Dear Diary,
Im Andrew, twentyfour when I tied the knot, and Emily was twentytwo. Shes the only child of Professor James Whitaker and his wife, a schoolteacher. We were blessed quickly with two little boysour own tiny weatherforecastsfollowed by a daughter a few years later.
My motherinlaw, Margaret Lawson, retired not long after and took over looking after the grandchildren. My relationship with her has always been a bit formal; I call her by her first name and patronymicstyle, Margaret, and she replies with a cool you, always using my full name. We never argue, but her presence feels chilly, like a draft in an old cottage. Still, she never makes a sceneshe speaks to me with exaggerated politeness and keeps a strict neutrality in my marriage.
A month ago the firm where I worked folded, and I was made redundant. At dinner Emily dropped a bombshell:
Andrew, with my salary and your mums pension we wont stretch far. You need to find a job.
Easy for her to sayfind a job! I knocked on doors for thirty days and came up emptyhanded.
In frustration I kicked a stray tin of lager under the sofa. Margaret stayed silent, but her eyes flashed with meaning. Before the wedding Id once overheard a conversation between her and Emily.
Emily, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your life with?
Mum, of course!
I think you dont grasp the weight of it. If your father were still alive
Mum, enough! We love each other, itll be fine.
Will the children be provided for? Can he afford it?
He will, Mum.
Its not too late to rethink, Emily. His family
Mum, I love him!
Oh, then you wont have to bite your elbows!
Time to bite the bullet, I muttered, halfsmiling. Margaret stared at the wall as if watching water.
Going home felt pointless. It seemed Emily was consoling me with a rehearsed, Dont worry, tomorrow will be better, while her mother sighed, judging in silence, and the kids teased, Dad, found a job yet? It was too much to bear.
I walked along the Thames, sat on a bench in Hyde Park, and as night fell drove out to the familys summer cottage in Kent, where we stay from May to September. One window in Margarets bedroom was still lit. I crept down the garden path, the curtain twitching. I sat on a wooden stump, feeling the chill of the night.
Margaret peeked out:
Andrews been gone a long time. Did you call, Emily?
Yes, Mum, the line was dead. He probably hasnt found work yet, wandering somewhere.
Her voice turned icy:
Emily, dont you dare speak of your childrens father that way!
Oh, Mum, really? I just think Andrews being foolish, not truly looking for work. Hes been a couchpotato for a month!
It was the first time in six years I heard Margaret slam her fist on the table and raise her voice:
Dont you dare speak of your husband like that! What did you promise when you said yes? To stand by him in sickness and in sorrow!
Emily mumbled an apology:
Mum, Im sorry. Please dont worry. Im just exhausted.
Alright, go to bed, Margaret said, waving a tired hand. The lights went out. She paced the room, pulled the curtain aside, and stared into the dark. Then she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, crossed herself, and whispered:
Lord Almighty, protect my grandsons father, my daughters husband. Keep his faith in himself, give him strength, dear God.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
A hot knot formed in my chest. No one had ever prayed for menot my strict mother, a woman who devoted her life to the council; not my father, who vanished when I was five. I grew up in nurseries, then school, then university, and straight into work because my mother could not stand idleness.
The heat rose, swelling until it threatened to burst, and memories flooded back: Margaret rising before dawn to bake scones, simmering stew, steaming dumplings that tasted like heaven. She tended the garden, canned carrots and cabbage for winter, made pickles that could rival any market stall.
Why had I never noticed? Why never thanked her? Emily and I simply went about work and children, convinced that was all there was. Or perhaps I convinced myself. I recalled a night we all watched a documentary about Australia, and Margaret confessed shed always dreamed of seeing that sunburnt continent. I laughed, saying it was far too hot and the locals wouldnt let a lady in an icecream coat survive.
I sat beneath the window for a long while, head in my hands.
Morning came, and Emily and I took the children down to the veranda for breakfast. The table held scones, marmalade, tea, and milk. The kids beamed. I looked up and said gently,
Good morning, Mum.
Margaret startled, then after a pause answered,
Good morning, Andy.
Two weeks later I landed a job in a marketing agency, earning a modest £35,000 a year. A year after that, despite her fierce protests, I booked Margaret a flight to Australia for a welldeserved holiday.
Life is still a mess of bills and hopes, but Im learning to listen, to thank, and to keep the fire burning for those who quietly keep the hearth warm.
