Hey love, you have to hear what went on at my mums place yesterday. Helen Thompson was buzzing around the kitchen in her cosy flat in Manchester, waiting for her son Andrew to turn up with his girlfriend and let me tell you, this was a big one. The oven was still humming with the scent of her signature roast duck, meat pies were puffing up on the table, and there was a gleaming tray of jellied veg in the fridge.
Helen takes hosting seriously; shed been prepping since the night before. Andrews been dating Poppy for a year now, and finally hed decided it was time for the parents to meet the girl. The doorbell rang, Helen did a quick onceover in the hallway mirror and flung the door open.
Hey love, come in, dear! she cooed, pulling down a coat for him. Andrew gave a shy grin, stepped aside and let Poppy in first, hanging his coat himself.
Poppy, this is my mum, Helen, he said.
Helens first impression was that Poppy looked a bit frail, which she took as a sign of poor health. Then she spotted a tattoo on Poppys wrist a little rose, tucked under her sleeve. Helen raised an eyebrow but kept her thoughts to herself; after all, Andrew had been singing her daughterinlaws praises for weeks.
Good evening, Mrs Thompson, its lovely to finally meet you, Poppy said with a bright smile.
Helen could see the way Andrew looked at her pure adoration. The conversation started off polite, but soon Helen noticed something odd. Andrew was picking at his food, his plate halfempty, and Poppy wasnt even offering him any of the dishes. With a disapproving glance, Helen got up, walked over to Andrew and started plating a bit more for him.
Mum, Ive got it, Andrew tried to protest, but years of dodging his mums meddling had taught him it was useless to argue.
Having rescued him from a potential hunger strike, Helen turned her attention to Poppy, still amazed at the girls composure. When Helen reached for a portion of the salad, Poppy calmly said:
Mrs Thompson, everything looks amazing, but I dont actually eat that sort of thing. The salad is brilliant, though Ive already helped myself twice. Could I get the recipe?
Helen, flustered, started piling on a slice of duck with orange glaze, a bit of smoked salmon, and a dollop of coleslaw. Poppy, thats not its just our family recipe, she muttered, ignoring the protest.
Mom, you dont have to. Poppys been watching her diet for years, Andrew tried to intervene.
Its proper nourishment, love! Helen declared. Her husband, George, tried to say, Leave her be, but quickly fell silent under Helens sharp stare.
With the plates finally cleared, Helen sank back into her chair, proud of the feast. We grew up on bacon, chips and milk, and were all healthy, she bragged.
Mom, the doctor did suggest you watch what you eat. Youve mentioned feeling a bit off lately, Andrew reminded her.
She waved it off. Oh, you lot probably skip breakfast, dont you?
Andrew and Poppy exchanged a quick smile. We actually eat plenty of veg, Mum. I try to stay away from heavy stuff, Andrew said.
Helen stared, stunned her son had really slimmed down! And whats Poppy feeding you?
Why Poppy? We both cook, we both work late, and we order in a lot, Poppy replied. It actually saves us time and keeps the house tidy.
Helen was in shock. In her day, men never touched the kitchen. Her mother and grandmothers had taught her that a wifes job was to keep the home spotless, serve hearty meals, and keep the husbands wardrobe in order. George never ironed a shirt; Helen had taken pride in that. Now seeing her son sharing kitchen duties was a bit too much for her.
Andrew, youre working so hard, you should be resting. A man shouldnt be doing that, Helen fretted. Poppy, men arent meant for it. Your marriage wont be happy.
Andrew, trying to stay calm, replied, Poppy also earns as much as me, sometimes more. We split everything equally and were happy enough.
Helen felt a sting as her son spoke back to her in that tone. Shed always thought of Andrew as a sweet little lamb, not this grownup man. Still, she didnt want a fight, so she tried to smooth things over.
Alright, you two, make yourselves at home. Ill just tidy up. Poppy, youre looking a bit thin, you should eat more, she said, attempting a smile.
