The groom introduced me to his mother, and she thrust a parchment of thirty demands into my hands.
Margaret, she said, have you lost your wits? This is sheer madness!
Not madness at all, Susan, I replied. Im merely saying what I think.
But you cant tell the boss outright that his decisions are foolish!
Susan, perched on the back of her office chair, smiled. At thirtyfive shed learned not to stay silent when things went awry. She twirled a pen, eyes flicking to the door.
If we keep quiet, well cease to be regarded as people at all. The new project is a disaster, and Ive said so.
What now?
Nothing. Let them think what they will. My conscience is clear.
Susan shook her head and returned to her computer. I glanced at my phone three missed calls from George. I smiled. George had entered my life six months earlier, and everything had shifted since. After a failed marriage that ended five years before, I never expected love again. Yet George was different attentive, caring, dependable.
I dialled back.
Hey, love. How are you?
Fine. Had another row with the boss.
Youre incorrigible, he chuckled. Listen, I need to talk seriously.
Whats happened?
Nothing, really. Just mum wants to meet you. Were heading to her this weekend.
The idea of meeting a mother felt like a grand step. George had spoken often of her Eleanor Whitfield, sixtyeight, a widow living alone in a cottage out in Kent. By his description she was stern but fair.
Are you sure? Isnt it a bit early?
Weve been together half a year. Its time. Mum keeps asking when Ill bring the lady I speak of so fondly.
Alright, I sighed. Saturday then?
Exactly. Ill pick you up at ten. Dont worry, itll be fine.
The rest of the week flew by in preparation. I bought a modest, darkblue dress that fell to the knees, and I selected a box of fine chocolates and a bouquet of chrysanthemums a flower George said his mother adored.
On Friday evening I called Susan.
Guess what? Im meeting his mother tomorrow.
Goodness, thats serious! Nervous?
Terrified. What if she doesnt like me?
Youre wonderful. What could she possibly dislike?
I dont know. George says shes strict. What if she deems me unfit for her son?
Dont overthink it, Margaret. Itll go well.
Still, anxiety clung to me. I slept poorly, getting up several times for water. In the morning I wrestled with my hair, finally settling on a tidy bun.
George arrived precisely at ten, dressed sharply in dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy blazer a look I rarely saw him adopt.
You look radiant, he said, planting a kiss on my cheek.
Thank you. You look dashing yourself.
He smiled oddly, saying nothing more.
The drive took about an hour. George chatted about work and holiday plans, but I only halflistened. The closer we got to his mothers cottage, the tighter my chest felt.
The house was a large, twostorey home with a welltended garden. At the gate stood Eleanor, tall and dignified in a crisp suit, her silver hair neatly styled, her face an unreadable mask.
Hello, mother, George kissed his mothers cheek. This is Margaret.
Good afternoon, Mrs Whitfield, I offered the flowers and chocolates. A pleasure to meet you.
She surveyed me from head to toe, accepted the gifts, and nodded.
Come in, please.
Inside the house was spotless, almost sterile, every object in its place. The sitting room held heavy furniture and family photographs in matching frames.
Please, have a seat, Eleanor said, gesturing to the sofa. Would you like some tea?
Yes, thank you.
While she disappeared to the kitchen, I examined the pictures George as a boy in school uniform, in a military jacket, at his university graduation. His mother appeared in every frame; his father was visible only in a few faded photos.
My father died when I was fifteen, George murmured quietly, noticing my stare.
Eleanor returned with a tray, tea and cups all from the same service. She poured tea and settled opposite me.
So, Margaret. George has spoken of you.
I hope only good things, I replied.
Varied things, she sipped. You work as an accountant?
Yes, for a construction firm.
Were you married before?
I braced myself. The question was expected, yet still uncomfortable.
I was. We divorced five years ago.
Do you have children?
No.
Why did you separate?
George shifted uneasily on the sofa. Perhaps I shouldnt
George, I have a right to know who my son is involved with, Eleanor said sharply, then turned to me. So why?
The personalities just didnt match, I answered calmly.
Thats a flimsy excuse. The real reason?
I inhaled deeply.
My husband was unfaithful. I found out and filed for divorce.
I see, Eleanor nodded. And why no children?
We tried, but it just didnt happen.
Health issues? she pressed.
My mother! George shouted. What about my mother? If she has fertility problems, I should know. I need grandchildren.
Heat rose to my cheeks. The conversation had taken a turn I hadnt anticipated.
