“You’ll love her, Mum. She’s absolutely amazing!” Ilya said excitedly. “Won’t living with ‘amazing’ get tiresome?” Alexandra asked dryly.
Alexandra stood by the stove, listening. When her husband was alive, she always timed dinner for his return. He had passed eight years ago. Now, she waited the same way for her son to come home from work.
The front door clicked open. “Mum, I’M home,” Ilya called.
“I can hear,” she replied, smiling.
“What’s for dinner? Burgers and chips?” He hugged her, peering over her shoulder, inhaling the scent of his favourite crispy potatoes with spring onions.
Alexandra turned off the gas, covering the frying pan.
“You’re in a good mood. What happened?” His tone always betrayed his mood.
Ilya stepped back. “Mum, I’m getting married.”
“About time. Why hasn’t Emily visited lately?” She turned to face him, studying his darkened expression.
“I’m marrying Sophie.”
A chill ran down Alexandra’s spine. Her son had long been grown—he only hugged her now in rare, tender moments.
“Promising name. What about Emily?”
“Emily’s getting married on Saturday. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s eat.”
“At least her wedding hasn’t spoiled your appetite. Wash your hands.”
Alexandra served him a plate of chips, sitting opposite with her chin propped on her hand, watching him eat.
“And this Sophie—who is she?”
“She’s lovely. You’ll see. I’d like you to meet her. Maybe Saturday?” He stopped eating, looking at her. “You’ll adore her, I promise. She’s brilliant!”
He’d said the same about Emily—how she’d chosen wealthier. Alexandra had heard it from Emily’s mother, an old school friend who’d hoped their kids would marry. They’d bumped into each other at the shops, and the woman had apologised for her daughter’s choice.
“Too much brilliance can be exhausting. Won’t you tire of living with brilliance?” she teased.
“Mum, not funny.”
“I’m not laughing. Tell me about her. What’s so brilliant?”
“Why fixate on the word?” He hesitated. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though it’s her first year. Very smart, well-read. I’m happy with her.”
“And her parents?”
“Dad’s an engineer, Mum’s a homemaker.”
“And she’s from…?” Alexandra trailed off, waiting.
“Does it matter?” he snapped.
“I suppose not. So, not local. Where will you live?”
“If you’re against it, we’ll rent.” He searched her eyes.
“No, not at all. I’d be happy. What else have I got to do? I’ll wait for grandchildren. If it doesn’t work out, then rent.”
“Sophie doesn’t want kids yet. Wants to work, gain experience.”
“Sophie doesn’t want, Sophie decides…” Alexandra mimicked. “Fine, invite your brilliant girl for dinner.” She stood, clearing his empty plate.
“You’re the best mum,” Ilya said, rising too.
“I hope you remember that after you’re married.”
Alexandra washed dishes, lost in thought. A teacher—evenings spent marking, weekends on school trips… She sighed. How quickly Ilya had grown. A shame his father hadn’t lived to see it.
Saturday morning, Alexandra cooked while Ilya fussed over his tie and shirt. Then he left to fetch Sophie.
Alexandra tried picturing the brilliant teacher but only recalled actresses playing stern roles.
Sophie was slight, with long straight hair and large eyes. Pretty, but unremarkable. She ate sparingly, politely praised each dish, barely sipped her wine. Ilya barely drank either.
“Don’t be shy, Sophie,” Alexandra encouraged.
Nervous, intimidated by meeting her fiancé’s mother? Alexandra wondered what Ilya saw in her. Or was he rushing into marriage to spite Emily?
A quiet wedding followed two months later. Sophie’s parents arrived—her mother meek, silent; her father joking, admitting he’d named his daughter after a film character he’d fancied as a boy.
“An odd choice. Why not the actress’s name?” Alexandra remarked.
“I told him,” Sophie’s mother whispered, glancing at her husband before falling silent.
“And were you named after a murdered queen?” he shot back.
“No. They wanted a boy—planned the name in advance. So, I became Alexandra.”
Strange pair. The father drank, boasting about his daughter; the mother, stiff-backed, spoke little.
Ilya showed them around town. They’d brought bedsheets, quilts—a generous dowry by old English standards. The father ruled the house—rare these days. Alexandra reciprocated with gifts.
After the couple moved out, life settled. Sophie never offered help—returned from work, retreated to their room. Requests for aid were met with reluctance.
Annoyance simmered. Sophie was used to being waited on. Alexandra wouldn’t tolerate it.
Then, at breakfast, Ilya mispronounced a word. Sophie corrected him. He flushed, mispronounced it again—she corrected him again.
Alexandra stayed quiet but burned inside.
Later, she thanked Sophie for “educating” Ilya but suggested corrections in private.
“I can’t stand mispronunciations,” Sophie said coolly.
“You don’t correct your father.”
Sophie left speechless.
Ilya soon announced they were moving out.
“Sophie’s offended?” Alexandra asked.
“Are you?”
“No. I’m the best mum, remember?” She hid her hurt. Let them learn.
Ilya’s friends stopped calling—Sophie kept him busy. He grew thinner, quieter. He began visiting Alexandra, devouring her cooking.
Two months later, he returned with his bags.
“Fight?”
“Just tired. I cook, clean, shop, launder… Work’s exhausting too. She makes me read classics—Turgenev, Wilde. Feels like I’m her student, not her husband.”
“Had enough brilliance?”
“Don’t start.”
“What now?”
“Dunno.”
Alexandra often recalled her late husband—their shared studies, laughter. Ilya had come late, a joy after years of waiting. Now this.
Life improved when Ilya returned—joking, going out. Then a friend revealed: “Your Ilya’s seeing Emily again.”
“Emily’s still married!”
“And sneaking around.”
Alexandra’s heart sank.
At home, Ilya dodged questions but didn’t deny it.
One evening, he didn’t return. Phone off. Alexandra paced, frantic. Then Emily called.
“Aunt Alex, Ilya’s in hospital!”
“What happened?”
“Beaten badly. Come quick.”
Alexandra flew there, legs buckling as she reached the waiting room.
Emily, pale, explained: “My husband’s bodyguards. I didn’t think he’d go this far.”
Alexandra couldn’t comfort her.
The doctor said Ilya would live—but unconscious, unstable.
Emily vanished after one visit. Ilya asked for her. Alexandra lied: “She came while you slept.”
Then Sophie arrived—heard from neighbours. She took over, nursing Ilya, bringing broth, letting Alexandra rest.
He recovered slowly, walking unsteadily.
Alexandra lied again: “Emily’s ill—can’t visit.”
Home at last, Sophie massaged him, helped him walk—stronger than she looked. She shopped, cooked, worked.
“You’ve changed,” Alexandra said.
“I saw what my mum became under Dad’s thumb. I fought becoming like her—pushed Ilya too hard. Almost lost him.”
“You silly girl.”
They talked till dawn.
Later, walking in the park, Ilya announced they’d start fresh.
Doubt crept in—would Sophie have stayed if he’d stayed disabled? But he was alive, happy. Maybe she was brilliant after all.
One evening, Sophie devoured cake.
“What about your figure?”
She blushed, glancing at Ilya. “The baby wants it.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Nine weeks.”
Alexandra teared up. “Finally! Congratulations.”
Sophie had feared turning into her mother—almost lost Ilya. But love had conquered fear.
Parents forget: children often mirror their own marriages.
