What has she done with my son?!
Margaret Thompson bustles around the kitchen, waiting for her son, whos about to arrive with his fiancée. The oven exhales the scent of her signature roast duck, while meat pies steam in the centre of the table and a jelly terrine chills in the fridge.
Margaret treats the arrival of guests with reverence; the spread overflows with dishes shes been prepping since yesterday morning. And todays guests are a big deal. Andrew has been dating Emily Clarke for a year, and at last hes ready to introduce her to his parents.
The doorbell rings. After a quick glance in the hallway mirror, Margaret rushes to answer.
Hello, love! Come in, Ill hang your coat, she greets Andrew warmly. He offers a shy smile, steps aside and lets the young woman in first, leaving his coat to be hung by himself.
Emily, this is my mum, Margaret, he says.
Margaret immediately notices Emilys slight frame, which she instinctively reads as a sign of frailty. A tattoo peeks out from her wrist, and Margarets eyebrows lift a fraction. She decides not to comment on the unexpected ink; after all, Andrew has spoken highly of his beloved.
Good evening, Mrs. Thompson, its a pleasure to finally meet you, Emily says with a radiant smile.
Margaret watches Andrews eyes linger on his future wife, full of adoration.
Polite conversation flows around the table, but then Margaret observes something off: Andrew eats halfheartedly, his plate barely half full, and Emily offers him no food. With a disappointed glance, she rises, walks over to Andrew, and begins ladling small portions onto his plate.
Mum, I can manage myself, Andrew protests, but years of futile resistance have taught him that arguing with his mother is pointless.
Having rescued her son from a potential hunger pang, Margaret turns her attention to the wouldbe daughterinlaw, still baffled by her behaviour. When Margaret reaches for Emilys salad, Emily calmly replies:
Mrs. Thompson, everything looks absolutely delicious, but I dont eat that. The salad is wonderfulIve already helped myself twice. Could you share the recipe?
Emily, what nonsense? This is our family duck with orangeour secret, Margaret says, chopping off a duck leg, adding a sardine toast and a few spoonfuls of potato salad.
Mom, thats not necessary. Emily watches her diet closely.
Settle down, dear, this is the proper way to eat!
Samuel Evans, Margarets husband, opens his mouth to defend Emily, but shuts up under Margarets stern gaze.
Satisfied that the children have their plates filled, Margaret returns to her seat.
Weve always grown up on bacon, potatoes, and dairy, and were all healthy, she declares.
Mom, the doctor also told you to watch what you eat. Youve been complaining about feeling poorly, Emily points out.
The nonsense. Do you even have breakfast at home? Margaret retorts.
Andrew and Emily exchange a smile.
We eat well, Mum. Lots of veg, and I try to stay away from heavy food, Andrew says.
Margaret stares at her son, stunned. No wonder his heart has thinned!
What does Emily feed you?
Why Emily? We cook together, both work late, and often order delivery.
That actually saves money, keeps the house tidy, and frees up time for other things, Emily adds.
Margaret is in shock. She cant imagine a man helping in the kitchenSamuel never peeled potatoes in their thirty years of marriage; that was never a mans job.
When Margaret married, her mother and grandmothers preached that a woman must keep the home spotless, cook hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes immaculate. Samuel never knew how to iron a shirt, and Margaret took pride in that. Now shes horrified by the modern family dynamics of her son.
Andrew, you cook? You have such a demanding job, you should be resting, Margaret frets. Emily, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont work.
Emily replies, I also work and often earn more than you. We share responsibilities equally, and were happy with that.
Margaret cant believe her son is arguing with her, let alone with that tone. Andrew used to be a gentle kitten, but now hes a different person. She doesnt want a fight, so she smooths the tension.
Fine, its your business. Stay for dinner; Ill make sure there are enough bones for the dog. Emily, youre looking a bit underweighttake care of yourself.
The conversation drifts on. Margaret tries a few more times to feed them, but they each take modest portions. Emily talks about her job in the media, organising concerts and travelling frequently.
That unsettles Margaret. Where have you seen a wife jetsetting around the country? What about a proper home hearth? she wonders, feeling her patience wear thin.
Finally she decides to ask about the tattoo.
Emily, whats that on your wrist? A translation? A pretty design? You can always have it removed, you know.
We got matching tattoos half a year ago, Andrew and I. We liked them, Emily answers confidently.
Margaret hopes she misheard.
Son, those tattoos arent they only for prisoners? Samuel, will you stay silent?
Son, honestly, Im not sure Samuel mutters.
Andrew knows his father never takes a firm stance on anything; he fears contradicting his strict mother and always concedes silently.
The worlds changing, Mrs. Thompson, Emily says gently. Its fashionable now, many see tattoos as art. They can be removed if you wish. Your son is twentyeight; he can decide for himself.
Margaret feels her throat tighten at the audacity.
Sweetheart, this crosses all limits! A man should heed his parents above all. We never allowed our son to do such foolish things.
Mom, calm down, please. Youre the one pushing the boundaries of polite conversation. As Emily said, Im an adult now, Andrew replies with a smirk. Its my life, and I trust my choices.
