When Emily was a child, a dog attacked her. It wasn’t just a minor bite—her leg was severely injured, her kneecap shattered beyond repair. The doctors were ready to amputate the limb, but thankfully, Dr. Margaret Thompson, a renowned surgeon, took charge. With her authority, she silenced even the overly confident head of the surgical department, who was adamant about amputation. Margaret, with fire in her voice, roared at him:
— She’s only five years old! If you can’t do it yourself, don’t stop others!
Piece by piece, shard by shard, she meticulously reconstructed Emily’s shattered kneecap.
Yes, Emily limped slightly afterward, especially after running around during basketball at school, but it was barely noticeable. She always wore pants or jeans to cover the scars that crisscrossed her knee. But she was alive, and her leg was intact…
Dr. Margaret lived near Emily’s home. She owned a large, sturdy house with a well-kept estate, where apple trees, pear trees, and raspberries flourished. And the strawberries that ripened in early summer—large, sweet, and irresistible…
Margaret always welcomed Emily warmly. Spotting her on the street, she’d call her over, slipping a handful of berries into her palm or tucking an apple into her pocket. Emily adored this stern yet deeply kind woman. She and her father lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment in a three-story panel building, without even a small garden…
But Margaret’s place was paradise! Her garden stretched right up to the windows of Emily’s room. Margaret had been widowed young—her husband died in an accident, leaving her with two children, a son and a daughter. She raised them alone. A surgeon’s salary at the small-town hospital wasn’t much in those days, but she ensured her children thrived, both earning college degrees…
Her son, James, worked at a newspaper in the capital, while her daughter taught at a teachers’ college. They had their own families now, with children of their own. But they rarely visited Margaret. She constantly invited them to her home, but they always had excuses—work, studies, or other obligations…
To stay close to them, Margaret regularly sent money: for her granddaughter’s birthday, her son’s anniversary, or when her grandson needed a new phone—he’d called once, complaining about it. Years passed this way. Emily finished school and started working as a postal worker. One day, Margaret came to send another money transfer, but she looked utterly broken, as if consumed by grief. Emily asked what was wrong.
— My grandson got married, it turns out. And I didn’t even know, — Margaret said, her voice heavy with hurt. — My son called this morning and mentioned it in passing.
— Why didn’t they invite you? — Emily asked, genuinely puzzled.
— As my son explained, they had a strict guest limit. They decided it wasn’t worth me traveling so far, — Margaret sighed. — So I’m sending money to my grandson as a gift.
— I don’t get it! — Emily shrugged. — They barely acknowledge you, yet you keep sending them money.
— What else can I do, Emily? They’re my family, the closest people I have! — Margaret said, tears welling in her eyes.
Emily processed the transaction, though she felt a pang of indignation for her kind neighbor. What kind of children! And they’d raised their own kids to be just as bad! All they did was take money from this woman!
— Emily, — Margaret said as she reached the door, — come by this evening. We’ll have tea with fresh cherry jam.
— Absolutely! — Emily smiled back.
She had always been close to her neighbor, especially since Margaret had taken special care of her knee throughout her childhood. Lately, they’d grown even closer, more like family.
A year earlier, Emily’s father, her only remaining family, had passed away. She barely remembered her mother, who died when she was three. Sometimes, Emily caught herself thinking of Margaret as a mother, nearly calling her that a few times.
That evening, after locking up the post office, Emily hurried through the village, delivering newspapers and letters. She overheard gossip from a few local women, Tanya and Veronica, notorious for their loose tongues, as they discussed someone loudly.
— And she just stares at me, blinking, — Tanya fumed, — as if I’m obligated to greet her.
— Right? Almost twenty years without a word, and now she shows up, — Veronica chimed in.
— Did you see her car? — Tanya sighed heavily. — You’d need a lifetime to afford one like that.
— Exactly! — Veronica nodded.
Emily paused near the women.
— Hello, who’re you gossiping about? — she asked, curiosity piqued.
— Margaret’s daughter showed up in a fancy foreign car. There’s a ruckus over there now! Sounds like they’re arguing, — Tanya eagerly shared.
Emily frowned, quickly distributed the remaining letters, and rushed to Margaret’s house. Indeed, there was a commotion.
— Anna, my dear daughter, — Margaret was practically sobbing, — you can’t do this. It’s a memory. My memory, your memory. How can you reduce everything to money?
