Mothering Sunday (2021), the quietly devastating British period drama directed by Eva Husson and adapted from Graham Swift’s novel, has quietly become one of the most emotionally ruthless films of the past decade — a slow-burning, hauntingly beautiful exploration of love, class, regret, and the long shadow cast by war.

Set in 1924 England on Mothering Sunday — the traditional day off for domestic servants — the film centres on Jane Fairchild (Odessa Young), a maid in the Niven household, who spends a stolen day of freedom with her secret lover, Paul Sheringham (Josh O’Connor). The affair, conducted in secret for years, reaches its emotional climax on this day, revealing the brutal realities of class divide, duty, and unspoken desire.

The story is framed by Jane’s older self (Olivia Colman) looking back from the 1950s and 1980s. Colman, in a role of devastating restraint, delivers one of her most powerful performances as the older Jane — a writer reflecting on the day that defined her life. Every glance, every pause, every almost-smile carries the weight of decades of unspoken grief. Colin Firth, as Mr Niven, the grieving father of Paul, brings a quiet, wounded dignity that makes his few scenes feel monumental.

The film does not scream — it lingers. Husson’s direction is deliberate and unhurried, using long takes, soft natural light, and the English countryside’s deceptive beauty to contrast the characters’ inner turmoil. The affair between Jane and Paul is sensual but never romanticised; it is tender, urgent, and doomed by the rigid class system that surrounds them. When Paul is later killed in a car accident — a moment foreshadowed early — the film refuses to give Jane (or the audience) easy catharsis. Instead, it forces us to sit with her grief, her silence, and the life she must build alone.

The emotional ruthlessness lies in its refusal to offer closure. Jane survives, but she carries the pain of what could have been. Colman’s older Jane, now a successful novelist, reflects on that day with a mixture of regret and acceptance. “I never saw him again,” she says in voiceover — words that feel like a knife.

Critics have praised the film’s subtlety and power. The Guardian called it “a masterpiece of understatement,” while The New York Times described Colman’s performance as “one of the finest of her career.” With a 90% Rotten Tomatoes score, audiences echo the sentiment: “It hurts in all the quiet places,” one reviewer wrote. “You feel the weight of every unsaid word.”

The film’s power lies in its restraint. There are no sweeping declarations or dramatic confrontations — only glances, silences, and the slow realisation that love, like life, is often denied by forces beyond control. The war’s aftermath is felt not in battle scenes but in empty chairs, broken families, and the unspoken grief that lingers for decades.

For anyone who has loved and lost, Mothering Sunday is a mirror. It is slow-burning, hauntingly beautiful, and emotionally ruthless — the kind of film that sneaks under your skin and refuses to leave.

Now streaming on various platforms, it is essential viewing — a reminder that the deepest wounds are often the ones no one ever sees.