The evening loses its pleasant air and ends quickly. Andrew and Emily gather their things to leave. Polite refusals of leftovers dont work, and they take the bags with them.
Alone, Margaret washes the dishes while Samuel dozes on the sofa with the newspaper. Hundreds of heavy thoughts race through her mind.
She cant understand how her son has landed in this situation. Yes, Andrew and Emily appear happy; he often tells his mother on the phone how supportive she is. Emily is welleducated, financially stable, and from a respectable family. But is this kind of relationship normal nowadays?
Margaret sees herself as the perfect housewife. For years her day began with caring for her family, and she never rested until the last cup was cleaned. That didnt keep her marriage from minor squabbles; Samuel once had a few flings in his youth, which she forgave long ago, blaming herself for not giving him enough attention when Andrew was born. Their 30th wedding anniversary passed recently, yet they now speak rarely. Samuel spends evenings hypnotised by the TV, while Margaret knits, tends to the garden, and chats on the phone with friends. What more is there to say when everythings been repeated countless times?
Will her son be happy with this girl? Is he making a mistake? Andrew has changed; his voice now carries certainty, his work is thriving thanks to Emilys advice. He calls less often but always rushes to help when his mother needs himprovided his plans with Emily arent affected. He increasingly declines trips to the countryside, telling his mother its cheaper to shop in stores than grow your own potatoes. Margaret understands him less and less.
Its his decision, after all, but a mothers word should still count. Time will tell who wins.
Emily and Andrew drive home. Andrew has already apologised to his fiancée a few times, but Emily waves it off with a smile:
I expected this, its fine. I can understand the bumps along the way. Just stay on my side, Andrew, okay? Thats what matters.
Of course, Andrew says, kissing her on the temple.
Their married life promises to be interesting.
—
Live and be joyful
Diana wanders through a massive supermarket. Its aisles form a maze, easy to lose oneself inclever marketers have arranged everything so shoppers cant escape the bounty of goods displayed temptingly on the shelves.
Anything for the soul! What would you like? Fruit? Here you go!
In woven baskets, glistening pomegranates sit beside ripe cherries, begging to be eaten. Soft, velvety peaches, their skin like a babys cheek, sit in decorative crates, while pears showcase a rainbow of varieties. Exotic bananas range from green to bright yellow, next to deepred, almost burgundy apples. Grapes, honeygolden and translucent, hang from elegant trays, urging onlookers: Buy, buy, just buy us!
Diana admires the southernstyle sweet juices and berries, then slips past the refrigerators where rows of milk, yogurts, cream, and cottage cheese line up behind spotless glass doorsdozens of dairy options, impossible to differentiate at a glance.
She could grab a tub of creamy cottage cheese, spoon it with cherry jam, and savor it. Or pick up a goat cheese bar, touted as healthy. Or a milkshake flavored like plum custardonce, at the Little Red Lion café, she often bought those for her son. Now she grabs a readytodrink bottle and sips without queuing.
Thinking of Sam, her son, Dianas heart tightens. Hes eight, and they used to sit together at a café, laughing as he sipped a strawfilled milkshake, the straw squeaking against the almostempty glass. That memory feels distant now; the café Little Red Lion has been replaced by a sleek sushi bar on Victoria Street. She walks past, avoiding the display.
Near the frozenfood aisles, a couple bickers:
Just take the whole pack; theres less ice! a middleaged woman in quirky cargo pants says.
Her partner, a man the same age as Sam, ignores her, scooping red, bearlike insectsor perhaps crayfishinto a bag with a special scoop.
The man, sturdy and broadshouldered, looks nothing like Sam, who was lanky and wiry. Sams dark hair and brown eyes differ from the mans light, moplike hair and bright eyes, yet both share an open, friendly smile. Diana cant help asking:
What are you getting?
Shrimp, the woman replies, glancing at Diana. But you probably wont like them.
Why not?
Have you ever tried crayfish? the man interjects. Theyre similarcook them with dill and have them with a pint of ale.
Diana smiles, admitting shes never tasted crayfish.
Come on, any lad can catch them! the man jokes.
There were no men in our familyjust women. Father died in the war. It was just mum and three of us. No crayfish for us, the woman laments.
A sympathetic look passes over the strangers face, drawing Diana closer, as if an unseen door has opened, inviting her into warmth from the cold, sterile aisles.
At last, the dam of her longheld silence bursts. Diana speaks, recounting the death of her husband a year ago, how her son left three months later, how shes been alone ever sinceno daughterinlaw, a granddaughter who may not even know if the old lady is still alive. Its her birthday; she wanted to buy something sweet but feels nothing. Shes eightyseven, grew up in the village of Dymley, where German pilots once bombed houses and her mother chased her from the window. She misses Sam terribly; he never returns in her dreams, while a nuisance named Kolka haunts her nights, eating her leftovers and never bringing Sam back.
She hopes the couple wont leave, that someone will listenshe hasnt spoken to anyone in ages.
