**The Family Recipe**
Youre seriously considering marrying someone you met online? Margaret Harrington eyed her future daughter-in-law with the same suspicion one might reserve for a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy, scrutinising gaze swept over Alices simple updo and modest dress. You barely know each other!
Alice felt the prickle of goosebumps along her arms. They sat in the tiny but immaculate kitchen of the terraced house where Oliver had grown upthe air thick with vanilla and the faint mustiness of old floorboards.
Mum, enough, Oliver cut in, his arm curling protectively around Alices shoulders. We didnt meet onlineit was the book club. We just talked there first. Six months, Mum. And Alice is wonderful.
Their story had begun innocently enough. Alice ran a small blog about forgotten classics, and Olivera software engineer with a quiet love for literaturehad stumbled upon her post about *Wuthering Heights*. Their debate spilled into private messages, then into long phone calls. They discovered they laughed at the same jokes, treasured the same thingssilence, honesty, the scent of old paper. Their first meeting by the Bronte statue in Haworth wasnt a date, just a continuation of their conversation. With her, Oliver felt at ease in a way he never had before. She saw in him a gentle man with depths few bothered to notice.
*Wonderful*, Margaret scoffed, clinking her teaspoon unnecessarily loud against her china cup. And yet shes from another city, no job herewho even knows what shes after? I raised my son, taught himand now some stranger waltzes in
Alice clenched her jaw but stayed silent.
She understood now. To Margaret, she wasnt a personjust an abstract threat. A girl from outside, trying to steal her son from under her wing. Margaret was a woman of strict rules and uncompromising discipline, and after her husbands death five years ago, shed tightened her grip on Oliver even more.
Every attempt to bridge the gap had failed.
When Alice baked an apple pie with cinnamon and nutmegjust like my gransMargaret took a sliver and murmured, *Too sweet. Not how we do it in this family.*
When Alice offered to help clean, the reply was brisk: *No need. I know where everything goes. Youll only misplace things.*
Alone in Olivers room, surrounded by model trains and physics textbooks, hed sighed. *Dont take it to heart. Mums just prickly. Like a hedgehog.*
*Im trying,* Alice whispered, staring at the row of identical back gardens through the window. *Living in a cold war is exhausting. And moving out isnt an option yet.*
But she refused to give up. She believed every fortress had a hidden door.
One Saturday, while dusting the shelves, Margaret pulled out an old photo album. Alice asked to join, and as they flipped through, she noticed Margaret lingering on a faded pictureherself, young and smiling, beside a tall, dark-haired man.
*Whos this?* Alice ventured.
Margaret stiffened, as if caught doing something forbidden. *My brother, Arthur,* she admitted, her voice softer than Alice had ever heard. *We fell out. Twenty years ago, if not more.*
*Over what?*
*Stupidity. A piece of land after our parents passed. Both too stubborn to budge. Harsh words were said. And just like thatwe became strangers in the same town.*
Alice stayed quiet, but a plan took shape. Oliver had once mentioned his mother growing even more withdrawn after that feud.
A week later, she bumped into chatty Mrs. Thompson in the hallway and steered the conversation toward Olivers family.
*Oh, Margaret and Arthur!* the neighbour exclaimed. *Thick as thieves, they were! Arthur lives over in the new estate now. Had heart surgery last yearhis kids are in London, poor mans been alone.*
That evening, as Oliver read and Margaret knitted, Alice spoke carefully: *Margaret did you know your brother had heart surgery last year?*
The needles stilled. Margaret paled. *What? How do you know that?*
*Mrs. Thompson mentioned it today. Said hes been aloneno one to help him*
Margaret said nothing. She left the room, and Alice heard her pacing behind the thin walls. The night passed in heavy silence.
The next morning, Margaretnever an early riserwas already dressed. *Popping out,* she muttered, pulling on her best coat.
She returned at dusk, eyes red-rimmed but no longer cold. Her face was softer, uncertain. Seeing Alice in the kitchen, she paused.
*Thank you,* she said, voice thick. Then she walked away before more could be said.
Later, they learned shed taken the bus to Arthurs. Stood outside his door for half an hour, gathering courage. When he answered, they simply staredtwo greying, stubborn soulsbefore crumbling into each others arms, laughing through tears at how petty their feud seemed now.
*You were right,* Margaret admitted days later over tea, staring into her cup. *Sometimes you just have to take the first step. Twenty years wasted over a patch of dirt Ridiculous.*
After that, she warmed to Alicenot as an intruder, but as family. One evening, while sorting groceries, she asked quietly: *Alice that pie of yours. The one with nutmeg. Could you show me?*
Hands trembling, Alice fetched the flour. And there they stoodside by side in the small kitchen, kneading dough. For once, meticulous Margaret didnt interfere. They peeled apples, rolled pastry, slid the pie into the oven.
*You know,* Margaret said, wiping her hands on her apron, *Arthur hes glad we made up. Asked what made me come.*
Alice just smiled.
When Oliver returned from work, he found them both in the kitchen. *Well,* he grinned. *Looks like youve been busy.*
Alice leaned into him and nodded. She knew nowsometimes all it took to mend a rift was reminding people of the love that existed long before you came along. You just had to find the right thread to pull.
