21October2025
Dear Diary,
The house was a whirl of activity this afternoon. Id been fussing over the kitchen, waiting for Andrew to arrive with his fiancée, Eleanor. The oven still glowed, sending the scent of roasted duck through the rooms, while steaming meat pasties sat smouldering on the centre table and a chilled aspic waited in the fridge. Id started these preparations the night before, and the spread was already bursting at the seams a testament to how seriously I take when guests are due.
Andrew has been seeing Eleanor for a year now, and today was the moment he finally wanted me and George to meet her. The doorbell rang, and after a quick brush at the hallway mirror I flung the door open.
Hello, love! Come in, quick, let me take your coat, I said, trying to sound warm as I ushered them in. Andrew gave a shy smile, stepped aside, and let Eleanor slip in first. I hung my coat myself.
Eleanor, this is my mother, Margaret, Andrew introduced, his voice a little unsure.
Eleanors slender frame caught my eye instantly; I wondered if she was a bit under the weather. Then I saw the inked design on her wrist, a small tattoo that made my brow twitch. I kept my thoughts to myself after all, Andrew had spoken so highly of her, and it seemed premature to comment on something so personal.
Good evening, Margaret. Its a pleasure to finally meet you, Eleanor said, her smile bright as sunshine.
I watched Andrew glance at his future, affection evident in his eyes. The conversation at the table was polite and pleasant, yet I couldnt help noticing a few red flags. Andrews plate was halfempty, and Eleanor offered him no morsels. I gave her a disapproving look, rose heavily, and walked over to Andrews chair, placing a modest serving before him.
Dont worry, dear, Ive got it, he protested weakly, having learned over the years that arguing with Mother was a futile exercise.
Having rescued my son from a fainting spell, I turned my attention back to Eleanor, still puzzled by her behaviour. When I reached for her salad, she calmly said:
Margaret, everything looks delicious, but Im afraid I cant eat most of it. Ive already taken a third helping of that lovely salad. Could you share the recipe?
I replied sharply, Its our family duck with orange a secret weve guarded for generations, then placed a piece of the duck, a sprig of buttered toast with sardines, and a scoop of coleslaw on her plate.
Mother, you dont need to, Andrew tried again. Eleanors been careful about what she eats for years.
Settle down, you two. This is proper nutrition! I chanted, while George, my husband, started to speak but fell silent under my stern stare.
Satisfied that the plates were full, I sank back into my chair.
We grew up on bacon, potatoes, and dairy, and we turned out fine, I declared.
Mother, the doctor did advise you to watch what you eat, Andrew reminded me, and youve mentioned feeling poorly yourself.
Dont be ridiculous. What do you all eat at home? Skipping breakfast, perhaps? I shot back.
Andrew and Eleanor exchanged a smile.
We eat healthily, Mum. Lots of veg, and I try to avoid heavy meals, Andrew answered.
I stared, shocked. My son had slimmed down dramatically, and my heart hammered with anxiety.
What does Eleanor feed you, then?
Why Eleanor? We cook together; we both work late, and we often order in.
Seems efficient. Clean home, time for useful things, Eleanor added.
My mind raced. In my day, a man never set foot at the stove. George never peeled potatoes; he left that to me, and I wore that as a badge of honour. Now here was my son, chopping carrots and simmering sauce, and my daughterinlaw, confident and independent.
Andrew, youre overworking yourself. Rest is essential, I fretted. Eleanor, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont last if you both keep this up.
Andrews tone hardened. Eleanor earns as much as I do, sometimes more. In our family we share the load, and were happy.
It stung to hear my son argue with me, especially in that tone. Hed been a gentle lamb before; now he seemed a different creature. I didnt want to fight, so I tried to smooth things over.
Fine, do as you wish. Ill just tidy up. Eleanor, you look a bit thin, you should eat more, I said, attempting to be conciliatory.
The conversation drifted, and Eleanor spoke about her job in the media, organising concerts and travelling frequently. That unsettled me a woman constantly on the road? Where was the hearth? My unease grew.
Finally, I gathered the courage to ask about the tattoo.
Eleanor, whats the design on your wrist? A little doodle for fun? I ventured.
We got matching ink with Andrew six months ago. We liked it, she replied confidently.
I gasped. Andrew, you know tattoos are for criminals! George, youre silent?
