“You’ll love her, Mum. She’s an absolute dream!” gushed Oliver.
“Living with a dream—won’t that get boring?” Margaret quipped dryly, stirring a pot on the stove.
Margaret had always cooked dinner to be ready just as her husband returned from work. He’d been gone eight years now, but the habit remained. These days, she timed meals for her son instead.
The click of the front door echoed, followed by Oliver’s voice:
“Mum, I’m home.”
“Obviously,” Margaret replied, smiling to herself.
“What’s for dinner? Spuds and mince?” Oliver hugged her from behind, sniffing appreciatively at the sizzling potatoes and spring onions—his favourite.
Margaret turned off the gas, covering the pan.
“You’re chipper today. What’s happened?” She could read his mood by the lilt in his voice.
Oliver stepped back.
“Mum, I’m getting married.”
“About time. Why hasn’t Emily dropped by lately?” Margaret turned, studying his suddenly shadowed expression.
“I’m marrying Felicity.”
A chill ran down Margaret’s spine. Oliver was a grown man now, only hugging her in rare moments of joy or confession.
“Promising name. What about Emily?”
“Emily’s getting married on Saturday. I don’t want to talk about it, Mum. Let’s eat.”
“At least her wedding hasn’t ruined your appetite. Wash your hands.”
Margaret served him a plate of potatoes and sat opposite, chin propped on her hand, watching him eat.
“So, this Felicity—who is she?”
“She’s brilliant. You’ll see. I’ll introduce you. Maybe this Saturday?” Oliver paused mid-bite, meeting her gaze. “You’ll adore her, Mum. She’s a dream!”
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen a wealthier bloke, Margaret had learned from Emily’s mum—an old school friend who’d hoped their children would marry. They’d bumped into each other at Tesco, and the woman had apologised for her daughter’s choice.
“Too many dreams spoil the porridge. Won’t living with one get tedious?” Margaret arched a brow.
“Mum, not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be. Tell me about her. What’s so dreamy?”
“Why fixate on the word?” Oliver fidgeted. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though only her first year. Serious, well-read. We’re good together.”
“And her parents?”
“Dad’s an engineer. Mum stays home.”
“And she’s from…?” Margaret trailed off, waiting.
“Does it matter?” Oliver bristled.
“Not at all. So, not local. Where will you live?”
“Thought you’d say no. We’ll rent.” He searched her eyes.
“Don’t be daft. I’d be thrilled. What else would I do alone? Wait for grandchildren. If we clash, *then* you rent.”
“Felicity wants to work first, gain experience before kids.”
“Felicity wants, Felicity decides…” Margaret mimicked. “Fine, invite your dream over. Saturday.” She stood, clearing his empty plate.
“You’re the best mum,” Oliver said, rising too.
“Hope you remember that after the wedding.”
As she scrubbed dishes, Margaret mused: *A teacher. Evenings buried in marking, weekends on school trips…* She sighed. *He’s grown so fast. Shame his dad missed this.*
By Saturday morning, Margaret was deep in culinary warfare. Oliver agonised over shirts and ties before dashing off to fetch Felicity.
Margaret tried picturing this dreamy schoolmarm but only summoned Judi Dench in *Shakespeare in Love*.
Felicity turned out to be a slight girl with pin-straight hair and owlish eyes. Pretty? Not quite. She nibbled politely, sipped wine sparingly, and Oliver mirrored her restraint.
“Eat up, Felicity,” Margaret encouraged.
*Nervous, scared of me. First meet-the-parents jitters,* Margaret decided. *What does he see in her? Or is this revenge on Emily? Oh, Emily…*
Two months later, a modest wedding followed. Felicity’s parents arrived—her mum meek and silent, her dad a booming joker who confessed he’d named Felicity after a childhood crush on a *Downton Abbey* character.
“Would’ve been wiser to name her after the actress,” Margaret remarked.
“I told him!” Felicity’s mum piped up, then shrank under her husband’s glare.
“Were you named for a beheaded queen?” he shot back.
“Worse. Mum and Dad wanted a boy. Got me instead.”
