That Day, a Woman I Hadn’t Seen on My Doorstep in Five Years Came to Visit—Tamara Nikitichna, Whom Everyone in Riverdale Secretly Called ‘The General’s Wife’

That day, a woman showed up at my doorstep I hadnt seen in five years. Margaret Whitmore. Everyone in Willowbrook used to call her “the Duchess” behind her backnot because she married some high-ranking officer, no, but because of the way she carried herself, that sharp gaze of hers, sharper than any scalpel, and pride so thick you could fence our whole village with it three times over. She always walked with her back straight, chin up, like she wasnt stepping on our muddy lanes but gliding over palace floors. Never bothered much with anyonejust a nod over her shoulder, and that was the end of it.

But there she stood, on the threshold of my clinic, looking lost. Her spine was still straight out of habit, but her eyeshaunted, hollow. Shed pulled her floral scarf down to her brows like she wanted to hide. Hesitated, couldnt bring herself to step inside.

“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No sense letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for paracetamol.”

She shuffled in, perched on the stool by the hearth, hands folded on her knees. Always kept her hands so well cared for, but nowdry skin, cracked, fingers trembling. Silent. I didnt push. Poured her some of my tea, mint and elderflower. Set it on the table.

“Drink,” I said. “Warm yourself up.”

She took the cup, and her eyes glazed over. No tears fellpride wouldnt let thembut they pooled there, still as well water.

“Im completely alone, Valerie,” she finally whispered, her voice rough, broken. “Cant take it anymore. Twisted my wrist the other daythank God its not broken, but the blasted thing wont stop aching. Cant fetch firewood, cant even carry water. And my back hurts so bad I cant breathe.”

The words spilled out of her like a muddy stream, bitter and unchecked. I listened, nodding, but in my mind, I wasnt seeing her nowI was seeing her five years ago. Remembered how laughter used to fill her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, James, tall and hardworking, had brought home his sweetheart. Emily.

That girl was an angel. James had met her in Manchester. Clear eyes, trusting. Hair the colour of honey in a thick braid. Hands delicate but capable. Anyone could see why James fancied her. But why Margaret couldnt stand herthat, no one understood.

And yet, from day one, Margaret had picked her apart. Sitting wrong, looking wrong. Her roast wasnt brown enough, floors not scrubbed well enough. Made jam”wasted sugar, wasteful girl.” Weeded the garden”pulled up all the nettles for soup, useless.”

James had defended her at first, then gave up. A mummys boy, always under her wing. Tossed between them like a leaf in the wind. And Emily? She never fought back. Just grew thinner, paler. Once, I met her at the well, saw her eyes brimming.

“Why put up with it, love?” Id asked.

She smiled, tired. “Where else would I go, Aunt Val? I love him. Maybe shell warm to me. Have mercy.”

Mercy never came. The final straw was an old embroidered tablecloth, stitched by Margarets mother. Emily had washed it carelessly, and the pattern faded a bit. Oh, the screaming that day

That night, Emily left. Quietly, without a scene. By morning, James was frantic, searched everywhere, then turned on his mother, eyes hollow.

“This is on you,” was all he said. “You killed my happiness.”

Then he left too. Rumor had it he found Emily in Manchester, married her, had a daughter. But never came back. Not a word. Like a door slammed shut.

Margaret pretended it didnt matter. “Good riddance,” shed tell the neighbors. “Dont need a daughter-in-law like that, and a son who trades his mother for a skirt isnt much of a son.” But she aged overnight. Withered. Her perfect house, clean as a surgery, stood empty. And now here she was, pride stripped away like peeling bark, just a tired, sick, lonely woman. A boomerang doesnt fly back out of spiteit just circles around to where it started.

“Nobody needs me, Valerie,” she whispered, a single tear escaping. “Might as well hang myself.”

“Dont say such things, Margaret,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not ending. Let me give you something for the pain. Well sort the rest.”

I gave her an injection, rubbed her back with liniment. She perked up a little, shoulders easing.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Didnt think kindness would find me.”

She left, but my heart stayed heavy. I could treat her body, but some sicknesses have no cure. Loneliness is one. The only medicine is another person.

I stewed for days, restless. Then, through friends in town, I found James number. My hands shook dialing. What would I say?

“James? Its Aunt Val from Willowbrook. Am I interrupting?”

Silence. I thought hed hung up.

“Hello, Aunt Val,” he finally said, voice deeper, rougher. “Something wrong?”

“Your mothers struggling, son. Fading. Sick, but wont admit it. Too proud…”

Another pause. Then Emilys voice, soft but steady: “Let me talk.”

“Hello, Aunt Val! How bad is she?”

I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Emily listened, didnt interrupt.

“Thank you for calling,” she said firmly. “Well come. Saturday. But dont tell her. Let it be a surprise.”

Imagine that. After everything, not a speck of bitterness left in her. Just pity. And pity, my dears, is stronger than any grudge.

Saturday came, grey and damp. I stopped by Margarets to check her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring. House spotless, but lifeless.

“Waiting for the milkman?” I teased.

“Whod I be waiting for?” she muttered. But her eyes kept darting to the road. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.

I left, watching the clock. Then, after luncha car pulled up. Not the milkman. A sedan. Peeking out, my heart lurched. James stepped out, broader now. Opened the back door, and out came Emily, holding a little girl, four years old, in a pink puffer jacket like candy floss.

James hesitated, jaw tight. Emily squeezed his arm, whispered something, and they walked to the gate. The hinge screechedrusted time shifting at last.

I didnt see inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from Margarets chimney. Thick, hearty. The fire was lit. By evening, golden light glowed in the window. Warm. Alive.

Next day, I “checked her blood pressure” again. The house hummed. Smelled of cabbage pies and crayons. James chopped wood outside, axe ringing. Emily bustled in the kitchen. By the hearth, their daughter, Lily, played with a kitten.

And Margaret? Wrapped in a shawl, watching. Not glaring*seeing*. Emilys quick hands, Lilys focused face, James broad back through the window. Her expression like a mask had cracked. Just a tired woman underneath, wrinkles by her eyes, but alive.

She spotted me, smilednot with her lips, but her eyes.

“Come in, Valerie. Emilys spoiled us with pies.”

Emily turned, beamed. “Join us, Aunt Val.”

We sat. No awkwardness, no old wounds. Just warmth, pastry, and a childs giggle. James sat beside his mother, laid his big hand over her frail one. She didnt pull away. Just shivered, still.

They stayed a week. Fixed the roof, stocked the shed, filled the house with noise. When they left, Margaret stood on the step, shrunken. Lily hugged her knees.

“Granny, will you visit us?”

Margaret broke. Bent down, clutched her, criedsoft, like autumn rain. “Forgive me silly old woman”

Emily hugged them both. “Well come back, Mum. Promise.”