**Diary Entry – 20th May**
Eleanor smoothed the delicate shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son, Oliver, and his wife, Emily, were due to arrive in a couple of hours. The quiet was shattered by the sharp, relentless ring of the telephone. She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and answered.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Eleanor Margaret Harrington?”
“Speaking,” Eleanor replied, instinctively tensing.
“My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m Emily’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law’s ex-husband’s mother.”
Eleanor silently pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. Former mother-in-law? Her thoughts raced to Emily, to the few but bitter mentions of her past marriage.
“I see,” Eleanor said evenly, keeping her voice steady. “How can I help you, Margaret?”
The woman’s tone dropped its polite veneer instantly, turning sharp, spiteful, dripping with ill-intent.
“Just thought I’d check how our Emily’s getting on with you lot. Behaving herself, is she? Bet you’ve had your hands full already! Or will soon—mark my words, you’ll regret taking that lazy girl in!”
“Margaret, I don’t understand. Emily is wonderful. Why on earth would we regret it?”
“Wonderful?!” Margaret shrieked. “That girl’s bone idle! I scrubbed my floors daily—properly! Her? Once a fortnight, if you’re lucky! And the curtains! When’s the last time you washed yours? Eh? Mine—once a month, religiously! Hers? Once in a blue moon! Dust thick enough to plant seeds in! And her cooking… fed my poor boy slop! Soup like dishwater, rubbery sausages—inedible! Gave him stomach ulcers, it did!”
“Margaret, their flat is spotless. Always. And Emily cooks beautifully. I taught her a few tricks myself—she’s a natural. No complaints here. And if your son had ulcers, I’d wager it was the whisky, not her cooking!”
“No complaints?!” Margaret barked, deaf to reason. “How she treated my boy! Comes home knackered—has a wee dram to unwind, like any hardworking bloke! And her? Instead of pouring him another and tucking him in, she’d screech at him! Row after row! Heartless little shrew!”
Eleanor closed her eyes. She knew—from Emily—that her “wee dram” ex-husband would stumble home at dawn, smash up the flat, hurl abuse. And she knew Oliver—steady, teetotal, bringing Emily flowers just because, bragging about her latest promotion.
“My son, Oliver,” Eleanor said firmly, “doesn’t come home drunk. Ever. He respects his wife and his home. Emily has no reason to shout. They’re happy.”
A heavy silence. Margaret seemed to gather breath for another assault. When she spoke again, her voice was venomous.
“Happy? Ha! You even know she’s from a children’s home? We took her in, but I know what they’re like in those places. No wonder she’s barren! Useless! Years’ll pass, no grandchildren—then you’ll see what rubbish you’ve let in!”
“Margaret,” Eleanor said, loud and clear, as if standing before her, “you’re wrong. About everything. Our home has peace, order, love. I adore Emily. She calls me Mum. Yes, we know she grew up in care—no shame in that. I’ve tried to give her warmth, kindness. She’s good, gentle. And as for grandchildren… You’re too late. Emily and Oliver are expecting. Soon. So save your ‘warnings’.”
Silence. Then a ragged, wet inhale. A sob. The malice dissolved into gulping tears.
“A baby?” Margaret croaked, something broken in her voice. “You sure it’s his? My boy… He’s a wreck. Drinks, jobless… I just wanted… just one grandchild…”
Pity pricked Eleanor—not for this woman, but for the Emily who’d endured years of her.
“Margaret—” she began, but the woman cut in, voice desperate.
“Listen… If things don’t work out with your Oliver… if they split up… call me! Please! My lad might straighten up if she came back! She’s learned her ways now, you say—cooks, cleans… She’s got nowhere else to go!”
There it was. Not remorse. Not guilt. Just envy—watching what she’d thrown away shine in another’s hands. A selfish, clawing hope to snatch it back for her own failing son. To use Emily again. As a maid. As a broodmare.
“A daughter-in-law like Emily is ours to cherish. Don’t call again. Ever.”
She hung up, blocked the number. Anger and sorrow tangled in her throat—but stronger was the fierce protectiveness. Of her nest, of Oliver, of Emily, that once-shy sparrow now flourishing in their love.
She covered the pastry with a tea towel. Soon, the house would fill with laughter, the smell of baking, happy voices. Soon, a new voice—small, insistent, alive.
She remembered meeting Emily—quiet, wary. It had taken time to earn her trust. Now, she was family. A pity her late husband, gone too young, never saw Oliver so full of love.
An hour passed. The doorbell chimed. Eleanor wiped an unexpected tear, straightened her apron. On the doorstep stood Oliver, arms full of peonies, and Emily—her bump just showing, face radiant.
“Mum!” Emily chirped, hugging her. “Smells amazing! What’s baking?”
Eleanor held her tight. “Shortcrust tart, love. Oliver, put those in water.”
She ushered them in, glancing at the phone. That call, that voice—already felt like an echo from another world. Here, in this sunlit room, filled with love and flowers, was life. The life they’d built.
And she’d guard it fiercely. Always.