The pair were odd: the dad drinking, boasting; the mum stiff as a poker. They gifted enough linens to stock a department store. Margaret reciprocated with farewell presents.
After the newlyweds left for work each day, Margaret cleaned. Neither lifted a finger—not even Felicity. *Too busy? Bad upbringing?*
Felicity returned first, beelining to their room. Never offered help. Requests were met with sighs.
Weeks passed. Resentment simmered. *Her mum waited on her—but I’m no housekeeper.* Margaret resolved to talk.
At breakfast, Oliver mispronounced “controversy.” Felicity corrected him—twice. Margaret bit her tongue but seethed.
Later, she thanked Felicity for “educating” Oliver but suggested tact: “He’s a man, not a pupil.”
“I can’t abide errors. Like nails on a chalkboard,” Felicity said coolly.
“Your dad says ‘ex-cetera.’ Do you correct *him*?”
Felicity flounced out. *Now she’ll tattle.* Sure enough, Oliver announced they were moving out.
“Over my remark? I hope you know what you’re doing, son.”
“*You’re* not upset?”
“Course not. World’s best mum, remember?” She swallowed her protests. Let them learn.
Oliver’s mates stopped calling when Felicity vetoed outings.
Alone, Margaret cooked—until Oliver dropped by one day, inhaling the aroma of his beloved potatoes. She served him instantly. He devoured it, eyes rolling blissfully.
Her heart ached. He’d grown gaunt, joyless. *Love won’t feed him. Does she even cook?* She packed him leftovers. Soon, he visited often—especially when Felicity was chaperoning school trips.
Two months later, he returned with bags.
“Row?” Margaret asked.
“Just tired. I work, then cook, shop, iron… Must I read Austen at bedtime? Feel like her student, not her husband.”
“Had enough of your dream?”
“Don’t start, Mum.”
“Stay, then. What about Felicity?”
“Dunno,” he muttered.
Margaret often recalled her husband. They’d met at uni, shared interests, supported each other. Oliver came late, a miracle. Now this.
Life normalized. Oliver joked again, went out evenings. Margaret hoped he missed Felicity—until her friend Muriel spilled in Sainsbury’s:
“Your Oliver’s seeing my Emily again.”
“Emily’s *married*.”
“Doesn’t stop her. I’ve tried—”
Margaret’s heart raced. *That girl’ll ruin him.*
At home, Oliver dodged her questions but didn’t deny it.
One evening, he didn’t return. She called—his phone was off. By midnight, panic set in. Then Emily rang:
“Auntie Marg, Oliver’s in hospital.”
Her heart stalled. “What happened?”
“Beaten badly. Come to St. Thomas’.”
Margaret raced outside, hailed a cab. Her heels clacked like gunshots down the sterile corridor.
*He’s alive. God, help…*
Emily stood, pale and trembling. “He’s in surgery. Head trauma, internal bleeding.”
“Who did this?!” Margaret gripped her arm.
“Her husband. His bodyguards. I thought he was bluffing—”
Margaret had no energy for Emily’s tears. *That reckless girl—Oliver’s hanging by a thread!*
A doctor approached. “He’ll live. Still under. More later.”
“Auntie Marg, he’s *alive*!” Emily helped her sit.
“Go home. I’ll stay.”
Emily left. The doctor urged Margaret to rest. She nodded but stayed.
Oliver woke three days later. Emily visited once, then vanished. He asked for her. Margaret lied: “She came while you slept.”
Days later, Felicity appeared. Neighbours had told her. She took over—bringing broth, sitting vigil, sending Margaret to rest. Oliver improved slowly, hobbling with a stick. The doctor promised full recovery.
Margaret called Muriel: Emily had fled abroad with her husband. *How to tell Oliver?* She fibbed: “Emily’s ill—can’t visit.”
At discharge, Felicity came daily—massaging Oliver, helping him walk. Margaret hadn’t guessed such strength”And as Margaret watched Felicity cradle their newborn granddaughter—tiny fingers curling around Oliver’s thumb—she finally understood that dreams, when tended with patience and love, sometimes do come true.”