— Mom, how many times do I have to tell you! If I don’t fix this now, bailiffs will be at my door tomorrow, — a woman’s voice snapped angrily.
Then Emily heard Margaret cry out, as if she’d been pushed. Moments later, a woman in her early forties with bright red hair appeared at the gate, clutching a painting. She jumped into a sleek black car, slammed the gas, and sped off, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Emily rushed into the yard. Margaret sat on a bench, pale, clutching her chest.
— I’m not well! — Emily rushed to her side, reaching for her phone. — I’m calling an ambulance.
— My dear girl, — Margaret said weakly, — no need! Don’t trouble them, they have enough on their plates. Just grab my pills from the top shelf in the kitchen, you know where…
Emily did know. She fetched the pills and water. Within minutes, color returned to Margaret’s face.
— Who was that? — Emily asked cautiously.
— My daughter, Anna. I was so happy to see her, thinking she came to visit, but… — Margaret sighed mournfully, — she only wanted the painting.
— What painting? — Emily asked, surprised.
— My husband, Stephen, was friends with an artist years ago. He painted our house, us sitting at the table, the kids playing by the flowerbed… He gave it to Stephen. It always hung in Anna’s room, just because the light was best there. Back then, that artist was penniless, but now his works are worth millions, they say, — Margaret rubbed her temples. — Anna decided since it was in her room, it’s hers. She’s struggling to pay off a loan for that expensive car. So she remembered the painting. But for me, it was a memory… of our happy life, when Stephen was still alive, and the kids were little…
— I don’t understand. You do everything for them! — Emily shook her head. — And they take the last things you have.
— That’s how it is sometimes, Emily, — Margaret said with a sad smile. — The more you give, the more they demand. I just can’t figure out why my children turned out this way. Or their kids. All they want from me is money… Maybe I did something wrong… What’s there to think? I raised them alone after Stephen’s death, always feeling they were deprived of attention and care. I was constantly at work—shifts, surgeries… I tried to buy them the best to make up for my absence… And they grew up entitled… Even now, why do I keep sending money? I still feel guilty somehow… And I miss them so much. No matter how they are, they’re my children.
Margaret brushed away a tear, then managed a smile.
— Well, Emily, let’s have that tea! The jam’s waiting! — She rose heavily and headed toward the veranda.
There, they fired up the samovar. Margaret poured jam into a dish and brewed fragrant herbal tea.
— Drink, Emily, this is fireweed tea with thyme. Tasty? — she smiled, the recent encounter with her daughter seemingly fading, though sadness lingered in her eyes.
— Delicious! — Emily nodded. — I read about making coffee from dandelion roots. I’ll try it and bring some for us to taste.
— Sounds good, dear! — Margaret nodded, then looked at Emily closely. — How’s your knee? Not bothering you?
— Sometimes, — Emily admitted honestly, — especially when I’m delivering pensions or carrying a full bag of newspapers, but it’s fine otherwise.
— Be careful, don’t overdo it! — Margaret gently patted Emily’s shoulder. — That surgery was a miracle. You must have a strong guardian angel.
Emily nodded and softly touched Margaret’s hand. They were so comfortable together! She could sit forever with her savior, sipping fragrant tea with jam, spitting out cherry pits.
…But a week later, disaster struck. More guests arrived at Margaret’s—her grandson and his new wife.
“No one came for years, and now they’re showing up constantly!” Emily thought, glancing anxiously into Margaret’s yard.
Loud foreign music blared from the yard. A young woman in a bright bra and shorts lounged in the gazebo, chain-smoking. The grandson lazily sipped beer, tossing empty cans into the rose bushes Margaret so lovingly tended. Margaret herself was nowhere to be seen. Emily decided to check on her.
— You want the old lady? — the grandson spat on the ground when Emily asked about the homeowner. — She’s in her room.
— Can I go in? — Emily asked, unsure why she felt the need to.
— Whatever, go…
He stepped aside, and his wife watched Emily with a piercing stare.
Margaret was in her room, a shadow of herself. She sat sorting through old family photos, tears streaming down her face.
— Emily, — she brightened at the sight of the girl, — I decided to stay in here. It’s quieter. Daniel and his Olga are so loud.
“And rude!” Emily wanted to add but held back to spare Margaret’s feelings.
