Stanley Andrews, or simply Stan to friends and colleagues, had recently been promoted to department head at a large firm in Manchester. The raise was well-earned—hardworking, quiet, punctual. He never pushed for leadership but moved forward steadily. Congratulations at work were modest: Stan offered a faint smile, thanked everyone, and promised to ensure the team never regretted his appointment.
His mother, Margaret Elizabeth, was overjoyed. She had once dragged him to doctors, hired tutors, bought him winter coats, and set aside bits of her pension for his university. She insisted he treat his colleagues to homemade food—pies, salads, snacks. Though Stan initially waved her off, he agreed in the end—he couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
On the celebration day, he drove to his mother’s to collect the food. She had a cardiologist appointment, so she’d left everything packed in the fridge. During his short lunch break, Stan decided not to carry it all himself and asked a new colleague, Emily, to come along and help. She eagerly agreed.
Emily, fair-haired and green-eyed, was the kind of woman who turned heads. Office whispers claimed she had her sights on Stan—always flirting, smiling, asking for lifts…
They stepped into his mother’s flat, modest but tidy and warm. Stan opened the fridge and began pulling out containers. Emily settled onto a stool, glancing around.
“Cosy place your mum’s got… Proper homely. Who’s this?”
A small black dog trotted out from the room, growling at the stranger.
“This is Spot,” Stan explained, scooping her up. “Don’t worry, she’s friendly.”
“Spot? Odd name,” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Keep it away from me. Might snag my tights.”
Stan fell silent. Her expression stung, somehow. But that wasn’t all—from the hall emerged a plump black cat, rubbing grandly against his legs.
“And this is Duke,” Stan said softly, pulling boiled fish from the fridge. “Here you go, old chap.”
Emily retreated toward the door.
“Bit of a zoo here. Cat and dog in a tiny flat? Must be unhygienic… hair, smells… Your mum’s not allergic?”
“Are you?” Stan asked quietly.
“Me? No… dunno. Never had pets. Don’t like ‘em. Dirty things…”
Stan kept packing the bags, smile gone. Emily hovered, shooing away Spot, who kept sniffing at her shoes.
“I’ll swing by tonight, walk them,” Stan finally said. “Mum’ll scold me for overfeeding, but how can you not spoil them?”
“Wasting time on pets… Suppose someone has to,” Emily muttered with a half-smirk, edging toward the exit.
On the way back, she chattered about the new canteen menu, Vera’s awful skirt, how the accountant had married for the third time. Stan walked in silence, nodding occasionally. His head buzzed: “Hollow. False. Wrong one…”
Back at the office, they congratulated him—handed him a thermos, hugged him, clapped his shoulder. After work, they set out food, drank a little, ate a lot. Emily hovered—another joke, another glance, another offer for a lift. But Stan said calmly,
“Sorry, I’ve somewhere to be. Important.”
At home, his mother waited.
“How’d it go?” she asked brightly, opening the door.
“Smashing, Mum. Your pies vanished first. Said they tasted posh. Forgot all about me…”
“What about that girl—Emily? Neighbour saw her, said she’s a looker. That her?”
“No. Just a colleague. Truth is, there’s no one yet. I lied to cheer you up. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. But if there was… what’s she got to be like, this ‘right one’?”
Stan thought.
“Kind. Gentle. Clever. And… loves you. And Duke. And Spot.”
His mother smiled.
“Oh, Stan, love… long as she loves you, she’ll take us all. Even the balding cat with attitude.”
He nodded, then grabbed the lead, called both “beasts,” and stepped outside. The three of them dashed across the courtyard, as if back in simpler days—Mum at home, a bun in his satchel, a pup in his arms, a cat on his shoulder, and all of life ahead.
His mother watched from the window, fist clenched.
“Thirty years old, department head, still a boy at heart. God send you real love, son… And make sure she loves all of you at once. Duke. Spot. And your mum.”