I have no health problems. Its simply that my marriage fell apart.
Alright, Eleanor placed her cup down. Now to business. George, perhaps you didnt tell her, but our family has certain traditions and rules. If you intend to become part of this family, you must know and obey them.
She rose, fetched a folder from a side table, and handed me a stack of papers.
What is this? I asked, bewildered.
It is a list of requirements for the future daughterinlaw. Thirty points. Read them carefully.
I glanced at George, who stared at the floor. I unfolded the sheet.
Point one: The daughterinlaw must visit her motherinlaw at least twice a week.
Point two: She must be able to prepare every dish from the family cookbook.
Point three: She must bear at least two children within the first three years of marriage.
Point four: She may not work after the first child is born.
Point five: She must approve all major purchases with her motherinlaw.
Each clause seemed more absurd than the last about attire, household management, childrearing, even the style of hair she should wear.
This is a joke? I raised my head.
I am not joking, Eleanor said coldly. These are serious demands. My late daughterinlaw, the wife of my eldest son, adhered to them without fail.
You have an eldest son?
Yes. He died in a car crash with his wife three years ago. George is now my only son, and I will not allow him to be with an unsuitable woman.
I looked at George.
Did you know about this list? he nodded, eyes still on the floor.
And you said nothing? I asked.
I thought I hoped Mum would change her mind, or that you would agree.
Agree to this? I stood, flinging the papers onto the table. George, this is medieval!
Dont dramatise, Eleanor pursed her lips. These are reasonable expectations for a respectable woman.
Reasonable? Point fifteen says I must hand over my salary!
For the family budget. I will allocate the money properly.
Point twentytwo says I may not meet friends without your permission!
A married woman has no need to gallivant with companions.
And point twentyeight? I must live with you for a year after the wedding?
So I can teach you proper household management.
I shook my head.
This is madness. George, how could you bring me here knowing all this?
Margaret, lets speak calmly
What can we speak about? That your mother wants to turn me into a servant?
Eleanor rose, her face flushed. I am offering you honest terms. In return you will have a fine husband, a secure life, a family.
I am not merchandise to be bought!
All women are sold; the price just varies, Eleanor said icily.
I snatched my bag.
George, drive me home. Now.
Margaret, wait
If she leaves now refusing my terms, its over between you two, his mother cut in.
George stared at his mother, then at me, pleading in his eyes.
Margaret, perhaps youll reconsider? Not all points are fixed; we can discuss.
All points are fixed, Eleanor interjected. No exceptions.
I looked at George, caught between his love for me and his mothers iron will.
Take me home, I whispered.
The return journey was silent. George tried to speak, but I turned my face to the window. Near my building he stopped the car, turned to me.
Margaret, lets talk.
What about? That youve been lying to me for six months?
I didnt lie! I just didnt know how to say it.
You took me to restaurants, gave me flowers, spoke of love, yet you knew your mother had prepared this list.
I hoped shed change her mind once she got to know you better.
She doesnt even want to know me. She wants a robot to obey her commands.
My mother is simply lonely. After my father and brother died she was left alone. I am all she has.
What do you have besides your mother, George?
He was silent.
Youre thirtyseven, a grown man. Yet you cant decide without Mum.
Thats not true
Exactly that, George. Im not angry, I pity you.
She stepped out of the car, I followed.
Margaret, wait! I love you!
I stopped at the doorway, turned.
If you loved me, you wouldnt have subjected me to this humiliation. Farewell, George.
I slammed the door, kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the sofa. Tears rose, but I restrained them. No more crying over men unworthy of my tears.
The phone rang. Susans voice came through.
How did it go with the mum?
It was a nightmare.
What happened?
I recounted everything. Susan gasped.
Shes mad! And George, he brought you there like a lamb to the slaughter.
He says he loves me.
He loves his mum. To him youre just a diversion.
I cant believe it.
She was right. My heart still ached for George, but love cannot be switched off with a flick of a switch.
That evening he texted: Margaret, lets meet, Ill explain everything. I did not answer.
Later: Ill talk to my mum, convince her to ease the demands. Still no reply.
Night: I cant live without you. Please answer. I turned the phone off.
The next morning at work I tried to focus on numbers, but the thirtypoint list haunted me. How could anyone in the twentyfirst century impose such conditions?
Mrs. Sinclair, you have a visitor, the secretary announced.
Who?