— Are they staying long? — she asked instead.
— They’re leaving tomorrow evening, I think. I’m about to bake them a chicken. Will you join us for dinner? — Margaret started toward the kitchen.
— No, thanks! I’m thinking of starting a diet! It’ll be easier on my knee! — Emily declined.
— You don’t have weight issues! — Margaret raised an eyebrow, then added, — Well, suit yourself!
Late that evening, through the loud music, Emily heard arguing in Margaret’s yard. She rushed to help her neighbor.
These relatives! Not only could an elderly woman not stand loud music, but they were also upsetting her at night. Emily decided she’d give Daniel a piece of her mind. She spotted them in the yard. Margaret, with her hair neatly tied in a bun and a lace shawl draped over her shoulders, stood by a bed of petunias. Daniel, drunk, disheveled, and angry, towered over her. His wife sat in the gazebo, still smoking.
— You old fool! — Daniel shouted. — How much longer are you gonna live? Why do you need this house? You’d be better off in a nursing home.
— This is my home, dear grandson, — Margaret replied calmly. — I’ll live out my days here. And after I’m gone, it’ll be divided equally between my children—your father and your aunt.
— Everyone’s just waiting for you to kick the bucket! — Daniel raised his hand to strike Margaret.
Emily rushed forward, shoving his arm away and stepping in front of Margaret. The elderly woman was stunned. But the drunken grandson was enraged. He swung again, striking Emily across the face. As she doubled over, he kicked her in the knee—the same knee Margaret had painstakingly rebuilt years ago. Emily screamed in agony and collapsed, her leg unresponsive, burning with pain.
— What are you doing, you monster! — Margaret cried, crouching beside Emily and shielding her.
— Come on, babe, let’s go! Nothing but trouble here tonight! — Olga sauntered out of the gazebo, ignoring Emily’s sobs of pain, and lazily added, — I’m tired…
She grabbed Daniel’s arm, pulled him to a small foreign car, and they sped off, their taillights vanishing around the corner. Margaret was already shouting for an ambulance.
— I’m coming with you! — she told the paramedic.
— Margaret, you should rest, — the young paramedic said, already briefed on the incident by onlookers who’d watched from windows and the street.
— No, dear, I have to be with Emily! — Margaret said firmly.
— As you wish! — the paramedic replied.
They raced to the hospital. That night, a skilled surgeon, one of Margaret’s former students, was on duty. Seeing the X-ray of Emily’s kneecap, he was horrified—a mangled mess. The fresh injury combined with the old trauma…
— I doubt I can save the leg! — he told Margaret, who, thanks to her reputation, still had access to the hospital’s wards.
— God, have all my efforts been for nothing? — Margaret sighed, examining the X-ray.
It was dire…
— Anthony, what if we try… — Margaret looked at the surgeon questioningly.
— I don’t see how, — he admitted, visibly shaken.
— I’ll help! — Margaret said calmly.
— Margaret, I can’t legally let you operate! — the surgeon exclaimed.
— So you’re saying rules matter more than a patient’s life and health? — Margaret smiled sadly. — Look at this girl, so young, so beautiful…
You can always amputate later, but we have to try to avoid it! Anthony looked at Emily. Margaret was right…
— Only if you just stand by! — he said hesitantly. — And no one can know.
— Of course! — Margaret smiled, knowing the anesthesiologist and nurse on duty were top-notch.
Soon, everything was ready. Emily lay on the operating table. At first, things went smoothly, but then Anthony realized he was struggling.
— Shall we switch? — Margaret asked calmly.
— Yes! — he blurted out, relieved.
And so, Margaret operated on Emily again, just as she had fifteen years earlier…
Her hand was steady, her gaze sharp. At the operating table stood a master, a true professional…
Margaret pieced together the tiny fragments, assembling them like an intricate mosaic. After hours of relentless work, it was done. Only when she stepped away did Margaret realize how exhausted she was: her hands trembled, her legs shook, her head spun, and her heart ached.
— I need to rest! — she whispered, then collapsed.
Anthony caught her just in time. Margaret was rushed to the ward—a heart attack…
The old surgeon never left her hospital bed. She lived for two more days, with doctors fighting for her, but Margaret knew the truth. She remained conscious.
— Anthony, bring me a notary, — she asked her colleague. — I need to rewrite my will.