The chat drifted on. Poppy mentioned she worked in event management, organising concerts and travelling a lot. Helen found that unsettling a girl constantly on the road, what about a cosy home life?
She finally asked about the tattoo. Poppy, whats that on your wrist? A little doodle?
We got matching ink with Andrew six months ago. We liked it, Poppy answered confidently.
Helen gasped, Those are forwell, you know, for people in trouble! George, what do you think?
George muttered something vague, never taking a firm stand. Andrew, used to keeping the peace, simply said, Its my life, Mum. Im 28 now and can make my own choices.
Helen nearly choked on her tea. Darling, youre crossing a line! Parents opinions should matter most, and we never allowed you to do such foolish things.
Mom, calm down. Youre the one being rude, Andrew teased. Im an adult now.
The evening folded quickly. Andrew and Poppy said their goodbyes, grabbed their bags, and left despite Helens polite offers of leftovers.
Later, Helen washed the dishes while George dozed on the sofa with the paper. She replayed the night over and over in her head. Shed always prided herself on being the perfect host, never sleeping until the last cup was clean. Yet she wondered if her oldfashioned ideas about a mans role were still sensible.
She thought about how Andrew seemed happier, his work booming thanks to Poppys advice, and how hed started calling less often but would always drop in when needed. Still, she missed the days when hed visit the countryside cottage, and now he talked about buying groceries online instead of growing his own potatoes.
She sighed, Well, its his life, but a mums word should count for something, right? Well see how it goes.
Meanwhile, over in a massive supermarket in Birmingham, Diana was wandering the aisles like shed been dropped into a maze. The clever marketers had set everything up so shoppers could never quite find the exit from the sea of tempting displays.
Anything for the soul! Whatll it be? Fruit? a cheerful voice shouted from behind a stack of woven baskets laden with glossy cherries, blushing peaches that felt like baby cheeks, and heaps of pears in every variety imaginable. Bright bananas from pale green to sunny yellow sat next to deepred, almost burgundy apples. Grapes hung lazily in crystalclear trays, practically begging, Buy us, buy us!
Diana lingered over the sweet, sunkissed strawberries and the colourful berry jars. She slipped past the sparkling refrigerators, where rows of milk, yoghurts, cottage cheese and creams glittered behind spotless glass doors.
She imagined scooping a spoonful of berry jam into a tub of creamy ricotta, or grabbing a chunk of goats cheese healthy, they say. Or perhaps a milkshake with vanilla ice cream, the kind she used to treat little Sam to at the local café The Red Lion. Those days felt far away now; the café had closed, replaced by a sleek sushi bar on the high street.
A couple in the frozen foods aisle argued loudly. Take the pack, its got less ice! the woman snapped, while her husband tossed a bag of oddly coloured crackers that looked like tiny bears.
The man, who reminded Diana of Sam with his sturdy build and friendly eyes, laughed and said, Theyre just shrimp, love. Youll like em. Diana, curious, asked, What are those?
Shrimp, she heard, but you probably wont enjoy em.
She confessed shed never tried crayfish before. The man winked, Any lad can catch em! He went on about his family, his mother gone in the war, his wife and three kids, and how they never had men around. He sounded so understanding, and suddenly Diana felt a strange warmth, as if a door had opened to a quiet, welcoming room.
She found herself spilling her story to this stranger: how her husband had died a year ago, how her son Sam had left shortly after, how shed been alone, how her birthday was coming up and shed wanted to buy something tasty but felt nothing at all. She told him she was eightyseven, from a tiny village called Dymy, where German planes once roared overhead and her mother would pull her away from the windows. She missed Sam terribly; he never returned, and the house felt empty.
She just wanted someone to listen, and for a moment the strangers eyes softened, as if he could hear every word.
And thats where I left her, scrolling through the aisles, wondering if shed ever find something that truly satisfied her. Anyway, thats the whole saga hope you enjoyed the gossip! Talk soon.