An elderly lady, says its a personal matter.
I frowned. Could it be?
In the reception area sat Eleanor, her suit crisp, handbag perched on her knee.
What are you doing here? I asked.
We need to talk.
We have nothing to discuss.
There is something to discuss. Five minutes of your time.
I wanted to refuse, but curiosity won. I led her to the meeting room.
Im listening, I said.
She sat, smoothing her skirt.
You left yesterday without hearing the end.
I heard enough.
No. You dont know the whole story.
I dont want to know.
My eldest son, Andrew, married against my will, she began, looking out the window. I objected to his bride; she was frivolous, careless. He loved her fiercely, forgave her betrayals, until they died in an accident. She was with a lover at the time.
I remained silent.
After their deaths I found letters where she mocked my son, used his money, loved another.
Im sorry, but
I will not let history repeat. George is my only son. I must protect him.
Protect? Youre strangling him!
I care for him.
Youve turned him into a man who cannot step out without your approval.
She pursed her lips.
Ive made him a respectable gentleman.
A gentleman who, at thirtyseven, still lives under his mothers roof, afraid to defy her.
He has his own flat.
But you make the decisions.
She stood.
I see no point in continuing. Remember if you reject my terms, George will find another who will accept.
Let him look elsewhere. Perhaps hell find someone as spineless as he is.
She left, her disdain evident. I sat alone, the list still on the table. The tale of Andrew explained much, yet it did not excuse turning a sons life into a prison.
The day dragged on. George called several times; I let it ring. At dusk, I spotted his car in the lot. He stood beside it, waiting.
Margaret, please hear me out.
My mother has already been here. I know everything about your brother.
She was?
Yes, she tried to explain her stance.
What have you decided?
I what do you think?
He lowered his head.
Margaret, I truly love you. But Mum shes all I have left of my family.
You could have your own family, a wife, children. Yet your mother will not let you.
Shell if you accept her conditions.
You truly dont understand. No respectable woman would accept such conditions. The one who does will be with you out of calculation, not love.
Youre wrong
Youre right, George. Deep down you know it.
He stared at his shoes.
You know what? I sighed. I wish you happiness, truly. But that happiness will not come while you remain her puppet.
I am independent!
No, you are a marionette in your mothers hands. Until you see that, nothing will change.
I walked past him toward the bus stop. He called after me, Margaret! Ill wait! Maybe youll change your mind!
I did not look back.
A week passed. George wrote daily, but I never answered. It hurt, yet I knew I was doing right. One Friday Susan dragged me to a café after work.
Stop moping. Forget that motherson boy.
Im not moping. Im just thinking.
Whats there to think about? He showed his true colours.
George isnt a bad man. Hes just weak.
Do you need a weak man?
No, I shook my head. I dont.
Exactly. Move on.
Easily said, hard to do. Six months of our relationship lay behind me strange and painful, but there were good moments. George had been attentive and caring, yet all that care was filtered through his mothers control.
One Saturday I visited my own mother in her modest cottage on the outskirts of Oxfordshire a stark contrast to Eleanors immaculate home. Paintings dotted the walls, a gentle chaos of creativity.
Marry, you look downcast, Mum hugged me at the door.
Its fine, Mum.
Dont lie to your mother. Whats the matter?
Over tea I recounted everything. She listened without interruption.
Its a blessing it turned out this way.
Whys that?
Imagine marrying him without knowing all this, then discovering it later. It would have been far worse.
I suppose youre right.
My motherinlaw can be a blessing if shes sensible, a curse if not.
How did you get on with your grandmother? I asked.
We were friends. She treated me like a daughter, and I her as a mother. Thats rare.
Your father always supported you.
Yes, he was always on my side.
Looks like George chose his mothers side.
Exactly, and that says a lot.
I embraced Mum, resting my head on her shoulder.
Mum, will I find a decent man?
Certainly. Youre young, beautiful, clever. Just dont settle for less than you deserve.
That evening, returning home, I felt lighter. A mothers counsel always helped put things in perspective.
At my door waited a massive basket of roses one hundred, according to the note. Im sorry. Ill fix everything. George.
I inhaled sharply, carried the bouquet inside. The roses were gorgeous, fresh, costly, yet they altered nothing.
I called Susan.
Can you believe he sent a single rose?
What did you do?
JustI placed the solitary rose in a vase, smiled faintly, and stepped out of the house, certain that my path forward no longer needed anyones list.
