What has she done with my son?!
Margaret Harper flits about the kitchen, waiting for her son, who is about to arrive with his fiancée. The oven hums, filling the air with the scent of a roasted duck, while steaming meat pies sit in the middle of the table and a terrine chills in the fridge.
Margaret treats every guest arrival as a ceremony; the table overflows with dishes shes been preparing since yesterday morning. And todays guests are special. Andrew has been seeing Poppy for a year, and he finally decides to introduce his beloved to his parents.
The doorbell rings. After smoothing her hair in the hallway mirror, Margaret rushes to open the door.
Hello, love! Come in, let me take your coat, she coos to Andrew. He forces a shy smile, steps aside, and lets the young guest in first. He hangs his coat himself.
Poppy, this is my mum, Margaret, he says.
Margaret immediately notices Poppys slender frame, which she instinctively reads as a sign of frailty. A tattoo peeks out from under Poppys sleeve, causing Margarets eyebrow to lift ever so slightly. She decides not to comment yet; after all, Andrew has spoken so highly of his girl.
Good evening, Mrs. Harper, its a pleasure to finally meet you, Poppy says, her smile bright.
Margaret watches Andrew gaze at his future wife with devotion.
A polite conversation flows around the table, but Margaret soon spots a problem: Andrew eats listlessly, his plate half empty, and Poppy is not passing any food his way. She glances disapprovingly at the girl, then gently rises, walks over to Andrew, and begins ladling small portions onto his plate.
Mum, I can manage, he protests, but years of quiet surrender have taught him that arguing with his mother is pointless.
Having rescued her son from the brink of hunger, Margaret turns her attention to the fiancée, curious about her manners. When she reaches for Poppys salad, the young woman calmly replies:
Mrs. Harper, everything looks delicious, but I dont actually eat that. Your salad is lovelyIve already taken a third helping. Could you share the recipe?
My dear, what nonsense? This is our familys duck with orangeour secret, Margaret insists, slicing a leg of duck, adding a sprig of bread with sprats, and a generous spoonful of coleslaw.
Mom, thats unnecessary. Poppy watches her diet, Andrew interjects.
Settle down, you lot. This is proper nutrition! Margaret declares.
Margaret, leave her be, Samuel, Andrews father, begins, but he falls silent under his wifes stern stare.
Satisfied that the children have full plates, Margaret returns to her seat.
Weve always grown up on bacon, potatoes, and dairy, and were healthy for it, she says.
Mom, the doctor did advise you to watch what you eat. Youve been complaining about feeling off, Andrew adds.
Dont be ridiculous. Do you even have breakfast at home? Margaret retorts.
Andrew and Poppy exchange a quick smile.
We eat well, Mum. Lots of veg, and I try to steer clear of heavy meals, Andrew says.
Margarets eyes widen. Her son has truly slimmed down.
What does Poppy feed you? she asks.
We cook together. Both of us work late, so we often order in, he replies.
Thats actually smartless mess, more time for useful things, Poppy adds.
Margaret is shocked. In her day, a man never set foot near the stove. Her husband Samuel never even peeled potatoes; that was deemed a womans task, and she took pride in it.
When Margaret married, her mother and grandmothers taught her that a wife must keep the home spotless, prepare hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes pristine. Samuel never learned to iron, and Margaret still boasts about it. Now she is horrified by the modern arrangement in her sons household.
How can you, Andrew? You work so hard; you should be resting, she frets. Poppy, men shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont last.
Poppy works too, and sometimes earns more than I do. We share everything equally, and were happy, Andrew says, his tone edged with irritation.
Margaret is taken aback that her son argues with her, especially in such a tone. He used to be a sweettempered lamb, but now hes a different person. Still, she doesnt want a fight, so she softens.
All right, its your business. Ill make some tea. Poppy, you look a bit thin; thats not good.
The conversation drifts. Margaret tries a few more times to spoon extra food onto their plates, but the couple eats modestly. Poppy reveals she works in the media, organising concerts and travelling frequently. Margaret finds this unsettlinghow can a woman be on the road so much and still keep a home?
She finally decides to ask about the tattoo.
So, Poppy, whats that on your wrist? A little design? You can always get it removed if you change your mind, she says.
We got matching tattoos with Andrew about six months ago. We liked it, Poppy replies confidently.
Margaret hopes she misheard.
My son, those tattoos are something prisoners get! Samuel, will you stay silent? she demands.
Samuel mumbles, Well, its complicated, clearly unsure.
Andrew knows his father never takes a firm stand, and hes learned to keep his mouth shut when his mother pressures him.
The worlds changing, Margaret, Poppy says gently. Tattoos are fashionable now, and they can be removed later. Andrew is twentyeight; he can make his own choices.
