PLEASE LET ME GO, IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND

Please let me go, the woman whispers, her voice trembling. Im not leaving this house. Its my home. Tears that have not yet fallen shine in her eyes.

Mum, her son says, you know I cant look after you on my own. You have to understand.

Alex is heavyhearted. He watches his mother, Margaret, fidget on the worn sofa of the cottage in the small English village of Littleford, her anxiety obvious. He knows she has just suffered a stroke. Margaret has been ill before; Alex remembers taking several months off work to care for her after she broke her leg. She was brave, but in the first weeks she could not even take a single step without him.

Alex has recently started earning a decent salary, and he had planned to refurbish the cottage this summer so his mother could live comfortably. The stroke shatters those plans; now he must arrange for her transfer to the city.

Emily will pack your things, Alex tells his wife, nodding toward her. Tell her if you need anything.

Margaret remains silent, staring out the window where a light autumn breeze dislodges yellowed leaves from ancient oaks she has known her whole life. Her right hand, still functional, clenches the left, which hangs limp.

Emily rummages through the wardrobe, repeatedly asking her motherinlaw what to take and what to leave. Margaret only watches the garden outside, her thoughts drifting far from dressmakers, old nightgowns, and broken spectacles.

Margaret was born and has spent her sixtyeight years in Littleford, a hamlet that has thinned out over the years. She worked as a seamstress in the villages tiny workshop until it closed when the population fell. Then she began taking commissions from home, but as orders dwindled she turned her attention to the garden and the house, pouring her heart into them. She cant imagine abandoning her home for a flat in bustling London.

Alex, shes not eating anything again, Emily sighs, placing a plate of food on the kitchen table, fatigue etched on her face. I cant keep doing this. Im exhausted.

Alex looks at his wife, then at the untouched plate, and shakes his head. He takes a deep breath and steps into his mothers room.

Margaret sits on the sofa, eyes fixed on the window, barely blinking. Her grey, faded gaze is distant. Her working hand rests on the limp one, as if trying to revive it.

The room is cluttered with exercise equipment, hand bands, and a stack of medication on the nightstand. If Alex hadnt insisted, she might never have touched any of it.

Mum?

There is no reply.

Mum?

A faint, slurred voice finally emerges. Son? Margaret manages, her speech still thick from the stroke. Its improving, but words are still difficult to understand.

Why havent you eaten, Emily? Im trying to cook for you. Youve gone almost days without a proper meal.

I dont want to, son, Margaret says quietly, turning slowly toward Alex. Honestly, I dont want you to force me.

Mom what do you want? Just tell me

Alex sits beside her, and she takes his hand.

You know what I want, Alex. I want to go home. Im scared I wont see it again.

He sighs, shaking his head. You know Im working every day, and Emily is running from appointment to appointment. Its winter outside; traveling isnt easy. Lets wait until spring, at least. Margaret nods, Alex forces a smile, and leaves the room.

It wont be too late, love it wont be too late, she whispers.

Later, in a fertility clinic, a doctor apologises, Im sorry, the IVF cycle didnt work. Emilys hands fly to her face. How? Everyone else seems to succeed. You said it was normal not to get pregnant on the first try. Forty per cent do after the first attempt, yet this is our third cycle and nothing?

Alex sits quietly, holding Emilys hand, his nerves frayed. In the next ward, Margaret receives a massage, and its time to take her back.

The doctor speaks gently, I understand your dream of a baby, but youre under constant stress. Your body isnt in a condition to

Emily snaps, Of course Im stressed! Im working from home to afford these horrendous IVF costs, taking endless pills that ruin me, looking after my motherinlaw who either eats nothing or refuses medication. I want a child so perhaps youll pay attention to me, not just to Mum!

She stops, realizing shes said too much, grabs her bag and rushes out, slamming the door.

Excuse me, Alex murmurs.

Its fine, the doctor waves. Ive seen worse tantrums. Itll be okay.

Emily sits in the waiting area, elbows on her knees, sobbing into her palms. Her body convulses with grief. She lifts her redwet eyes to Alex and breaks down, Im sorry I didnt mean to speak about your mum that way. Im just tiredtired of watching someone slip away, tired of a single line on a test costing a fortune for another cycle. I cant do this any longer.

If I could, Id help both of you, but its beyond me, Alex replies softly.

I know, Emily says through tears, smiling weakly. I understand.

After a few minutes of silent handholding, Emily bolts up, smooths her shirt, and says, Lets go. Margaret will be ready. She hates hospitals; they make her linger in sadness.

A short, silverhaired doctor with round spectacles leans in, Your mothers progress is minimal. Alex had asked him to explain Margarets condition.

They step away so Margaret cant hear. Emily stays with her.

The chance of recovery after a stroke is small, but your mum had no harmful habits or chronic illnesses. She had a good shot at it, the doctor says quietly. But it looks like shes given up. Theres no spark in her eyes; she seems to have stopped wanting to live.

Alex nods without words; he has seen it too. Margaret has lost fifteen kilos, looks gaunt, sits staring out the window all day, reads nothing, watches no TV, and talks to no one. She merely watches the garden.

Poststroke behavioural changes can arise from specific brain damage, the doctor adds. I expected less in your mothers case. When she first came in, I didnt notice this.

Alex whispers, I think its something else.

Emily picks up the phone, Alex, can you cancel the business trip? Mums condition is getting worse. Im scared you wont make it in time

Saying it hurts her. She knows how much Alexs mother means to him. Margaret, once a lover of vinyl records brought from the village by her father, a music teacher, now sits motionless, sipping only milk, the same milk she once complained never tasted like it did back home.

Alex arrives that night, stays by Margarets bedside until dawn.

You know what I want. You promised, he whispers. Alex nods; he promised.

The next day they drive to Littleford. Margaret refuses the hospital. I dont want to go back. I want to be home.

Its March, but the roads are still clear enough to reach the cottage directly. Alex opens the car door and helps her into a wheelchair.

Snow melts away, exposing damp earth. The trees bend gently in the breeze, and the sun begins to warm the air. Margaret spends a few hours in the garden; a smile finally breaks across her face. She breathes deeply, looks up at the sky, and tears of joy stream down.

She is finally home. She watches her crooked little house, feels the bright sunshine, hears the birds, and feels the cool meltoff snow on her cheeks.

That evening she eats, then sits outside for a while before bed, her smile never fading. Later that night she passes away peacefully, a contented smile on her lips.

Alex and Emily take a few days off to arrange Margarets funeral, clear out the cottage, and decide what to do with it. Alex, frankly, just wants a few days of country air, the intoxicating scent of fresh grass, something he hasnt felt in years.

Before they leave for London, Emily feels faint in the bathroom and vomits. She returns to Alex, eyes wide, holding a pregnancy test. She carries one almost constantly, but its always negativeuntil now. Two lines appear.

Its her, Emily whispers, tears blurring her vision. Your mum Margaret she gave us this I still cant believe it.

Alex lifts his gaze to the clear blue sky, nods, and embraces his wife tightly. Its a final, priceless gift from his mother.