pillows, and wept.

He wept because he never got to say what hed wanted, that last day when she gripped his hand. He sat by her, mute, stone-faced, seeing her fading, tongue-tied by a thousand unsaid things clogging his throat. Shed whispered, Please, Edward, dont look at me like that… I was happy with you all. And hed wanted, so much, to thank her for his carefree childhood, for all her love, her sacrifices, the family warmth, the sense of homethe safe place thats always there no matter what mistakes youve made. Just to say thank you, for that foundation, that little sanctuary where youre always welcomed back.

But hed sat there like a statue, unable to find the right words. Sometimes, for all the riches of the English language, you simply cant find the thing you need. Everything seemed either too trite or too outdated, embarrassing to say out loud. Those words belonged to old times, too grand and formal for now. Our age hasnt come up with good words for this. All its mastered is sarcasm and bravado and strong language.

He turned out the lights and fell asleep on top of the bed covers, careful not to disturb its neatness. He found a wool blanket on a chair, covered himself, and drifted off, not expecting to sleep so deeply. By seven he was awake, as alwayshis body clock unchanging, no matter when he went to bed.

He stepped outside to fetch the bag from the car. Across the road, a row of birch trees, dressed in their spring green, stood like bridesmaids awaiting their turn. Sunlight clung to their branches, eager to warm the earth. Edward paused on the doorstep. Birdsong, fresh airsuch blessings. How fortunate he was not to have grown up in the citys grey stone. He stretched, shook off his stiffness, hauled the bag inside to his mums wardrobe.

One by one, he took out her things, placing them carefully on the shelves or hanging them as she used to. Her shoes, too, on the bottom rack. When it was all in place, he stepped back to check it was neat enough. He could almost see his mum move among those very clothes, her gentle, warm smile that always said I love you more clearly than words. He ran his hand along the row of blouses, hugged the whole lot, taking in their familiar scent … and just stood there, lost. He didnt know what to do with them next. Eventually, he returned to the present and took out his phone.

Good morning, Mr. Patterson. I wont be in todayfamily crisis. Will you manage? Thanks.

A quick text to Charlotte: Sorry I lost my temper. Ill be back tonight. Love you.

Flowers lined the garden path. The daffodils were in full bloom, the tulips only just opening. Edward picked both kinds, and gathered some bluebells by the old gooseberry bushes. He thought, odd bouquet, but never mind. He split the flowers into threea small bunch each. There were three graves waiting for him in the churchyard. Walking past the village shop, he remembered he still hadnt eaten. He popped in for a pint of milk and a loaf, and added a chocolate bar for good measure.

Oh, Edward! Back again then? said Mrs. Evans, the shop lady.

Yeah … Ive come to see Mum, Edward muttered awkwardly.

I see, she said kindly. Any interest in the stilton? Got some in fresh. Your mum always loved a good bit of it.

Edward looked up. Was she teasing him? No, just a simple soul.

Might as well. Thanks. And you, Mrs. Evans? How are things?

Oh, dont ask, she sighed. She and Margaret had been close, Sams no good, still out drinking every night.

Edward had breakfast at the cemetery, among their graves. Daffodils, bluebells, tulips spread in careful bunchesbrother, father, mother. His brother had been firstfell from the shed roof fixing the tiles. It wasnt even tall, but something snapped and, just like that, he was gone at twenty. Five years later, their father. Then, now, Mum.

Edward broke the chocolate, leaving a square for each, and placed a bit of stilton for his mum. Their faces smiled gently back from the faded portraits on the headstones. In silence, he spoke to them.

He remembered old pranks he and his brother had dreamed up. Recalled, detail by detail, those dawns with his dad fishing for perch and pike. His father always cast the line with a cowboys flourish.

And his mum! Whenever shed shout, Edd-ward! Teas ready! her voice would carry for miles. Hed been mortified in front of matesif only she could shout for him just once more.

Edward stroked the bare wooden cross on his mums grave, the soil still fresh and unsettled beneath the morning sun.

Mum … Im sorry. I shouldve done more. We lived apart, thought we were independent, but why does it feel so empty without you? Theres so much I wish I could say now, to you, Dad. You were the best parentsthank you. How did you do it? Charlotte and I are selfish in comparisonall me, me, mine … Thank you for everything. And you too, Willmy brotherthank you.

It was time to go. Edward made his way along the grassy track, pulling a shoot of young grass to chew as he wandered into the lane. He ran into Sam, Mrs. Evanss son, already half-drunk and looking wrecked.

Oi! Edward! Here again, are you? Sam slurred.

Yeah Just popping in to see the family. You still boozing?

Yep, bit of a celebration, mate.

Oh? What for?

Sam fished a dog-eared tear-off calendar from his shorts, flicked through it and slammed his finger on a date.

Its World Turtle Day! he announced with the pride of a quiz master.

Hm, Edward replied, half a smile. Look, Samyou take care of your mum. Shes a gem. Shes not going to live forever. Dont forget that.

He walked on, leaving Sam blinking in confusion. After a pause, Sam called after him:

Alright then, mate, I will … Take care, Ed.

Yeah, see you, Edward replied without turning back.