**Diary Entry**
Gwen rolled out the delicate shortcrust pastry in the baking tin. Her son, Edward, and his wife, Lily, were due to arrive in a couple of hours. The quiet was shattered by a sharp, insistent ringtone. She wiped her hands on her apron and answered.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Gwen Hughes?”
“Yes, speaking,” Gwen replied, instinctively wary.
“My name is Margaret Wilkes. I’m Lily’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law.”
Gwen pulled a kitchen chair closer and sat down. *Former mother-in-law?* Her thoughts raced to Lily, to the rare but bitter mentions of her past marriage.
“I see,” Gwen said evenly, forcing calm into her voice. “How can I help you, Margaret?”
The woman’s tone dropped its polite veneer instantly, turning sharp, sneering, laced with spiteful curiosity.
“I just wanted to know how our Lily is getting on with you. Behaving herself, is she? I’m sure you’ve had enough of her by now. Or will soon! Trust me, you’ll regret taking that lazy girl into your family!”
“Margaret, I don’t understand. Lily’s wonderful. Why would we regret it?”
“*Wonderful?*” Margaret shrieked. “That girl’s bone idle! I scrub my floors daily—as one should! And her? Once every three days, if that! And the curtains—when did *you* last wash yours? Hm? For me, it’s once a month, no exceptions! She? Maybe once a year! Dust gathering for years! And her cooking—she fed my poor son absolute slop! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs—inedible! He got gastritis because of her!”
“Margaret, their flat is spotless. Always. And Lily cooks beautifully. I taught her a few tricks myself, and she’s a natural. We’ve no complaints. And your son’s gastritis was likely from drinking too much.”
“No complaints?!” Margaret yelled, ignoring her. “And how she treated my boy! He’d come home tired—had a few pints to unwind, like any decent man! And her? Instead of pouring him a nightcap and tucking him in, she’d screech at him! Made a scene! Heartless little shrew!”
Gwen closed her eyes. Lily had told her how her “few pints” ex-husband would stumble home at dawn, wreck the place, shout abuse. And she knew Edward—steady, responsible, never touched a drop. Disliked alcohol. Yet he brought Lily flowers just because and bragged about her promotions.
“My son, Edward,” Gwen said firmly, “does *not* come home drunk. Ever. He respects his wife and his home. Lily has no reason to shout. They’re happy.”
A heavy silence filled the line. Margaret seemed to be gathering breath for another assault. When she spoke again, her voice was outright venomous.
“Happy? Ha! Do you even *know* she’s from a care home? We took her in, but I *know* what those places are like. No wonder she’s barren! Useless! Mark my words, years will pass, and you’ll have no grandchildren. *Then* you’ll see what rubbish you’ve brought into your house!”
“Margaret,” Gwen said, loud and clear, as if standing before her, “you’re wrong. About everything. Our home is peaceful, orderly, full of love. I adore Lily. She calls me Mum. Of course we know about her past—there’s no shame in it. If anything, I’ve tried to give her warmth, motherly kindness. She’s good, kind. And as for grandchildren… you’re too late. Lily and Edward are expecting. Soon. So your ‘warnings’ are pointless.”
Silence. Then a ragged, wheezing breath. A sob. The venom melted into messy, choking tears.
“A baby? *Really?*” Margaret croaked, voice broken. “Or is it even *his*? Ever think of that? Oh, God… And my boy… my son…”
The weeping grew louder.
“He’s hopeless! Drinks, jumps from job to job… Penniless, living like a stray. I *want* a grandchild. Just one!”
Gwen listened, pity twisting in her chest—not for this woman, but for the Lily who’d endured years of it.
“Margaret—”
“Listen,” Margaret cut in, suddenly desperate. “If—if it doesn’t work with your Edward… if they *split*? Happens all the time! Call me—*promise*! I’ll talk to my son, maybe he’ll straighten up! She’s *better* now, you say? Cooks, cleans… She *knows* us, she’s got nowhere else—”
There it was. Not remorse, not guilt. Just raw envy—seeing what she’d tossed aside now treasured in another’s hands. A selfish, grasping hope to claw it back for her failed son. To use Lily again. As a maid. A womb for the grandchild *she* wanted.
“A daughter-in-law like Lily is *ours* to cherish. Don’t call again. Ever.”
She hung up. Blocked the number. Her throat burned—with anger, with sorrow for the Lily of the past. But strongest of all was the fierce, quiet certainty: *protection*. Of her nest. Of Edward. Of that once-fragile, now-strong girl who’d become a daughter in heart.
She covered the pastry with a clean towel. Soon, this kitchen would be loud, fragrant with baking, alive with laughter and easy joy. Soon, there’d be another voice—small, demanding, *theirs*.
She remembered meeting Lily—shy as a sparrow. Trust took time, but now, she was family. A shame her husband had died young, never seeing Edward so happy.
She’d raised him alone, helped buy his flat—where he brought Lily home.
An hour passed. Then, the doorbell. Gwen wiped a sudden tear, smoothed her apron, and answered.
Edward stood there, arms full of lilacs. And Lily—her bump just showing, face glowing with a peace so bright it outshone every shadow of the past.
“Mum!” Lily chirped, hugging her. “Something smells amazing! What’s baking?”
Gwen held her tight. “Shortbread tart, love. Edward, put those in water.”
She led them inside, glancing at the phone. That call, that voice—now just a distant, hateful echo. Here, in this room of light and lilacs and love, was *life*.
*Their* life. Built together. Guarded fiercely.
Everything was good. And it always would be.
