Wednesday, October 18th – Leeds, England
“Right then, my son-in-law’s off again?” Margaret Thompson bustled about the kitchen, arranging delicate Victoria sponges with pink buttercream roses on a tray. “Shall we have tea or is it time for a dram of my elderflower cordial?”
“Mum, it’s barely ten,” Emily mumbled, her eyes flicking toward the window where the early October mist clung to the garden fence. “Though… a little might be kind, given the occasion.”
“A proper occasion, indeed!” Margaret clapped her hands, her voice suddenly warm. “Half a year since I’ve had my little Emily under my roof!”
James, perched at the precarious edge of the living room armchair (the only seat not occupied by floral cushions), stifled a groan. He’d driven from Manchester at dawn to accompany Emily to this sleepy Yorkshire village. She’d insist on seeing her mother, of course, while James remained a reluctant guest. Margaret fussed over them as though they’d been lost at sea.
“Mum, I brought you a few trinkets,” Emily offered, unzipping her tote.
“Darling, let me look at you! James, have you fed her at all? She’s as light as a feather!”
“Three hearty meals a day,” James deadpanned. “In the strictest sense of the word.”
“Tongue in cheek, you’re just like her.” Margaret pointed a finger at him, then turned to rustle through the kitchen.
Emily leaned in, whispering, “James, please don’t start an argument. Just one week, okay?”
“One *week*?!” he hissed back. “I thought you said the weekend! We agreed, Saturday and Sunday at most!”
“You know how much she looked forward to it,” Emily pleaded, her eyes brimming. “And you *did* say you could work remotely, remember?”
James exhaled sharply. He never could win against Emily when Margaret was in the room.
Just then, Thomas Whittaker lumbered into the kitchen, his old dog Cilla trotting at his heels. “Son-in-law, ready for a bit of angling?” he rumbled. “The canal’s best at first light.”
James perked up—both at the escape from Margaret and Thomas’s earthy, no-nonsense manner.
“Love to!” he grinned.
“No time for fishing,” Margaret reappeared, cradling a tray with a sherry decanter and crystal glasses. “You both need to rest up from the journey!”
“No rest like a change of scenery,” Thomas retorted, his voice gruff. “Back by lunch, I promise.”
As they left, James felt a flicker of gratitude—until he caught Margaret eyeing Emily with that same scrutinizing look she reserved for Emily’s childhood anecdotes.
The canal trip was peaceful. Thomas, a retired railway worker with a gruff exterior, turned out to be a surprisingly astute conversationalist. They caught carp abundantly, and James even modestly contributed a couple of trout.
“This family of yours,” Thomas eventually said as he reeled in a fish, “they’re quite the pair, your in-laws. Margaret’s a firebrand, but she means well.”
James chuckled. “Tell her that, and see what happens.”
The next days blurred into Margaret’s whirlwind hospitality. There was always food—roast dinners, Yorkshire puddings, apple crumbles—and an endless parade of stories about Emily’s childhood. James noted how Emily’s shoulders subtly hunched each time Margaret corrected her memory of which school play she’d performed or the exact shade of her first dance dress.
It was on the third night that the tension broke.
At dinner, Margaret again brought up the question of grandchildren.
“Seven is a lovely age for it,” she mused, stirring her soup. “You young couples are always so busy these days. Work, mortgages, all that.”
“Still a priority, though?” James asked, masking his edge with a sip of sherry.
“To an extent. But a child should come from the heart.”
“Oh, it’s on the heart,” Emily said softly. “We’ve just… not found the right time.”
“Right time? Or right excuse?” Margaret snapped.
James stood abruptly. “We’ve been trying, Margaret. For over a year. Medically, it’s difficult. We’re not children, you know.”
Silence froze the room. Margaret’s chair screeched as she retreated, her hands unsteady around her cup.
“I just… I didn’t know,” her voice quavered. “Emily, why didn’t you tell me?”
Emily buried her face in her hands. “Because you made it so hard. Every mention of it was a reminder of what we lacked.”
James felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t expected the weight in her words.
Thomas, surprisingly, placed a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “Enough, love. Leave them be. They’ll manage.”
Margaret didn’t resist. By the next morning, she was quieter, more deliberate in her gestures—still bustling, but with a peculiar gentleness.
On their final morning, Emily and Margaret shared a hushed conversation in the garden. “I know now,” James overheard Margaret say, “how it felt for my mother to let me go.”
Emily hugged her mother that day with a finality that made James’s chest ache. “Take care, Mum,” she whispered.
As the train left the station, he linked his arm with Emily’s. “You were brave to say it all.”
“And you were brave to say it to her,” she replied, gazing out the window. “I thought I’d never forgive her. But maybe she just didn’t know how to love us without tightening her grip.”
James nodded, the reflection of autumn trees in the glass warming beside him. “Love is a funny thing, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes breaking to become clearer.”
The miles to Manchester stretched ahead, but the air between them felt lighter. James thought of Thomas’s fishing rod resting in the corner of Margaret’s hallway and smiled. Perhaps, just perhaps, some bridges were meant to be mended—and not all lessons came in the form of pain.
