*Diary Entry*
Mum, if you interfere, I’ll leave. For good.
On her birthday, Eleanor woke early, chopped veggies for salads, marinated the meat, peeled potatoes, then dashed to the hairdresser’s. When she returned, she plunged straight back into cooking.
“Happy birthday, Mum! You look gorgeous. Your passport’s lying—bet you’re ten years younger,” Andrew mumbled, still in his boxers, kissing her cheek.
“Get dressed and help me. I’ll never finish alone,” Eleanor said.
“Right, be quick.” Halfway to the bathroom, he paused. “What about calling Emily? She’s better at this.”
“Good idea. Ring her,” Eleanor agreed.
By the time Andrew—shaved, dressed, and smelling of cologne—returned, Emily was dicing vegetables while Eleanor polished wine glasses.
“Teamwork,” Andrew mused, swiping a cucumber slice. Emily turned, lips puckered, but he stepped away. Eleanor noticed. *Shy around me*, she thought.
“Andrew, set the table. Tablecloth’s on the top shelf,” she said, smoothing the moment.
“Aye aye!” He snapped a mock salute, damp hair flopping.
“Grown man, acting like a boy,” Eleanor smiled.
“Mum, how many guests?” he called from the lounge.
“Nine, including us.”
She’d raised him alone, and he’d turned out well. Eleanor had always dreamed of a big, close family. Her father died young; her husband left when Andrew was three. She never remarried. Now, if only Andrew would settle down—twenty-six, prime age. Emily was perfect: quiet, polite, good family. God willing, they’d marry, give her grandchildren… Eleanor grinned at the thought.
The roast was nearly done. Time to boil the spuds.
“Emily, don’t forget the bread—” The doorbell cut her off.
Eleanor scanned the table, checked her reflection, ditched the apron, and answered.
Guests trickled in. Roses perfumed the air beside gift-wrapped boxes on the coffee table. Andrew knew them all: Mum’s childhood friend with her husband, the accounting manager from work—single, naturally—and another colleague with hers. They hovered, eyeing the feast.
But Eleanor waited. Andrew guessed—someone else was coming. Who?
“Starving here,” Emily whined.
“Hold on. Mum’s expecting someone,” Andrew squeezed her hand.
Finally, the bell rang. Eleanor rushed to greet a striking woman. “Everyone, this is Olivia, my old neighbour. I was in Year 9 when she started primary. Her mum asked me to watch her. Didn’t recognise her—she spotted me first!”
“Knew you straight away,” Olivia said, voice like a melody. Probably sang, Andrew thought.
Her grey dress clung neatly; honeyed waves framed a warm, smiling face.
“Dig in, everyone!” Eleanor announced.
Chairs scraped. Andrew sat opposite Mum’s colleagues, Emily beside him, Olivia on his other side. Her expensive perfume teased his senses. Men glanced curiously; women, wary.
He raised the wine, eyebrows lifting toward Olivia. Their faces neared—close enough to spot gold flecks in her eyes. She nodded.
*How old? Older than me, but Mum said…* Emily interrupted his maths. A guest stood for the toast. Andrew barely heard, distracted by Olivia’s scent, her nearness… He clinked her glass mid-speech.
“What about me?” Emily pouted.
He turned reluctantly. “Want salad? Mum says it’s good.”
“Whatever.” He drained his glass.
“Didn’t expect Eleanor’s son to be so grown,” Olivia murmured. “Working or studying?”
“Graduated three years back. Job in finance.”
“Figures. With a mum like her.”
They talked heads bent, elbows brushing. Each touch sent heat through him. He leaned closer—but she shifted away.
Emily nagged something. Andrew scowled. After more wine, the room buzzed pleasantly.
“Andrew, music!” Eleanor called.
They’d prepped the playlist. Nineties hits poured from the speakers. Women migrated to the sofa; men vanished for a smoke. Eleanor cleared plates. Emily played hostess—*like a wife*, Andrew fumed.
Olivia lingered, unsure. He approached. “Dance?”
A brow arched. Finally, her hands settled on his shoulders. They swayed in cramped space, eyes level, close.
Men returned, claiming partners. Crowded, Andrew and Olivia slipped to the hall. She took her coat.
“Leaving?” he asked, dropping formalities.
“Just popped in to say happy birthday. Apologise to your mum.”
He glanced back—Emily’s accusing stare chased him out. He grabbed his jacket.
“I’ll walk you,” he said downstairs.
She nodded. “Call a cab? These shoes wrecked my feet.”
“Left my phone.” He’d sprint back if she asked.
“Don’t bother.” She dialled, recited an address. Andrew memorised it.
“Three minutes. Go back—your mum’s alone.”
He stayed. The cab arrived. Olivia slid in. Andrew hesitated, then followed.
Silence. In the lift, eyes averted. Inside her flat, he pulled her close. She kissed back.
He returned at dawn.
“Where *were* you?” Eleanor hissed.
The flat was bright, table cleared.
“Walking Olivia home. Why’re you up?” He avoided her gaze.
“Emily cried! How could you embarrass her?”
“Mum, *you* decided she’s right for me. I don’t want to marry her.”
“But—”
“It’s *my* life. Let me choose.”
“Wait…” Eleanor gasped. “You were *with* Olivia? Had I known—”
“Enough. Bed.” He retreated, replaying Olivia’s scent, her touch…
Morning: Eleanor’s voice woke him.
“*You*? He’s young enough to be your— I never thought you’d— Leave him alone!”
“Who’re you calling?” Andrew emerged.
His mother jumped. Hair wild, shadows under her eyes.
“I told her to back off. You’ve got Emily—”
“I *don’t*. You railroaded me.” He sighed, brushed past to the bathroom.
“Wait!” She banged the door. He ran the tap to drown her out.
Later, she slumped at the kitchen table. He knelt, hands on her knees.
“Mum, stop deciding for me. *My* life.”
“Son…” She reached for him; he dodged.
“I love her.”
“You hardly know her! She’s *older*—”
He stood, towering. “Interfere, and I’m gone. For good.”
“Fine. Breakfast?” She fetched cake remnants.
After, he headed out.
“Where? *Her*?” She clutched at him.
“Mum.” He gently lowered her hands. “I love you. But I can’t live without her.”
“Don’t be late—work tomorrow,” she sniffled.
“It’ll be alright.”
Olivia opened the door, unsurprised.
“Eleanor said—”
“Forget her.” He kissed her.
Eleanor paced, wringing her hands. *How to save him from this mistake?*
Two weeks later, Andrew took leave. They flew to Spain. He returned sunburnt, announced they’d filed for marriage. Eleanor sank onto the sofa.
“Think it through—”
“I *need* her.”
A registry office, no fuss. Andrew moved out. Called daily. *He’ll come back*, Eleanor told herself. He didn’t.
Eventually, she visited. Olivia had gained weight. Fussed with tea, ignoring Eleanor’s stiff smiles. *Too late—they’re having a baby.*
A plump, beautiful girl arrived. Olivia phoned often—*how to bathe her? When to walk?*
Time softened things. Eleanor babysat. She and Olivia grew close again.
Once, she spotted Emily in a shop, screeching at some bloke. *So much for “quiet Emily,”* Eleanor thought. *Olivia never raises her voice. Lets Andrew lead.*
Andrew doted on his daughter—shoulder rides, bedtime stories. Olivia glowed watching them.
Eleanor couldn’t imagine life without her granddaughter now. She’d nearly lost her son. But here they were—the big, happy family she’d always wanted. Andrew was content. So was she. What more could a mother ask?