Margaret feels a wave of indignation.
Sweetheart, thats crossing the line! Parents opinions should matter most. We never allowed our son to do something so foolish, she snaps.
Mom, calm down. Youre the one overstepping. Im an adult, Andrew says with a grin. This is our life, and Im confident in my decisions.
The evening loses its pleasant tone and ends quickly. Andrew and Poppy gather their things, politely decline the leftovers, and head for the door.
Alone, Margaret washes the dishes while Samuel slouches on the sofa with a newspaper. Hundreds of thoughts race through her mind.
She cant understand how her son ended up in this situation. Andrew and Poppy look happy; he often calls to tell his mother how supportive his fiancée is. Poppy is welleducated, financially stable, and comes from a respectable family. But is such an arrangement normal today?
Margaret has always prided herself on being the perfect housewife. For decades she starts her day caring for others, and she doesnt go to bed until the last cup is washed. It hasnt saved her marriage from small spats; Samuel once had a brief affair in his youth, which she eventually forgave. Their thirtieth wedding anniversary passed not long ago, yet they now speak only occasionally. Samuel spends evenings glued to the telly, while Margaret knits, tends to her garden, and chats with friends on the phone. What else is there to say when everything has already been repeated?
Will her son be happy with this girl? Is he making a mistake? Andrew has changedhis voice holds a new certainty, his work is thriving thanks to Poppys advice. He calls less often, but when his mother needs him, he drops everything, unless he has plans with his fiancée. He now refuses trips to the countryside, telling his mother that buying readymade meals is cheaper than growing potatoes. Margaret feels increasingly out of touch.
Its his decision, of course, but a mothers word should still count for something. Time will tell who wins.
Meanwhile, Andrew and Poppy drive home. Andrew apologises repeatedly for any awkwardness, and Poppy waves it off with a smile.
I kind of expected this, she says. Dont worry, I can handle any bumps along the way. Just stay on my side, Andrew, okay? Thats all that matters.
Of course, Andrew replies, planting a kiss on her temple.
Their married life promises to be interesting.
—
Diana wanders through a massive department store, the sort of labyrinth where shoppers can lose themselves among endless aisles of glittering goods. The clever marketers have arranged everything so that customers feel trapped in a bounty of merchandise, artfully displayed on polished shelves.
Anything for the soul! What would you like? Fruit? Here you go! a cheerful attendant calls.
In woven baskets, glistening pomegranates sit beside ripe cherries that look ready to burst. Fluffy peaches, their skin as soft as a babys cheek, beckon from their stands. Pears of many varieties line the next row. Exotic bananas, from green to bright yellow, sit beside deepred, almost burgundy apples. Grapes, honeygold and translucent, dangle from crafted trays, urging shoppers, Buy, buy, just buy us!
Diana admires the bright, sweet juices and berries, then drifts past the refrigerated section where spotless glass doors reveal rows of milk, yogurts, creams, and cottage cheese, each brand indistinguishable from the next.
She imagines scooping a spoonful of creamy cottage cheese with a dollop of cherry jam, or picking up a goatcheese log thats supposed to be good for you. A milkshake with a taste of custard reminds her of the old café Biscuit Corner, where she used to treat her son Sam. Those days feel distant now; the café has vanished, replaced by a sleek sushi bar on Victoria Street, a concept Diana cant quite grasp.
Near the frozen food aisles, a middleaged woman in cropped trousers chats with her husband.
Just take the pack, theres less ice in it! she says.
Her husband, a stout man with a friendly grin, scoops a bag of redshelling crablike things that look more like beetles than seafood.
What are those? Diana asks.
Shrimps, the woman replies, adding quickly, but you might not like them.
Why not? Diana presses.
Have you ever tried crayfish? the man interjects. They taste similar. Cook them with dill and a pint of beer.
Diana smiles, admitting shes never tasted crayfish.
Anyone can catch a few, the man jokes.
The couple explains theyre a family of women; the father died in the war, leaving the mother and three daughters. Theyve never had a man in the house, so crayfish are a mystery to them.
The conversation opens a door in Dianas heart, and she begins to speak. She tells the strangers about her husbands death a year ago, how her son Sam left three months later, how shes been alone ever since, with no daughterinlaw visiting, and how her granddaughter probably doesnt even know whether her greatgrandmother is still alive. She mentions her 87th birthday, her roots in the tiny village of Dymond, where German bombers once rained down while her mother shooed her away from the windows. She laments missing Sam, haunted by a cruel neighbour who steals her food and never lets her rest.
She wishes the couple would stay just a little longer and listen, because she hasnt had a proper conversation in ages.
The two strangers nod, offering a quiet kindness that feels like a warm hearth in the cold of the department store.
