Margaret smoothed the delicate shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son William, with his wife Sophie, were due to arrive in a couple of hours.
The silence was shattered by the shrill, insistent ring of the telephone. Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and answered.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Margaret Elizabeth Hartley?”
“Yes, speaking,” Margaret replied, instinctively on guard.
“My name is Barbara Wilson. I’m Sophie’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law.”
Margaret silently pulled a kitchen chair closer and sat. *Former mother-in-law?* Her thoughts darted to Sophie, to the sparse but bitter fragments she’d shared about her first marriage.
“I see,” Margaret said evenly, fighting to keep her voice steady. “How can I help you, Barbara?”
The woman’s tone instantly shed its veneer of politeness. It turned sharp, mocking, dripping with poisonous curiosity.
“I just thought I’d check how our Sophie’s getting on with you lot. Behaving herself? I’m sure you’ve had your fill of her by now! Or is it coming? Trust me, you’ll regret it! Oh, you’ll regret letting that layabout into your family!”
“Barbara, I don’t understand. Sophie’s a wonderful girl. Why should we regret it?”
“Wonderful?!” Barbara shrieked, voice cracking. “That lazy thing! I mop my floors every day, as you should! And her? Once in three days if she’s forced! And the curtains! When did you last wash yours, eh? For me—once a month, sacred as Sunday! But her? Once a year if you’re lucky! Dust gathering for ages! And her cooking… fed my poor boy poison, she did! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs, barely edible! Gave him gastritis, she did!”
“Barbara, their flat is spotless. Always. And Sophie cooks beautifully. I taught her a few tricks myself, and she’s a brilliant learner. We’ve no complaints. And your son’s gastritis was likely from too much drink!”
“No complaints?!” Barbara screeched, not listening. “And how she treated her husband! My boy would come home tired… had a couple pints to unwind, like any proper man! And her? Instead of pouring him a nightcap, tucking him in, showing some care—she’d scream at him! Start rows! Heartless cow, she was!”
Margaret closed her eyes. She knew from Sophie that her “couple of pints” ex had stumbled home at dawn, smashed up their flat, shouted slurs. And she knew her William—steady, responsible, never touched a drop. Hated the stuff. Yet he brought his wife flowers for no reason and bragged about her promotions.
“My son, William,” Margaret said crisply, stressing each word, “doesn’t come home drunk. Ever. He respects his wife and his home. Sophie has no reason to shout at him. They’re happy.”
A heavy pause filled the line. Barbara seemed to be steadying herself for another assault. When she spoke again, her voice was openly venomous, hissing:
“Happy? Ha! And do you even know she’s from a children’s home? We took her in, though I know what they get up to in those places. No wonder she’s barren! Useless! Mark my words, years’ll pass, and you’ll have no grandbabies! Then you’ll see what rubbish you’ve let in! Then you’ll regret it!”
“Barbara,” Margaret said, loud and clear, as if standing right before her, “you’re wrong. About everything. Our home is full of peace, order, and love. I adore Sophie. She respects me, calls me Mum. Of course we know she grew up in care—no shame in that. I’ve been nothing but kind, given her warmth, a mother’s love. She’s a good, kind girl. And about grandchildren… you’re too late. Sophie and William are expecting. Soon. So your ‘warnings’ are wasted.”
Silence. Then a ragged, wheezing breath. And suddenly—a sob. The spiteful tone dissolved into clumsy, gasping tears.
“A baby?” Barbara croaked, voice broken. “Really? Or is it not even your boy’s, ever think of that? Oh Lord… but mine… my son…”
The weeping grew louder.
“He’s a wreck! Drinks, hops jobs like buses… penniless, lives like a tramp… And me, dying for a grandchild! Just one!”
Margaret listened to the confession. Pity stung her heart—not for this woman, but for Sophie, who’d endured years of such cruelty.
“Barbara—” she began, but the woman cut in, voice suddenly wheedling, desperate:
“Listen… what if it doesn’t work with your William? They divorce, eh? It happens! If it does… call me! Straight away! I’ll talk to my son… maybe he’ll shape up! You say she’s decent now? Cooks, cleans. Maybe she’d come back to us? Just promise you’ll ring! Please! She’s got nowhere else, knows us already—”
There it was. Not remorse. Not guilt. Just a woman realising what she’d tossed aside had become precious in another’s hands—and the greedy, selfish hope to claw it back for her hopeless son. To use Sophie again. Maid. Incubator.
“A daughter-in-law like Sophie is ours to keep. Don’t call again. Ever.”
She hung up without waiting, then blocked the number.
A lump sat in her throat—anger, pity for Sophie’s past, disgust at the bile she’d heard. But strongest was the steady, fierce warmth of protection. Of her nest, William, and that quiet, strong girl she’d taken as her own, who’d handed back love and trust in return.
She returned to the table, gently covering the pastry with a clean cloth. Soon this room would buzz with noise, the scent of baking, laughter and happy voices. Soon there’d be another voice—small, demanding, alive.
Margaret remembered first meeting Sophie, when William brought her home. A shy little sparrow. Earning her trust took time, but now she was like a daughter. A pity her husband died so young, never seeing their boy’s eyes alight with love.
She’d raised William alone, helped him buy the flat where he brought Sophie home.
An hour passed. Then the doorbell rang. Margaret brushed away an unexpected tear, straightened her apron, and answered. William stood there with a huge bouquet of lilacs, Sophie beside him—her bump now visible, face glowing with a peace so bright it outshone every shadow from before.
“Mum!” Sophie chimed, stepping forward to hug her. “Smells amazing! What’s baking?”
Margaret squeezed her tight.
“Shortbread tart, love,” she said, kissing Sophie’s cheek. “Will, put those flowers in water.”
She ushered them into the living room, casting a fleeting glance at the phone. That call, that voice—full of envy and spite—felt like an echo from some alien world. Here, in this room bathed in light and love, was life as it should be.
The life they’d built. The life she’d guard fiercely now, letting no one darken it.
They were happy. And so they’d stay.