George mumbled, Well, its uh
Andrew, ever the peacemaker, muttered, Dad never had a strong opinion on these things. Hed learned to nod rather than argue.
Eleanor smiled gently, Times are changing, Margaret. Tattoos are fashionable now, and theyre removable if you change your mind. Andrew is twentyeight; he can decide for himself.
I felt my composure slipping. Young lady, there are limits. Parents opinions should matter! We never allowed such foolishness.
Andrew, with a faint grin, replied, Mum, Im an adult now. Im confident in my choices.
The evening lost its warmth, and soon Andrew and Eleanor were gathering their things, politely refusing the leftover biscuits. They left with bags in hand, while I washed the dishes and George dozed on the sofa, a newspaper draped over his chest. My thoughts tangled in a knot of worry. How had my son ended up here? He seemed happy, talked often about Eleanors support, and she appeared welleducated and welloff. Yet I couldnt shake the feeling that the roles Id held dear were being upended.
Ive prided myself on being the perfect housewife for decades, rising before dawn to tend to everyone, never sleeping until the last cup was clean. It hasnt shielded my marriage from little spats; George once had a flirtation in his youth, which I forgave long ago. We celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary not long ago, but now we hardly talk. He spends evenings glued to the telly; I knit, tend the garden, and chat on the phone with old friends. What more can be said that isnt already known?
Will my son be happy with this modern lass? Is he making a mistake? Hes become resolute, his work thriving thanks to Eleanors advice. He calls less, but is always ready to drop everything if I need him unless hes with his fiancée. Hes even stopped visiting the country cottage, saying its cheaper to shop locally, yet I cant help feeling something is missing. Im not sure what to think.
Its his decision, of course, but a mothers voice should still count for something. Time will tell who wins.
Later, I heard that Eleanor, after the dinner, spent an afternoon in a huge supermarket in town. The aisles felt like a maze, designed by clever marketers to keep shoppers wandering among endless rows of gleaming produce. She paused at a basket of glossy cherries, their skins like newborn cheeks, and at a stand of plump peaches that looked soft enough to kiss. Pears of every variety beckoned, as did bananas ranging from pale green to vivid yellow, and deepred apples that seemed almost too pretty to eat. Grapes hung in transparent clamshells, tempting her to buy them all.
She lingered by the dairy fridge, where bottles of milk, yoghurts, cottage cheese, and cream lined the shelves like a miniature milk parade. She thought of scooping a spoonful of strawberry jam into a pot of thick curd, or grabbing a slice of goat cheese healthy, the label claimed. A bottled milk shake that once reminded her of a treat from the old Bakers Café crossed her mind, but now she could just buy it readymade and avoid the queue.
The memory of her son, Sam, made her chest tighten. He was eight then, laughing over a straw in a café, sucking up a milkshake that squealed as it passed the empty bottom of the glass. Where is that Sam now? The café has been replaced by a trendy sushi bar on Station Road, a place Eleanor cant quite picture.
Near the frozen foods, a couple argued over a pack of shrimp. Take it in the bag; theres less ice, the woman said, her short hair bobbing. Her husband, a burly fellow with a friendly grin, tossed a handful of mysterious red shells into a bag, calling them crayfish and promising theyd taste fine with dill and a cold beer.
Eleanor laughed and asked, What exactly are you buying?
Shrimp, the woman replied, then added, You probably wont like them.
Why not?
Have you ever tried crayfish? the man chimed in. Theyre similar. Boil them with a pinch of dill and enjoy with a pint.
She admitted shed never tasted crayfish before.
Any bloke could catch some, the man joked.
The men in our family all died in the war. Its just us women left Mum, my two sisters, and me. No crabs for us, she replied, a hint of sadness in her voice.
The strangers sympathetic eyes lingered, and for a moment Eleanor felt a door open inside her, as if an old wound was finally being heard. She told the man about her husbands death a year ago, how Sam followed his father three months later, how she was left alone with no daughterinlaw visiting, and how her granddaughter might not even know if her greatgrandmother is still alive. She mentioned her 87th birthday, her upbringing in the village of Dyming, the sound of bombers over the fields, and how she still missed Sam terribly. The man listened, offering a quiet understanding that felt like a warm blanket on a cold night.
I cant help but wonder how much of this will affect the future of my son and his Eleanor. Time will answer, I suppose.
Margaret Lawson.
