Emily sat at the kitchen table, elbows propped on the worn wood, staring into the blackness of the night through the window as if it might reveal something. Her eyes were tired, her face as grey as a London sky. The door creaked softly, and in walked her mother-in-law, Margaret.
“Up this late, dear?” Margaret asked, reaching for the jug of water.
“Just thinking,” Emily murmured, barely audible.
Margaret took a sip and turned to leave, but Emily suddenly lifted her head.
“Stay, please. We need to talk. Just close the door behind you.”
Margaret paused, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “What’s happened?”
“Sit down. I… I have to tell you about James.”
Margaret settled into a chair, glass in hand, as Emily began. The more she spoke, the paler her mother-in-law grew, as if the words had stolen her breath.
“No, Emily, I won’t turn anyone out at this hour. You and the child can leave in the morning. I’ve work to get to anyway—just wake me when you’re ready.”
“Couldn’t we delay the renovations? Tom and I could go to the cottage in the summer. It’s freezing now, and James will be back by then—”
“Can’t. Prices will skyrocket, and I refuse to live in dust all summer.”
“There’ll be dust either way,” Emily pointed out carefully.
“And your things need to be out. I won’t repeat myself. Don’t play the martyr. My son took you and the child in—least you could do is keep quiet.”
“But he’s your grandson!” Emily blurted.
“Is he? James has a daughter with that woman he met up north. She’s my granddaughter. This one… well, that’s yet to be proven.”
Emily froze. The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“He’s nearly four. You’re only saying this now? Where exactly am I meant to go with a child?”
“No idea,” Margaret shrugged. “Not my concern.”
Emily had met James five years ago. No Adonis, but steady. Past the age of grand romances—both grown, both practical. She worked as a school cook; he was a labourer who often left for contracts abroad. When she fell pregnant, he suggested they marry—no fuss, just a quick registry office affair.
They lived with his mother. Margaret resented the intrusion—a stranger in her home, and pregnant, no less. She cherished her quiet, her solitude, her routines. Now someone sang in the shower, clattered about, and soon a baby wailed day and night. Worse, her son visited the allotment less.
Most of all, she doubted Emily’s motives. A gold-digger, surely. And that boy—was he even James’s?
Now, with renovations planned, she’d ordered Emily and the child out. Emily dug her heels in—nowhere to go, though an aunt had offered a spare room. Margaret wouldn’t budge. Everything grated: toy-scattered floors, the stench of baby food.
When James suddenly stopped answering messages, Emily panicked. He never went silent. She waited till morning—his phone was off.
“He never switches it off,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. “Something’s wrong.”
“Probably asleep,” Margaret muttered. “Why the dramatics?”
“We text every day. Never missed before.”
“Ring his foreman. Go on.”
Emily dialled. A minute later, she went white.
“He’s in hospital. Collapsed… they took him in.”
“What?!” Margaret sank into a chair. “Who knew?”
“His… ex-wife. She was informed. Not us.”
“I’ll go!” Margaret sprang up.
“No, the renovations. I’ll take Tom to my aunt’s and go myself. I’ll find out everything.”
Three weeks later, Emily returned with James—weak, stroke-damaged, his left side sluggish. But he joked, talked, fought.
Emily never left his side. Hunting specialists, booking rehab, surviving on three hours’ sleep, racing to physio, injections, exercises. As if her sole purpose was to stitch him back together.
One evening, as Margaret washed up, Emily said quietly, “I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t let him know.”
The truth: James had visited his ex to see his daughter. A stranger opened the door—a little boy, his mirror image, blond with a dimpled cheek. Later, his ex confessed: that man was the real father. She’d been scared, and James—convenient.
James sat on a park bench, and his heart gave out.
“So,” Margaret exhaled, “my granddaughter… isn’t?”
“Exactly.”
After that, Margaret watched Emily differently. Saw how she lived for James—massaging his limp hand, planning meals, researching treatments. Where was that “stranger” now? That “gold-digger”?
One night, as Emily hunched over her laptop, Margaret turned.
“Tell me honestly. Is Tom James’s boy?”
Emily didn’t answer at once. Then she looked up.
“The truth’s right in front of you. We started dating under your roof. Maybe I didn’t faint with love, but I chose him. And I stayed. Do you really need a test to see that?”
Margaret burst into tears, then hugged her tight.
“Forgive me. Silly old woman. Blind as a bat.”
Emily’s eyes welled up too.
“And you forgive me. I’m no angel. But we’re family. Aren’t we?”
Just then, James shuffled in.
“What’s all this? Something wrong?”
“Happy tears, love,” Margaret smiled. “Because everything’s alright.”
“Women,” James chuckled. “Cry when it’s bad, cry when it’s good—”
“At least we’re never boring!” Emily hugged him, and Margaret winked.
“And most importantly—you’re stuck with us.”