— Come on, don’t talk like that! — Anthony said, his cheer a bit forced. — No gloomy thoughts!
— Anthony, I’m a doctor myself. I know my heart’s done, — Margaret said with a sad smile.
Anthony looked away. An hour later, a notary was in her room. Margaret left all her property—her house and savings—to…
Emily.
— This girl needs it more. My children… no matter how much I give, it’s never enough, — she said, answering the notary’s unspoken question. — The worst part is, I raised them to be this way. I only realize it now… But Emily… she’s a bright soul… I hope she’ll be okay.
Then Margaret’s eyes closed. Forever…
Her kind heart stopped, her hands, which had saved hundreds in that rural hospital, stilled. The entire town turned out to bid her farewell, with people coming from nearby villages…
Her son and daughter attended the funeral, weeping profusely. Her grandchildren stood grimly by the coffin. But the moment their mother was buried, they rushed to the notary, only to be stunned.
— How could she leave everything to some girl? — her son fumed.
— She clearly wasn’t in her right mind! — her daughter shouted. — We’ll take this to court!
— That’s your right, — the notary replied.
But Emily… she didn’t even know Margaret was gone. The nurses only told her a week after the funeral.
— How could this happen? — Emily sobbed. — I didn’t even say goodbye.
— Emily, you need to focus on yourself now, — a nurse comforted her.
Then Anthony, the young surgeon, entered her room. He asked everyone to leave. Thankfully, Emily’s two roommates were recovering well and could walk.
— Go stretch your legs, ladies, but be careful! — Anthony smiled at them, then turned to Emily, his expression serious. — You can’t fall apart. Your leg is whole because of Margaret. And he told her who had really operated on her.
— She saved me again, — Emily whispered.
— She was a surgeon touched by God! After years away from practice, she did the impossible! And she loved you so much, — Anthony said. — Always remember that.
— An incredible woman! — Emily closed her eyes. — I can’t believe she’s gone.
— She’ll always live in our memories! — Anthony gently squeezed Emily’s hand, then looked at her questioningly. — But her grandson caused this, indirectly even her death, from what I understand. Will you press charges?
— No! — Emily shook her head. — No matter what he is, Margaret loved him. Putting him in jail wouldn’t bring her peace.
Anthony looked at Emily, surprised. Proving her grandson’s role in Margaret’s death would be hard, but he’d caused Emily’s injury in front of witnesses…
Could such a thing be forgiven? Probably not, but that’s for another kind of judgment…
Two months later, Emily left the hospital. Her first stop was a taxi to the cemetery. Birch trees whispered softly, crickets chirped, and artificial flowers fluttered on graves. The cemetery had its own life. Limping slightly, Emily found Margaret’s grave, covered in wreaths, the fresh flowers already wilted. She tidied up as best she could, then leaned against the cross. It was warm… the sun shone brightly on it. Emily remembered their evenings in the gazebo or under the apple tree…
Sipping tea. No one was happier than Emily in those moments…
— My Mama Margaret! — she whispered, calling her that for the first time.
Only now did she feel how lonely she’d be without this kind, gray-haired woman.
— There you are! — a voice called behind her.
It was Anthony.
— I decided to visit Margaret too, it’s my day off, — he lied.
In truth, the nurses had told him Emily was heading to the cemetery, so he took leave and followed her. He now felt responsible for this small, fragile girl.
— How’s your knee? Not hurting? — Anthony asked as they walked toward the exit.
— Just a little, — Emily said with a sad smile.
At home, a surprise awaited her—a letter from the notary stating she was the sole heir to Margaret’s estate, along with a court ruling denying Margaret’s children any claim. Emily was shocked; no one had mentioned the inheritance. Apparently, Margaret’s children had tried to confront her in the hospital after the ruling, planning a scene, but the staff had kept them out, protecting the favorite of their greatest surgeon…
At first, Emily considered refusing the inheritance. But then she remembered how Margaret’s children and grandchildren had treated her, recalled her grandson’s actions, and decided it was right—she wouldn’t refuse anything, in memory of the woman. In her honor, she’d preserve the house, the garden, and the gazebo where they’d spent such heartfelt moments. Though living alone in such a large house with an estate would be challenging…
But changes were on the horizon for Emily: Anthony, the young surgeon, was visiting more often. It seemed a new family might soon take root in the town…
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