**Personal Diary Entry**
She’ll charm you, Mum. She’s just wonderful!” Oliver said excitedly.
“And how long before the wonder wears off?” Alexandra quipped dryly.
Alexandra stood by the stove, listening. Back when her husband was alive, she’d always timed dinner perfectly so it was ready the moment he walked in. He’d been gone eight years now, but she still cooked just the same, waiting for her son to come home.
The lock clicked, and Oliver’s voice echoed from the hallway:
“Mum, I’m home.”
“I can hear that,” she replied, smiling.
“What’ve we got tonight? Roast and potatoes?” Oliver hugged her, peering over her shoulder, inhaling the rich, savoury scent of his favourite fried potatoes with spring onions.
Alexandra turned off the gas, covering the pan.
“You’re in good spirits. What’s happened?” She could always tell his mood from his voice.
Oliver stepped back, suddenly uncertain.
“Mum, I’m getting married.”
“About time. Why hasn’t Emily been ’round lately?” Alexandra turned to face him, studying his darkened expression.
“I’m marrying Matilda.”
A cold shiver ran down Alexandra’s spine. Her son had long since grown up, only hugging her now in rare moments of joy or vulnerability.
“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 ruined your appetite. Wash your hands.”
She set a plate of potatoes in front of him, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him eat.
“So… this Matilda. Who is she?”
“She’s lovely. You’ll see for yourself. I’ll introduce you—Saturday, maybe?” Oliver paused, looking at her earnestly. “You’ll adore Matilda, I promise. She’s just brilliant!”
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen a wealthier man, Alexandra had learned from Emily’s mother, an old school friend who’d hoped their children would marry. They’d bumped into each other at the shops, and the news had spilled out—an apology for her daughter’s choice.
“Too much of a good thing, and it stops being good. Won’t you tire of living with perfection?” Alexandra said, half-joking.
“Mum, don’t.”
“I’m not joking. Tell me about her. What’s so *brilliant*?”
“Why d’you fixate on the word?” Oliver shifted. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though it’s only her first year. Serious, well-read. We get on well.”
“And her parents?”
“Father’s an engineer, mother stays at home.”
“And she’s from…?” Alexandra trailed off, waiting.
“Does it matter where she’s from?” he snapped.
“I suppose not. So she’s not local. Planning to live here?”
“If you’re against it, we’ll rent.” He met her gaze.
“Not at all. I’ll be happy for the company, and maybe grandchildren, if you two can stand each other. If not, rent later.”
“Matilda doesn’t want kids straight away—wants to focus on her career first.”
“Matilda doesn’t want, Matilda’s decided…,” Alexandra mimicked. “Fine, invite your *brilliance* for lunch.” She stood, clearing his empty plate.
“You’re the best mum,” Oliver said, rising too.
“Hope you remember that after you’re married.”
As she washed up, her thoughts wandered. *A teacher—so her evenings buried in marking, weekends on school trips… He’s grown up so fast. Pity his father never saw this.*
Come Saturday morning, Alexandra was busy in the kitchen. Oliver fussed over his shirt and tie in the mirror before leaving to fetch Matilda.
She tried picturing this wondrous schoolteacher, but all that came to mind was some stiff period-drama heroine—hard, proper, never a hair out of place.
Matilda turned out to be slight, with straight, mousy hair and large eyes. Not pretty, exactly—the sort you’d pass in the street without a second glance. She ate little, politely complimenting each dish. Barely touched the wine. Oliver, watching her, didn’t drink either.
“Don’t hold back, Matilda,” Alexandra encouraged.
*Nervous, maybe afraid of me. First time meeting the mother-in-law. What on earth does he see in her? Or is this just to spite Emily? Oh, Emily…*
Two months later, they married quietly. Matilda’s parents came—her mother timid, silent, her father jovial, telling everyone he’d named his daughter after some obscure literary character he’d adored as a boy.
“The actress who *played* her was stunning. Might’ve done better naming her after *her*,” Alexandra remarked pointedly.
“I said the same, but he wouldn’t listen,” Matilda’s mother murmured, glancing at her husband before falling silent the rest of the evening.
“And were *you* named after some murdered queen?” her father shot back.
“Hardly. My parents wanted a boy—had plans for a name. So I ended up Alexandra.”
A strange couple. The father drank, boasting about his daughter’s wit and beauty; the mother sat stiffly, barely eating, speaking only when spoken to.
Oliver showed them around town. They’d brought a mountain of linen and quilts—dowry in the old-fashioned style. The father ruled the roost; the mother deferred to him in everything. Rare these days. Alexandra matched their generosity with gifts of her own.
Once the newlyweds moved in, routines settled. Matilda never lifted a finger—never helped cook, never shopped, just retreated to their room. If asked, she’d oblige, reluctantly.
Weeks passed. Resentment simmered. *Her mother must’ve waited on her hand and foot—but I’m no maid.* One day, she’d have words.
At breakfast, Oliver mispronounced a word. Matilda corrected him, sharp. He flushed, stumbled again—she corrected him *again*. Alexandra bit her tongue, aching for him.
Later, she thanked Matilda for “educating” Oliver but suggested she save corrections for private. *He’s a grown man—no need to shame him.*
“I can’t stand incorrect speech,” Matilda said coolly.
“Your father says plenty wrong, but you never correct *him*.”
Matilda left without reply. *Now she’ll whine to Oliver, claim I’m picking on her.* Sure enough, that evening, he announced they were moving out.
“Matilda’s offended?” Alexandra sighed. “Well, it’s your life.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Course not. I’m the *best mum*, remember?” She’d not fight it. Let them learn on their own.
Friends stopped calling—Matilda was always *busy*. Oliver refused invitations. Soon, the phone went quiet.
Alone again, Alexandra cooked out of habit. One day, Oliver dropped by for a book, caught the scent of his favourite potatoes, and swallowed hard. She set a plate before him—potatoes, pickle, a juicy cutlet. He ate greedily, eyes fluttering shut.
Her heart sank. He’d lost weight, the spark gone. *Love won’t feed him. Bet she can’t cook—ready meals, takeaways. How’s that healthy?*
She packed leftovers for him. Soon, he visited often—especially weekends when Matilda was off with her students.
Then, one day, he arrived with bags.
“Fallen out?” she asked.
“No. Just tired. I come home, cook, shop, iron my shirts, work’s exhausting—I’m a man, not a pupil. She forces me to read Dickens, Austen—my jaw aches. Feels like I’m *married* to a teacher.”
“Had your fill of *brilliance*?”
“Don’t start.”
“Stay, then. What about Matilda?”
“Dunno,” he muttered.
She often thought of her husband. They’d met at university, shared interests, supported each other. Oliver came late—a miracle, after years of hoping. But his marriage wasn’t like theirs.
Life crept back to normal. Oliver joked again, went out evenings. She hoped he’d visit Matilda—but then she bumped into her old friend at the shops.
“Your Oliver’s seeing Emily again,” she blurted.
“Emily’s left her husband?”
“No. Sneaking around. I’ve told her off, but you know Emily…” Her friend looked guilty.
Alexandra’s stomach twisted. *Emily, what are you doing?*
At home, she confronted Oliver. He dodged but didn’t deny.
One evening, he didn’t return. She wasn’t worried—grown man, probably busy. But hours passed, no call. His phone was off. SheThe next morning, Oliver limped home, bruised but alive, and as Matilda quietly bandaged his wounds, Alexandra realised love wasn’t about perfection—it was about showing up when it mattered most.
