So, youre really going to marry someone you met online? Margaret Evans eyed her future daughter-in-law with the same suspicion shed give a dodgy banknote. Her heavy gaze swept over Emilys simple ponytail and plain dress. You barely know each other!
Emily felt goosebumps prickle her skin. They were crammed into the tiny but spotless kitchen of Maxs childhood flata postwar council place that smelled of vanilla and old floorboards.
Mum, come on, Max cut in, squeezing Emilys shoulder. We didnt *meet* online, just chatted there first. It was the book club! Six months of talking. And Emilys brilliant.
Their story went like this: Emily ran a little blog about forgotten classics. Max, a software engineer with a quiet love for Dickens, stumbled on her post about *Great Expectations*. Their debate spilled into DMs, then late-night calls. They discovered they laughed at the same jokes, valued the same thingsquiet evenings, honesty, the smell of old paper. Their first meeting by the Bronte statue in Haworth wasnt a date, just a conversation that never stopped. With her, Max felt at ease. She saw past his shyness to the man underneath.
Brilliant, Margaret huffed, clinking her spoon loudly against her china cup. And yet shes from Leeds, no job here, heaven knows what shes after. I raised my son, and now some stranger waltzes in
Emily bit her tongue.
Shed figured it out: to Margaret, she wasnt a person but a threatsome girl swooping in to steal her son. Since her husband died five years back, Margarets world had shrunk to rules, routines, and Max.
Every attempt to bond backfired.
When Emily baked her grandmas spiced apple cake, Margaret nibbled a crumb and muttered, Too sweet. Not how we do it.
Offering to help clean got a brisk, No need. Ill only spend months finding things after.
Alone in Maxs roomcluttered with model trains and physics textbookshe shrugged. Dont take it personally. Mums prickly as a hedgehog.
Im trying, Emily murmured, watching the identical balconies outside. But living in a silent war is exhausting.
She didnt give up. If there was a secret door in every fortress, shed find it.
One Saturday, Margaret dusted the shelves and pulled out an old photo album. Emily asked to look and spotted her lingering on a faded picturea younger, smiling Margaret beside a dark-haired man.
Whos this? Emily ventured.
Margaret stiffened. My brother, Andrew. We fell out. Twenty years ago.
Over what?
Land, after our parents died. Stubborn as mules, both of us. Harsh words, and that was that.
Later, chatting with nosy neighbor Mrs. Wilkins, Emily *happened* to ask about the family.
Oh, Margaret and Andrew? Inseparable! He lives over in Headingley now. Had heart surgery last yearall alone, his kids in London.
That evening, as Max read and Margaret knitted, Emily said lightly, Did you know your brother had heart surgery?
The needles stilled. How?
Mrs. Wilkins mentioned it. Said hes been struggling.
Margaret vanished into her room. The next morning, she left early in her best coat.
She returned at dusk, eyes red but softer. At the kitchen door, she stopped. *Thank you*, she choked out before hurrying away.
Turned out shed taken the bus to Andrews. Stood outside his flat for half an hour. When he opened the door, they just staredtwo grey-haired foolsthen hugged, crying over childhood and how petty old grudges seemed now.
You were right, Margaret admitted days later over tea. Sometimes you just have to reach out. Twenty years over a patch of grass Ridiculous.
After that, she thawed. One evening, sorting groceries, she mumbled, Em that cake of yours. Could you show me? Max said its good.
Hands trembling, Emily fetched the flour. They stood elbow-to-elbow in the cramped kitchen, peeling apples. For once, Margaret didnt correct a thing.
When Max came home, he found them dusted in sugar. Made something together?
Emily leaned into him, smiling. Sometimes all it took was reminding people of the love that was there before you. You just had to find the right thread.
