The Talbot’s Thorns by Alina Fits

 Mrs. Talbot was the meanest woman on the street—

cold, sharp, and always watching. When my mum made me help with her garden, I expected misery. “You’re late”, she snapped. No hello. No, thanks. At first, she only barked orders. But over time, I learned her silences. A grunt meant “good job”. A nod meant “thank you”. And sometimes, I caught her humming.  

One day, I found her clutching her wrist, pale with pain. She resisted help, but I called my mum. It was a fracture. Thereafter, something shifted. “Good work today”, she muttered once. It felt like a trophy. She told me about her husband - the one who planted the first roses. He was gone now. So were her children, too busy for her. “It’s just me and these flowers”, she sighed.  

Her sharpness wasn’t cruelty. It was loneliness. When summer ended, I brought her a pot of yellow daisies. “You said the garden needed colour”.  She was quiet, then rested a rough, warm hand on my shoulder. “Thank you”, she whispered. And at that moment, she wasn’t the mean old lady any more - just someone, thorny but beautiful in her own way.