**The Family Recipe**
*”You seriously want to marry someone you met online?”* Margaret Evans eyed her future daughter-in-law with scepticism, as if inspecting a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy, disapproving gaze swept over Alices simple hairstyle and modest dress. *”You barely know each other!”*
Alice felt goosebumps prickle down her spine. They sat in the small but spotless kitchen of the terraced house where Oliver, her fiancé, had grown up. The air smelled of vanilla and well-worn wood.
*”Mum, come on,”* Oliver cut in, wrapping an arm around Alices shoulders. *”We didnt meet onlinewe met at the book club. We just started chatting first. Six months! And Alice is wonderful!”*
Their story had begun when Alice, who ran a modest blog about forgotten classics, posted about *Wuthering Heights*. Oliver, a software engineer with a quiet passion for literature, stumbled upon it. Their debate spilled into private messages, then late-night calls. They found they laughed at the same jokes, cherished the same thingssilence, honesty, the musty scent of old pages. Their first meeting by the Brontë statue in Haworth wasnt a date, just a continuation of their conversation. With her, he felt at ease. She saw in him a gentle man with hidden depths.
*”Wonderful”* Margaret scoffed, clinking her spoon loudly against her china cup. *”Shes from another city, no job here, and who even knows what shes after? I raised my son, taught him everything, and now some girl waltzes in”*
Alice clenched her teeth but stayed silent.
She understoodMargaret didnt see her as a person, but as a threat. A stranger stealing her son away. After her husbands death five years ago, Margarets world had narrowed to rigid routines and fierce protectiveness. Every attempt to bond had failed.
When Alice baked an apple pie with cinnamon and cloves*just like her nans*Margaret took one bite and muttered, *”Too sweet. Not how we make it.”*
When Alice offered to help clean, the reply was sharp: *”No need. I know where everything goes. Wouldnt want to spend months searching later.”*
Alone in Olivers room, shelves lined with model planes and physics books, he sighed. *”Dont take it to heart. Mums just prickly. Like a hedgehog.”*
*”Im trying,”* Alice whispered, staring at the row of identical rooftops outside. *”Living in this cold war is exhausting. And we cant move out yet.”*
But Alice didnt give up. She believed every fortress had a hidden door.
One Saturday, as Margaret dusted the shelves, she pulled out an old photo album. Alice cautiously joined her and noticed Margaret lingering on a faded pictureher younger self, smiling beside a dark-haired man.
*”Whos this?”* Alice asked gently.
Margaret stiffened, caught off guard. *”My brother, Andrew,”* she admitted, her voice softer than Alice had ever heard. *”We fell out. Twenty years ago, over something stupid. A bit of land left by our parents. Both too stubborn to apologise.”*
Alice stayed quiet, but an idea formed. Oliver had mentioned his mum grew even more withdrawn after that fight.
Days later, chatting with their neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, Alice *”happened”* to bring up Olivers family.
*”Oh, Margaret and Andrew!”* Mrs. Higgins tutted. *”Thick as thieves they were! Andrew lives over in the new estate now. Had heart surgery last year, poor love. His kids are in Londonhes all 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. *”What? How do you know?”*
*”Mrs. Higgins mentioned it. Said hes been alone, no one to help him”*
Margaret said nothing. She left the room, footsteps heavy. The air stayed tense all night.
Next morning, she was up early, dressed in her best coat. *”Off to see a friend,”* she muttered.
She returned late, eyes red but softer. In the kitchen doorway, she hesitated. *”Thank you,”* she whispered, voice thick. Then she hurried away.
Later, they learned shed taken the bus to Andrews. Stood outside his door for half an hour before knocking. When he answered, they just staredtwo greying, stubborn soulsthen collapsed into each others arms, laughing through tears at how petty their feud seemed now.
*”You were right,”* Margaret admitted days later over tea. *”Sometimes you just need to take the step. Twenty years wasted over a patch of dirt Silly.”*
After that, she warmed to Alice. Not as an intruder, but as family. One evening, sorting groceries, she asked quietly, *”Alice that pie of yours. With the cloves. Could you teach me? Oliver mentioned he liked it.”*
Hands trembling, Alice reached for the flour. They worked side by side in the tiny kitchen, Margaretfor oncenot offering a single critique. When Oliver came home, he grinned at the scene. *”Looks like you two made something together?”*
Alice leaned into him, smiling. She knew nowsometimes, to mend fences, you only need to remind people of the love that existed long before you came along. You just have to find the right thread.
