The Proposal

"Can I come in?"

The last thing Margaret had expected was a visit from her daughter. Upon seeing Fatima's wary green eyes, the 10 years without her had crashed into Margaret, leaving her silent as she let Fatima in without a word. She opened a bottle of Kingfisher for the two to share over the breakfast table.

It was about half an hour of meaningless chatter before the silent finally sank into Margaret, causing her to look away from her daughter and towards the grandfather clock, focusing on the feeling of the cool tumbler against her palm. She could Hear Fatima inhale sharply, see her open her mouth from the corner of her eye for just a second before she closed her mouth and exhaled. Margaret watched the internal battle go on for a few moments more before her patience ran out.

"What?" Margaret snapped. Fatima bit her lip.

"I want to show you something." Margaret turned towards her daughter as she passed across a table a small velvet box to Margaret. Margaret opened it. She stared at the item inside.

"He proposed." Margaret stated. Fatima stayed silent for a moment.

"No. I proposed. This is the ring." Margaret hummed in response and looked down at her drink, meeting her eyes in the drink's watery reflection.

"Did you do it on Leap Day?" Fatima nodded. "At least you did that Irish tradition correctly." Margaret mumbled, taking a long swig at her glass.

"How can I forget? It is the only proper day for a woman to propose." Fatima said dryly.

"Is this why you're here? To tell me?"

"Maybe."

Margaret watched as Fatima took another Kingfisher from the fridge - their third - and refilled their glasses. Fatima's fingers rapped on the table like drumsticks on a snare in the pindrop silence. Eventually, Fatima stood up again and spoke.

"I'm going home." Margaret's eyes snapped to Fatima's.

"You're not sober enough to drive." Margaret stated.

"I'll call a friend to pick me up."

"I should prepare the guest room for you."

"You should've done a lot of things." Fatima snapped.

"You don't need to be petty, I'm just worried about you."

"Too little, too late. I'm not the one to talk to about being petty."

"It's been 10 years and this is how you're treating me?" Margaret hissed.

"This really isn't the time, mother." Fatima sighed. Margaret stayed silent. Taking it as concession, Fatima left the room to talk to make the call. Eventually, Fatima came back into the room, placing a card on the table before Margaret grasped Fatima's arm.

"Are you ever going to come back?" Margaret whispered, scared of breaking what fragile truce they had made.

"That... depends on you." Fatima gently took her arm out of Margaret's grip and left the room. Margaret heard the front door close, but she didn't pay any attention, as she was staring mindlessly at the words on the card.

"You are invited to the wedding of Fatima Darrow and Sylvia McRae..."