Margaret smoothed the delicate shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son Thomas, with his wife Emily, were due to arrive in a couple of hours. The silence was shattered by the sharp, 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 Whitmore?”
“Yes, speaking,” Margaret replied, instinctively tensing.
“My name is Valerie Stephens. I’m Emily’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law.”
Margaret silently pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. *Former mother-in-law?* Her thoughts raced to Emily, to the few but bitter mentions she’d made of her past marriage.
“I see,” Margaret said evenly, fighting to keep her voice calm. “How can I help you, Valerie?”
The woman’s tone instantly shed its veneer of politeness, turning sharp, biting, and full of spiteful curiosity.
“I just wanted to see how our Emily is getting on with you! How’s she behaving? I’m sure you’ve already suffered with her—or will soon! Trust my experience—you’ll regret it! Oh, how you’ll regret taking that lazy girl into your family!”
“Valerie, I don’t understand. Emily is a wonderful woman. Why should we regret it?”
“Wonderful?!” Valerie shrieked in a shrill voice. “She’s bone idle! I mop my floors every single day, as one should! And her? Once every three days—if she’s forced! And the curtains! When did you last wash yours? Eh? Mine—once a month, sacred duty! And her? Once a year, if lucky! Years of dust collecting! And her cooking… fed my poor son absolute poison! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs—inedible! He ended up with gastritis!”
“Valerie, their flat is spotless. Always. And Emily cooks beautifully. I taught her a few tricks myself—she’s a brilliant learner. We’ve no complaints. And your son’s gastritis was likely from too much drink!”
“No complaints?!” Valerie shouted, ignoring her. “And how she treated her husband! My boy would come home tired—had a few drinks to unwind, like any proper bloke! And her? Instead of pouring him a nightcap, tucking him in, showing some care—she’d scream at him! Started rows! A heartless shrew!”
Margaret closed her eyes. She knew from Emily that her “few drinks” meant stumbling home at dawn, smashing the flat, shouting abuse. And she knew her Thomas—responsible, never touched a drop. Hated alcohol. Instead, he brought flowers for no reason and bragged about Emily’s work achievements.
“My son, Thomas,” Margaret said firmly, underlining each word, “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 hung on the line. Valerie seemed to be gathering breath for another assault. When she spoke again, her voice was openly malicious, hissing:
“Happy? Ha! Do you even know she’s from an orphanage? We took her in, though I know what goes on in those places. No wonder she’s barren! A waste! You’ll see—years will pass, no grandchildren! Then you’ll realise what rubbish you took in! You’ll regret it!”
“Valerie,” Margaret said, loud and clear, as if standing right before her, “you’re deeply mistaken. In everything. Our family has peace, order, and love. I genuinely love Emily. She respects me and calls me Mum. Of course we know she was in care—it’s not her fault. I tried to give her warmth, motherly love. She’s kind, good-hearted. And about grandchildren… you’re too late. Emily and Thomas are expecting. Soon. So your ‘prophecies’ are pointless.”
Silence. Then a ragged, wheezing breath—followed suddenly by a sob. The malice dissolved into clumsy, gulping tears.
“A baby?” Valerie croaked, her voice broken, pathetic. “Truly? Or maybe it’s not even your son’s, ever think of that? Oh God… and my boy… he’s hopeless! Drinks, can’t hold a job… no money, lives like a squatter… And I—I just wanted grandchildren! Just one!”
Margaret listened silently. Pity pricked her heart—not for Valerie, but for the Emily who’d endured years of this.
“Valerie—” she began, but the woman cut in, voice suddenly wheedling, desperate:
“Listen… if things don’t work with your Thomas… if they divorce? Happens, doesn’t it? Ring me straight away! Promise! I’ll tell my son—maybe he’ll shape up! She’s good now, you say? Cooks, likes order. Maybe she’d come back to us? Tell me, please! She’s got nowhere else—she knows us already…”
There it was. The root of it. No remorse. No guilt. Just the desperation of a woman who saw what she’d dismissed as worthless now cherished by another—and a selfish hope to snatch it back for her own failed son. To use Emily again. As a servant. A womb for grandchildren.
“A daughter-in-law like Emily is ours to keep. Never call again.”
She hung up without waiting, blocking the number. Anger, pity for Emily’s past, disgust at the absurd demands—all tangled in her throat. But strongest of all was a fierce protectiveness.
Protection of her nest, of Thomas, of this once-fragile but now strong young woman she’d taken as her own, who’d returned her love and trust. She covered the pastry with a clean towel. Soon, the house would be lively—filled with fresh baking, laughter, steady, happy voices. Soon, another voice, tiny and full of life.
She remembered first meeting Emily when Thomas brought her home. A shy little sparrow. Winning her trust took time—now she was a daughter. A shame her husband had died young, never seeing their son’s eyes shine with love for his wife.
Margaret had raised Thomas alone, helped him buy the flat where he brought Emily.
An hour later—the doorbell. Margaret wiped an unexpected tear, straightened her apron, and opened the door. Thomas stood there with an armful of lilacs, Emily beside him, her rounded belly unmistakable, her face radiant with peace.
“Mum!” Emily chirped, stepping forward to hug her. “It smells amazing! What are you making?”
Margaret held her tight. “Shortcrust pie, love,” she said, kissing her cheek. “Tom, put those flowers in water.”
She ushered them in, glancing at the phone. That call, that voice of spite and envy, seemed an echo from another world. Here, in this room full of light and love, was true life.
The life they’d built. The life she’d guard fiercely.
They were happy. And always would be.
*Some people don’t realise what they have until it’s gone—but bitterness keeps them from ever truly holding onto anything good.*
