**Diary Entry**
I introduced my fiancée to my mother yesterday, and today, her words still echo in my mind.
“Yes, Mum,” I muttered, barely glancing up from the newspaper. The article about pension increases blurred before my eyestoo many thoughts swirled after last nights conversation with Emily.
Margaret set down a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, her sharp gaze lingering on me. Shes sixty-four but carries herself like a woman half her age, her piercing eyes missing nothing.
“Youre brooding,” she observed, stirring her tea.
“Just work,” I lied, finally setting the paper aside.
“James William,” she said, using my full name like she did when I was in trouble, “enough dodging. I saw you with that… Emily, wasnt it?… by the front steps yesterday.”
I nearly choked on my tea. She always knew.
“Mum, whats Emily got to do with anything?”
“Dont play daft. Raised you forty yearsthink I dont know when somethings weighing on you?” Her cup clinked sharply against the saucer. “Out with it.”
I stood, staring out the window. Late autumn, bare trees. The same hollowness inside me.
“I want to marry her.”
The silence stretched so long I turned back. She sat stiffly, hands folded, wearing that look from my childhoodthe one before a serious talk.
“Son, dont marry a pauper,” she said bluntly. “Please.”
It stung more than I expected. Not because it was a surpriseMum had never warmed to Emilybut hearing it aloud was different.
“Mum, its not about money. I love her.”
“Love, love,” she sighed. “And how will you live? Your museum salarys a pittance; hers at the library is worse. What of children?”
“Well manage. People get by on less.”
She rose, fetched an old photo album, flipped to a page.
“Look. Your father and me, young and in love. Know what came next?”
I knew the story.
“His factory closed. We scraped by, borrowing from neighbours, eating potatoes for days. Remember?”
“I remember,” I said quietly.
“Times change, people dont. Poverty rots love like rust. First, its bickering over bills, then resentmenther needing a dress, him needing shoes. Soon, you cant stand the sight of each other.”
“Emily isnt like that.”
“Yet. But when her friends flaunt new homes? When your children need school uniforms?”
Her words gnawed at me because they rang true. Id lain awake worrying over the same things.
“So what? Stay single forever?”
“Find a proper girl. Remember Lucy Blackwell? Works at Barclays nowgood salary, sharp as a tack.”
“Im not hiring staff, Mum. Im getting married.”
“Dont be romantic,” she snapped. “At thirty-five, its time to think with your head. Romeo and Juliets dead.”
She always knew where to dig.
“And happiness is all about money?”
“No. But its not without it.” She gathered the cups. “Fine, Ive said my piece. Just remember me when youre miserable.”
Alone, her words haunted me. I reached for my phone to call Emilythen stopped. What would I say?
She rang that evening.
“Hi. You seemed off yesterday.”
“Just tired,” I lied.
“Oh! Saw the loveliest dress todaynavy blue, perfect for the office Christmas party. Bit pricey, though…”
My chest tightened. Coincidence? Or proof Mum was right?
“How much?”
“Three hundred quid. I know its steep, but its gorgeous…”
Half my wages. I swallowed hard.
“Well see.”
“Youre upset.” Her voice faltered. “Im not demandingjust dreaming aloud.”
After, I sat staring at the wall. Three hundred quid could feed us for a month. Or go toward a wedding.
Wedding. Rent: £800 minimum. My salary: £1,200; hers: £900. £2,100 total. Minus rent: £1,300. Food, transport, clothes… God forbid anyone falls ill.
Next morning, Mum served porridge as if nothing had happened. But her eyes asked the question: *Have you understood yet?*
“Mum… how did you and Dad meet?”
“University. He was handsome, ambitiouswanted to be an engineer, earn well.”
“And did he?”
“At first. Then the factory shut. I didnt love him for money… but knowing he *could* provide mattered. A woman needs security, especially with children.”
“Would you have married him poor?”
She hesitated. “At twenty? Maybe. At forty? No.”
Work was a blur. My colleague, Sarah, noticed.
“Youre miles away. Girl trouble?”
“Something like that.”
“Emilys sweet, but… library wages wont keep you afloat. Ever thought of private galleries? Better pay.”
“Need languages, client experience…”
“Ah.”
Even colleagues saw it.
That evening, Emily met me, cheerful as everchatting about new books, her eyes bright. But her jumper was worn, her jeans old.
“I calculated our budget if we marry,” she said suddenly. “A one-bed flat in Croydonwed scrape by. No savings, but wed be together.”
Her smile was so trusting it shamed me. She asked for nothing.
“And children? How then?”
“My mum raised two on a nurses wage. We turned out fine.”
I thought of her childhoodhand-me-downs, no holidays. Did I want that for my kids?
“Dont you want more? A house? Travel?”
“Of course. But if not… loves enough.”
Walking her home, I didnt speak. At her door, she turned.
“Youre hiding something.”
“Mums against us.”
“Ah.” Her voice cracked. “Im not good enough.”
“Its not that”
“Isnt it? Because Im poor? Cant give you a proper life?”
I had no answer. She was right.
“Lets take a break. Maybe your mums wise.”
She left without looking back.
Mum took one glance at my face and knew.
“Fought?”
“She wants space.”
“Clever girl.”
“Cant you try to like her?”
“James, Ive nothing against her. But love wont pay bills. Thats life, not fairy tales.”
Days passed. No calls.
Then, Saturday. Emilys voice was calm.
“Lets talk.”
In the park, she sat composed.
“We should end this.”
“Why?”
“Your mums right. Well resent each other. Youll see me as a burden.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you. But loves not enough.”
I stared at dead leaves. “Maybe Ill find better work.”
“Where? Youve said it yourselfno experience. And me? Quit the library after ten years to stack shelves?”
She stood, kissed my cheek, and walked away.
Mum read my face.
“Over?”
“Yes.”
“Regrets?”
“Dont know yet.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “Itll pass. Youll find real lovethe kind that doesnt count pennies.”
I nodded, hollow. Maybe shes right. But why does it hurt so much?
Later, by the window, I watched lit-up houseseach hiding its own struggles. Mine? An emptiness where a future once was.
My phone sat untouched. What would I say? That Mum was right? Or that Id starve to keep her?
I didnt call. Neither did she.
**Lesson:** Love alone wont fill your pocketsbut neither will empty pockets fill the hole love leaves behind.
