Penny smoothed the delicate shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son James and his wife Emily were due to arrive in a couple of hours. The quiet was shattered by the shrill, insistent ring of the landline. Wiping her hands on her apron, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Penny Margaret Windsor?”
“Yes, speaking,” Penny replied, instinctively wary.
“My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m Emily’s former mother-in-law.”
Penny silently pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. *Former mother-in-law?* Her mind raced to Emily, to the few but bitter remarks she’d made about her past marriage.
“I see,” Penny said evenly, keeping her tone calm. “How can I help you, Margaret?”
The woman’s voice instantly shed its polite façade, turning sharp, sneering, dripping with spiteful curiosity.
“I just wanted to check how our Emily is getting on with you lot. Behaving herself? I’m sure you’ve suffered by now—or will soon! Take it from me, you’ll regret taking that lazy girl in! Oh, you’ll regret it!”
“Margaret, I don’t understand. Emily is lovely. Why on earth would we regret it?”
“*Lovely?!*” Margaret shrieked. “She’s bone-idle! I mop my floors every single day, as you should! Her? Once in a blue moon, and only if nagged! And the curtains! When did she last wash hers, eh? Mine—once a month, religiously!
And cooking? She fed my poor boy absolute slop! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs—inedible! Gave him indigestion, it did!”
“Margaret, their flat is always spotless. Impeccable. And Emily cooks brilliantly. I’ve taught her a few tricks myself—she’s a natural. We’ve no complaints. Besides, your son’s indigestion was likely from one too many pints!”
“*No complaints?!*” Margaret screeched, plowing on. “And how she treated her husband! My boy would come home exhausted—had a pint or two to unwind, like any proper bloke! But her? Instead of pouring him a nightcap and tucking him in, she’d scream at him! Start rows! Heartless little harpy!”
Penny closed her eyes. She’d heard from Emily how her “just a few pints” ex-husband would stumble home at dawn, smash up the place, shout abuse. And she knew her James—steady, responsible, barely touched a drop. Preferred bringing Emily flowers for no reason and bragging about her promotions.
“My son,” Penny said slowly, stressing each word, “doesn’t come home drunk. Ever. He respects his wife and his home. Emily has no reason to shout. They’re happy.”
A heavy silence crackled down the line. Margaret seemed to be gathering breath for another onslaught. When she spoke again, her voice was venomous, hissing:
“Happy? Ha! And do you even know she’s from foster care? We took her in, though I *know* what they’re like from those places. No wonder she’s barren! Useless! Mark my words—years’ll pass, no grandkids, and *then* you’ll see what rubbish you’ve brought home!”
“Margaret,” Penny said, loud and clear as if standing right in front of her, “you’re dead wrong. On everything. Our home is peaceful, tidy, and full of love.
I adore Emily. She calls me Mum. Of course we know she grew up in care—not her fault. If anything, I’ve tried to give her a bit of the warmth she missed. She’s kind, wonderful. And as for grandchildren… bit late for predictions. Emily and James are expecting. Soon. So you can keep your ‘warnings.’”
Silence. Then a ragged, wheezing breath. And suddenly—sniveling. The spite dissolved into clumsy, hiccupping sobs.
“A baby?” Margaret croaked, voice brittle. “*Really?* Or is it—maybe not even your son’s, ever think of that? Oh, God… but *my* boy…”
The weeping worsened.
“He’s a lost cause! Drinks, hops jobs like buses… Skint, lives like a bloody squatter… And I—I *want* grandchildren! Just one!”
Penny let her ramble. Pity prickled her chest—not for Margaret, but for the Emily who’d endured years of this.
“Margaret—” Penny began, but the woman cut in, suddenly wheedling:
“Listen… if things don’t work out with your James—if they split? Ring me, yeah? *Promise!* I’ll tell my lad to smarten up! She’s all domesticated now, you say? Maybe she’d come back to us! You’d tell me, *wouldn’t you?* Where else would she go? She *knows* us—”
There it was. Not remorse. Not guilt. Just a bitter woman realizing what she’d tossed aside had turned to gold in someone else’s hands. That grasping, selfish hope to snatch it back—for her own failure of a son. To use Emily again. As a maid. As a broodmare.
“A daughter-in-law like Emily is *ours* to keep. Don’t call again. Ever.”
She hung up. Blocked the number.
A lump burned in her throat—anger, pity for Emily’s past, disgust at the pettiness. But strongest was the fierce urge to *protect*. Her nest. James. That quiet, steel-strong girl who’d become her own.
She returned to the table, draping the pastry with a clean towel. Soon, the house would hum with laughter, the scent of baking, warm voices. Soon, a new voice—loud, demanding, full of life.
She remembered meeting Emily—shy as a sparrow, slow to trust. Now she hugged her freely, called her Mum. A shame her husband died young, never seeing their boy so content, so loved.
She’d raised James alone, helped buy the flat where he brought Emily home.
An hour later—the doorbell. Penny dabbed her eyes, adjusted her apron. On the doorstep stood James with an armful of lavender blooms and Emily, her bump just showing, face glowing.
“Mum!” Emily chirped, hugging her. “Smells amazing! What’s baking?”
“Shortbread, love,” Penny said, kissing her cheek. “James, pop those in water.”
She herded them inside, glancing at the phone. That call, that envy-choked voice, felt like static from another world. Here, in this sunlit room, thick with flowers and laughter, was life.
The life they’d built. The life she’d guard fiercely.
Everything was alright. And it always would be.
