Arent you ashamed to ask my son for money? snapped the mother-in-law when the topic of food came up.
Emma, did you buy this cream? asked Catherine, examining a jar on the bathroom shelf. Its awfully pricey.
No, that was Alex, replied her daughter-in-law, drying her hands on a tea towel. Says it helps with wrinkles.
Catherine pursed her lips. Her son was splashing out on nonsense while they scraped by for essentials. Just this morning, hed rung to apologizegroceries would have to wait till tomorrow.
What are we making for lunch? she asked Emma. The fridge has potatoes and carrots, and thats about it.
Emma shrugged. Dunno. Soup, maybe?
Soup with what? No meat, no chicken. Just veg.
Then well make veggie soup. Emma opened the fridge. Theres an onion and some cabbage. Itll do.
Catherine shook her head. In her day, women ran a proper householdstocked up, planned ahead.
What about little Sophie? she asked, referring to her four-year-old granddaughter. She wont just eat soup.
Ill make porridge. Emma pulled out a box of oats. Or buttery pasta. Kids love that.
Do we even have butter?
Emma checked the fridge. Barely fifty grams left.
Catherine sighed. Living hand-to-mouth while her son blew money on face creams. Priorities, honestly.
Listen, Emma, she said, sitting on a stool, could you pop to the shop? At least grab bread and milk for Sophie.
With what money? Im skint.
What dyou mean? You work!
I do. But paydays not till Friday. My purse is empty.
Catherine paced the kitchen. The situation was dire. Alex was late with money, Emma had none, and the cupboards were bare.
My pension went on meds, she muttered. Blood pressures been dreadfulhad to get expensive tablets.
Then well wait till tomorrow, Emma suggested. One day wont kill us.
And whats Sophie supposed to eat? Catherine huffed. Starve the child, shall we?
Emma froze, ladle in hand. What dyou suggest? Frying air?
I dont know! Think of something! Youre her mother!
Footsteps pattered in, and Sophie appeared in her teddy bear pyjamas, rubbing her eyes.
Granny, whens tea?
Soon, love, Catherine said, scooping her up. Mummys cooking now.
Emma silently peeled potatoessmall, sprouted, unappetizing things.
Mum, can I have biscuits? Sophie peered into the cupboard. Theres a box.
Just crumbs left, said Emma. After soup, alright?
What kind of soup?
Potato.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. I dont want potato. I want meaty, like Auntie Lizs.
Catherine sighed. The girl was rightchildren needed proper meals, not just boiled veg.
Emma set a pot on the hob, hands trembling slightly from fatigue and frayed nerves.
Emma, Catherine said quietly, could you call someone? Friends? Your parents?
Why?
To borrow a bit. Just for food.
Emma turned sharply. No. Theyve got their own troubles.
People understand hard times.
I dont beg.
But your parentscouldnt they help?
Mums in hospital, Dads with her. Medical bills are steep.
Catherine eyed the pot of bubbling potato water. Not exactly appetizing.
Right, she said firmly, Ill ring Alex. Ask him to bring something.
He said he cant today.
Worth a try.
She dialled. Alex? Love, its me… Yes, were fine… Listen, any chance you could swing by? Were down to scraps… What dyou mean no money? Wheres it gone?… Right… Tomorrow morning, sure?… Alright, ta.
She hung up. Says hell come in the morning. Genuinely skint just now.
So we make do, Emma said, stirring the pot.
Meanwhile, Sophie climbed a chair and shook the biscuit box. Only dust fell out.
Mum, can I eat the crumbs?
Course, darling.
The girl licked them off her palm. Catherines heart ached.
Emma, please, she tried again. Just ask a friend. For Sophies sake.
How many times? No!
Why not? Too proud?
Not pridedecency. I dont mooch.
Its not mooching! Friends help!
Theyve got kids too, you know.
Catherine paced. Desperation loomed.
Ask the neighbour, then. Mrs. Wilkins would help.
No.
Why not?
Its awkward. Were not close.
Shes kind. Shed understand.
Emma ignored her, stirring the sad soup.
Mum, whens Dad coming? Sophie asked. He promised ice cream.
Tomorrow, sweetheart.
No ice cream today?
Afraid not.
Sophie pouted. Doesnt Dad love us?
Course he does. Just busy working.
Catherine couldnt take it.
Sophie, love, go watch telly. Granny needs a word with Mummy.
Once the girl left, Catherine turned to Emma.
Listen. Children need proper meals. Not just broth.
And what should I do? Wave a magic wand?
Youve got a phone. Swallow your pride and ask!
I said no
Oh, get over yourself! Catherine snapped. Alex pays the bills, puts a roof over your head, and youre too posh to ask for help?
I never asked him to provide for me!
Who begged to marry him, then? Who had the child?
How dare you!
Sophie, hearing shouts, burst into tears. Emma scooped her up and fled to the bedroom.
Alone, Catherines hands shook with fury. Stubborn woman! Letting a child go hungry over principles!
She grabbed the phone.
Mrs. Wilkins? Its Catherine from number 42… Bit of a pickle here… Could I pop round?
Five minutes later, she stood at the neighbours door.
Come in, dear. Trouble?
Foods run out. Alex is late with money, Emmas skint. Sophies got nothing to eat.
Oh, the poor lamb! Mrs. Wilkins clucked. Of course! Ive milk, childs yoghurtslet me pack a bag.
She returned with groceriesbiscuits, sausages, enough for two days.
Thank you, Catherine said, blinking back tears. Well repay you once Alex comes through.
Nonsense! Neighbours help neighbours.
Back home, Emma sat red-eyed at the table.
Whats that?
From Mrs. Wilkins. For Sophie.
I told you not to ask!
And let her starve?
Emma stared at the bagyoghurts, biscuits, treats.
Sophie! Catherine called. Look what weve got!
The girl dashed in, eyes lighting up at the spread.
Wow! Wheres this from?
Mrs. Wilkins sent it. Just for you.
Sophie grabbed a yoghurt, gulping eagerly. Emma watched, stomach twisting.
Thanks, she muttered.
Thank Mrs. Wilkins, not me.
I will.
Catherine nodded. Kind soul, that one. Didnt hesitate.
Emma studied Sophie, happily munching a biscuit. Maybe Catherine was right. Maybe pride wasnt worth a hungry child.
Mum, can I have another yoghurt? Sophie asked.
Course, love. Have what you like.
The girl beamed.
And Emma wonderedwhen it came to children, maybe principles were just another word for stubbornness.
