Stanley Andrews, or simply Stan to friends and colleagues, had recently been promoted to department manager at a large firm in Manchester. The promotion was well-earned—hardworking, quiet, and punctual, he never pushed himself forward but advanced steadily nonetheless. Congratulations at the office were understated; Stan offered a faint smile, thanked everyone, and assured them he’d do his best to prove their trust in him justified.
No one was prouder than his mother, Margaret Elizabeth. She was the one who’d once dragged him to doctor’s appointments, hired tutors, bought him winter coats, and skimped on her pension to save for his university. It was she who insisted he celebrate with his colleagues by bringing homemade treats—pies, salads, snacks. Though Stan had initially brushed it off, he agreed in the end. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
On the day of the celebration, he drove to his mother’s to collect the food. She had a cardiologist appointment, so everything was already packed neatly 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 agreed eagerly.
Emily, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, was the kind of woman who turned heads. Whispered rumours swirled around the office—how she had her sights set on Stan, always flirting, smiling, angling for a lift home…
They stepped into his mother’s flat, modest but immaculate and cosy. Stan opened the fridge and began stacking containers onto the counter. Emily perched on a stool, glancing around.
“Your mum’s place is lovely… So homely. And who’s this?!”
A small black dog trotted out from the hallway, growling softly at the stranger.
“That’s Bumble,” Stan explained, scooping her up. “Don’t worry, she’s friendly.”
“Bumble? What a name,” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Keep her away from me. She’ll ruin my tights.”
Stan fell silent. The distaste on her face stung in a way he hadn’t expected. But that wasn’t all—from the corridor lumbered a plump black cat, rubbing regally against his legs.
“And this is Lord Whiskers,” Stan murmured affectionately, pulling a tin of sardines from the fridge. “Here you go, old boy.”
Emily edged toward the door.
“Blimey, it’s a menagerie in here. A cat and a dog in such a tiny flat? The hair, the smell… Doesn’t your mum have allergies?”
“Do you?” Stan asked quietly.
“Me? No… I wouldn’t know. We never had pets. Can’t stand them. Filthy things.”
Stan continued packing the bags in silence, his smile gone. Emily hovered nearby, swatting Bumble away as the dog sniffed at her shoes.
“I’ll come by tonight to walk them,” Stan said finally. “Mum’ll scold me for overfeeding them, but how can you resist?”
“Wasting time on animals, honestly. Well, someone’s got to, I suppose,” Emily muttered, half-smirking as she moved toward the door.
On the drive back, she chattered about the new canteen menu, about Vera from accounting’s third marriage, about office gossip. Stan barely spoke, nodding occasionally. His head buzzed: “Empty. False. Wrong.”
Back at the office, colleagues handed him a thermos, hugged him, clapped his shoulder. After work, they celebrated—a few drinks, plenty of food. Emily hovered—another joke, another glance, another offer for a lift. But Stan only shook his head.
“Sorry, I’ve got to dash. Important plans.”
At home, his mother was waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked, beaming as she opened the door.
“Perfect. Your pies disappeared first. Said they tasted like they came from a proper bakery. Forgot all about me.”
“And that girl you brought round—Emily? The neighbour saw her. Said she was stunning. Is she…?”
“No. Just a colleague. And honestly… there’s no one right now. I told you that before just to make you happy. Sorry.”
“Alright then. But if there ever is—what should she be like, this ‘right one’?”
Stan thought for a moment.
“Kind. Gentle. Clever. And… she’d love you. And Lord Whiskers. And Bumble.”
His mother smiled.
“Oh, Stan. As long as she loves you, she’ll love us all. Even that balding old cat with his airs.”
He nodded. Then he grabbed the lead, called for both “the beasts,” and headed out. The three of them raced across the courtyard like they were back in simpler days—Mum at home, a jam tart in his schoolbag, a puppy in his arms, a cat on his shoulder, and the whole world ahead.
His mother watched from the window, fists clenched.
“Thirty years old, a department manager, and still a boy at heart. May you find real love, son. And may she love all of you at once. Lord Whiskers. Bumble. And your mum.”
