“Mum, if you interfere, I’ll leave. Forever.”
On her birthday, Helen rose early—chopped vegetables for salads, marinated the beef, scrubbed the potatoes—then slipped out to the hairdresser’s. Returning, she threw herself back into cooking.
“Happy birthday, Mum! You look gorgeous. The year on your passport’s a lie—you’re ten years younger.” Andrew, still in his boxers, freshly woken, kissed her cheek.
“Get dressed and help me. I won’t finish alone,” Helen said.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a sec.” Halfway to the bathroom, he paused. “Should we call Katie? She’s better at this.”
“Good idea. Ring her—ask her to come.”
When Andrew returned—clean-shaven, dressed, doused in cologne—Katie was already dicing vegetables while Helen polished wine glasses.
“Look at you two, teamwork.” Andrew swiped a slice of cucumber from the board.
Katie turned, lips parted expectantly, but he didn’t kiss her. Helen noticed. *He’s shy*, she thought.
“Andrew, set the table—the cloth’s on the top shelf,” she said, smoothing the awkwardness.
“Aye aye, Captain!” He jerked to attention, flicking damp hair from his forehead.
“Grown man, acts like a boy,” Helen chuckled.
“How many guests, Mum?” he called from the living room.
“Nine, including us.”
She’d raised him alone, and he’d turned out well. Helen had always dreamed of a big, close-knit family. Her father died young; her husband left three years after Andrew’s birth. She’d never tried again. *Once he marries, I’ll have that family.* But why was he dragging his feet? Twenty-six—prime time. And Katie was perfect: sweet, respectable. God willing, they’d wed, give her grandchildren… Helen smiled at the thought.
The beef was nearly done. Time to boil the potatoes.
“Katie, don’t forget the bread—” The doorbell cut her off.
Helen surveyed the table, checked her reflection—hair still neat?—shucked her apron, and answered.
Guests trickled in. Roses crowded the coffee table, their scent thick. Gift bags and ribbon-tied boxes piled beside them.
Andrew knew them all: Mum’s childhood friend and her husband, the head of accounting from her office (husbandless, unsurprisingly), another colleague with hers. They hovered, chatting, eyeing the spread.
But Helen lingered. Waiting.
“I’m starving,” Katie muttered.
“Hold on, Mum’s expecting someone.” Andrew squeezed her hand.
Finally, the bell rang. Helen rushed to greet the latecomer, returning arm-in-arm with a striking woman.
“Meet Olivia, my old neighbour. I was in Year 9 when she started primary—her mum asked me to watch her. Barely recognised her!”
“I knew you straight away,” Olivia said. Her voice was light, musical. *Probably sings*, Andrew thought.
Her grey dress clung neatly. Sun-streaked waves framed a warm, smiling face.
“Everyone, dig in!” Helen announced.
Chairs scraped. Andrew sat opposite Mum’s colleagues, Katie beside him, Olivia on his other side. Her perfume—expensive, subtle—wrapped around him. The men eyed her; the women, wary.
Andrew lifted the wine, brows raised. Olivia nodded. Their faces close, he spotted gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
*How old is she? A bit older than me?*
Katie tugged his sleeve. “What should I try first?”
“Whatever.” He drained his glass.
After toasts, Helen asked for music. The nineties playlist kicked in. Women relocated to the sofa; men stepped out to smoke. Katie helped clear plates—playing wife, *infuriating* Andrew.
Olivia lingered, uncertain.
“Dance?” he asked.
She arched a brow but slid her hands onto his shoulders. They swayed in the cramped space, eyes locked.
When the men returned, they edged into the hall. Olivia grabbed her coat.
“Leaving?” Andrew asked, dropping the formal *you*.
“Just popped in to say happy birthday.” She kissed his cheek. “Apologise to your mum.”
Katie’s wounded glare followed him as he snatched his jacket and bolted after Olivia.
“Call a cab?” she asked outside, rubbing her heel. “New shoes.”
“Left my phone—”
“Don’t bother.” She booked one. Andrew memorised her address.
“Three minutes. Go back to your guests.”
He didn’t move.
When the cab arrived, he hesitated, then slid in beside her.
Silence. The lift. The flat. Then—
He kissed her. She kissed back.
He returned at dawn.
“Where were you?” Helen hissed.
“With Olivia. Why are you up?”
“You humiliated Katie! Why?”
“*You* decided she was right for me. I don’t want her.”
“But—”
“I’m an adult. Let me choose.”
A realisation struck Helen. “You were with *her*? If I’d known—”
“Enough. I’m going to bed.”
Birdsong greeted the morning. Olivia’s scent lingered on his skin.
Helen’s voice woke him.
“How could you? He’s young enough to be your—”
“Who are you calling?” Andrew appeared.
She started. Hair wild, shadows under her eyes.
“I told her to back off. You have a fiancée—”
“I don’t. You and Katie decided that.” He passed her, showered.
When he emerged, she sat slumped. He crouched before her.
“Mum, let me live my life. Please.”
“Son—” She reached for him; he dodged.
“I love her.”
“You barely know her! She’s older—”
He stood. “If you interfere, I’ll leave. For good.”
They breakfasted in silence.
As he left, she grabbed his wrists.
“To her?”
He pried her off. “I love you. But I can’t live without her.”
Olivia opened the door instantly. Unsurprised.
“Helen said—”
“Forget her.” He pulled her close.
Helen paced, wringing her hands. How to save him?
Two weeks later, Andrew took leave. They flew to Spain. Returned tan, resolved.
“We’ve filed for marriage.”
Helen gasped. “Think—”
“I *have*.”
A registry office, no fuss. He moved out. Called daily. *He’ll come back*, she told herself.
Months passed. He didn’t.
She visited. Olivia had gained weight. Fussed over tea. Helen’s smile strained. *Too late—they’re having a child.*
A plump, rosy girl arrived. Olivia phoned often—*How to bathe her? When to walk?*
Gradually, peace came. Helen babysat. She and Olivia grew close.
Once, she spotted Katie in a shop, screeching at her boyfriend. *Who knew quiet Katie had that in her?*
Andrew doted on his daughter—shoulder rides, bedtime stories. Olivia beamed.
Helen couldn’t imagine life without them. *I nearly lost him.*
Her family—finally—was complete.
Andrew was happy.
So was she.
What more could a mother want?
