“You’ll love her, Mum. She’s absolutely brilliant!” Ilya exclaimed excitedly. “Won’t living with someone brilliant get old?” Alexandra quipped dryly.
Alexandra stood by the stove, listening. When her husband was alive, she always made sure dinner was ready by the time he came home. He had died eight years ago. Now, she waited the same way for her son to return from work.
The lock clicked, and Ilya’s voice called from the hallway:
“Mum, I’m home.”
“I hear you,” Alexandra replied with a smile.
“What’s for dinner? Meat pies and fried potatoes?” Ilya hugged her and peered over her shoulder, inhaling the savoury scent of his favourite fried spuds with spring onions.
Alexandra turned off the gas, covering the frying pan.
“You’re in a good mood. What’s happened?” She could always read his tone.
Ilya stepped back.
“Mum, I’m getting married.”
“About time. So, why hasn’t Emily dropped by?” Alexandra turned to face him, studying his suddenly serious expression.
“I’m marrying Audrey.”
A chill ran down Alexandra’s spine. Her son had long since grown up, only showing affection now in rare moments of joy or openness.
“Promising name. What about Emily?”
“Emily’s getting married on Saturday. I don’t want to talk about it, Mum. Let’s eat.”
“Well, at least her wedding hasn’t spoiled your appetite. Wash your hands.”
Alexandra set a plate of potatoes in front of him, sat down opposite with her chin propped on her hand, and watched him eat.
“So, Audrey—who is she?”
“She’s lovely. You’ll see. I want you to meet her. Saturday, maybe?” Ilya paused, looking up. “You’ll adore her, Mum, I promise. She’s one in a million!”
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen a wealthier man—Alexandra had heard that from Emily’s mother, an old school friend. They’d hoped their children might marry, but fate had other plans.
“You can have too much of a good thing. Won’t living with perfection get tiresome?” she teased.
“Mum, not funny.”
“Wasn’t joking. Tell me about her. What makes her so special?”
“Why fixate on the word?” Ilya hesitated. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though just started last year. Serious, well-read. We’re happy together.”
“And her parents?”
“Dad’s an engineer. Mum stays home.”
“And she’s from…?” Alexandra left the question hanging.
“Does it matter?” Ilya snapped.
“I suppose not. So, not local. Planning to live here?”
“If you object, we’ll rent a flat,” Ilya met her gaze.
“Not at all. I’ll be glad for the company. What would I do alone? Wait for grandchildren. If we don’t get along, you can move out later.”
“Audrey doesn’t want kids yet. Wants to focus on her career.”
“Audrey doesn’t want, Audrey’s decided…” Alexandra mimicked. “Fine, invite your miracle over for lunch.” She stood and took his empty plate to the sink.
“You’re the best mum in the world,” Ilya said, rising too.
“Hope you remember that after you’re married.”
Alexandra washed up, lost in thought. *A teacher. Evenings spent marking assignments, weekends on school trips…* She sighed. *He’s grown up so fast. Pity his father didn’t live to see this.*
Come Saturday, Alexandra was up early, cooking. Ilya took ages dressing, fussing over shirts and ties before leaving to fetch Audrey.
Alexandra tried picturing the brilliant schoolteacher but could only summon images of classic British actresses.
Audrey turned out to be a slight girl, straight-haired, with large eyes. Pretty—but not strikingly so. She ate sparingly, politely complimenting each dish. Barely touched her wine. Ilya, watching her, didn’t drink either.
“Don’t be shy, Audrey,” Alexandra encouraged.
*Nervous, scared of me. First time meeting the fiancé’s mum,* she thought. *What does he see in her? Or is he rushing into this to spite Emily? Ah, Emily, Emily…*
Two months later, they had a quiet wedding. Audrey’s parents came—her mother quiet, submissive; her father jovial, boasting how he’d named his daughter after a character from his favourite film.
“Hardly flattering,” Alexandra remarked.
“Mum!” Ilya hissed.
Strange pair. The father drank, praising his daughter to the skies; the mother sat stiffly, barely speaking.
They left gifts—linens, quilts—a generous traditional dowry. The father ruled the roost. Rare these days. Alexandra reciprocated with presents of her own.
After the newlyweds moved in, Audrey never lifted a finger—never offered to cook or shop. Days passed, tension simmering. Alexandra wasn’t about to play housemaid to her daughter-in-law. She resolved to talk to her.
Then one breakfast, Ilya mispronounced a word. Audrey corrected him—twice. Alexandra bit her tongue, furious for her son.
Later, she confronted Audrey. “He’s a grown man. Don’t humiliate him.”
“I can’t stand incorrect speech,” Audrey replied coolly.
“You never correct your father.”
Audrey left without answering. *She’ll whine to Ilya now.* Sure enough, that evening, he announced they were moving out.
“Audrey’s upset? Well, it’s your life,” Alexandra said.
“You’re not angry?”
“Course not. World’s best mum, remember?”
Alone, she cooked out of habit. One day, Ilya dropped by, smelled his favourite potatoes, and gulped. She served him immediately. He ate ravenously.
She noticed he’d lost weight, looked weary. *Probably lives on takeaway.* She sent him off with leftovers. After that, he visited often—especially weekends when Audrey was out with her students.
Two months later, he returned with bags.
“Fight?” Alexandra asked.
“Just tired. Work all day, then cook, clean, iron. She makes me read Dickens, Wilde—like I’m back in school.”
“Had your fill of perfection?”
“Don’t start, Mum.”
“What now? What about Audrey?”
“Dunno,” he muttered.
Alexandra often recalled her late husband. They’d met at uni—shared interests, supported each other. Ilya came late, a miracle. Now this…
Life resumed. Ilya joked again, went out evenings. She hoped it was to see Audrey—until Emily’s mother spilled the beans in the shops.
“Your Ilya’s seeing my Emily again.”
“Emily’s still married, isn’t she?”
“Doesn’t stop her.”
Alexandra’s heart clenched. *That girl’ll ruin him.*
At home, Ilya dodged her questions but didn’t deny it.
One evening, he didn’t return. She wasn’t worried—grown man, busy. But as hours passed, she grew uneasy. No calls. His phone was off.
Then Emily rang. “Aunt Sandra—Ilya’s in hospital.”
Her heart lurched. “What happened?”
“He was beaten. Badly. Hurry—St. Thomas’.”
Alexandra scrambled for a cab, rushed through sterile corridors, heels clicking frantically.
Emily, pale and trembling, met her.
“In surgery. Skull fracture, internal bleeding.”
“Who did this?!”
“My husband’s bodyguards. Tracked us. I never thought—”
No time for blame. The surgeon emerged—Ilya would live, but recovery would be slow.
Emily visited once, then vanished. Ilya asked for her. Alexandra lied, said she’d come while he slept.
Then Audrey arrived—heard from neighbours. She stayed, nursing him tirelessly. Broth, massage, patience. Alexandra watched, astonished.
When he could walk again (with a cane), they strolled in the park. Alexandra urged them to move back.
Finally, Ilya announced they were starting fresh.
*Would she have stayed if he’d been crippled?* Alexandra wondered. But he was healing, happy. Maybe she *was* brilliant.
One evening, Audrey devoured cake, blushing when Alexandra raised an eyebrow.
“The baby wants it.”
“Baby?!”
“Nine weeks.”
Alexandra wept.
So life unfolded. Audrey, fearing she’d become her meek mother, nearly lost Ilya. But love had won.
Parents should remember—children often repeat their own marriages.
