“Goodbye, dear mother-in-law”
“Well, there we go—our son-in-law has left again!” Margaret Mowbray fussily arranged scones and crumpets onto a tray, her knuckles slightly red from kneading the dough. “Shall we have tea or a dram of my homemade rose liqueur?”
“Mum, it’s early for a drink,” Olivia huffed, though her eyes sparkled at the mention of the rose liqueur. “But I suppose a tiny sip is allowed for such a special occasion.”
“Special? It is not special at all!” Margaret gasped theatrically, fanning her face with a lace handkerchief. “I haven’t seen my dear Olivia in half a year! And you, Daniel, what have you brought me, hmm? Does the apple of my eye need fattening a bit?”
Daniel, perched by the window, rolled his eyes but was secretly grateful the quest for the tea tray had diverted attention. They’d driven from London to this sleepy Devon village to visit Margaret, though Olivia had insisted he come to avoid the inevitable “weeks-long” holiday. Margaret, meanwhile, greeted them like long-lost heirs, gushing over Olivia’s hair and thinned frame with the same reverence one might reserve for a pot of rare lavender.
“I’ve brought you something, Mum,” Olivia said, digging through her tote.
“Oh, hold that thought!” Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Come here, let me look at you properly. Daniel, is she feeding you at all? You’re thinner than a dachshund!”
Daniel mumbled a reply about three meals a day and hour-long lunch breaks, earning a poke in the ribs from Margaret. “You cheeky thing,” she chided before turning back to rhapsodize about her newfound rhododendron collection.
Olivia leaned in and whispered, “Please, Dan, not today. Just one week, and I promise—”
“Seven days?” Daniel choked. “We agreed on a *weekend*. If you think I’m staying past Sunday, you’re delusional!”
“Darling, Mother’s organized a *list*,” Olivia nearly wept, her voice cracking. “She’s made *plans*, and you can work remotely, you said so.”
Daniel sighed. He’d learned long ago that his wife softened in Margaret’s presence, morphing into a carbon copy of the older woman’s firm, unyielding personality.
“Enough!” boomed a voice from the hallway. George, Margaret’s husband—a stout, pipe-smoking man of retirement age—entered, his face maple-syrup red from the garden. “Daniel, grab your coat. We’re off to the lake for some fishing!”
Daniel nearly jumped, elated. Anything to escape hours of Margaret’s commentary on his posture, diet, and questionable relationship status with the Post Office.
“Fishing? Will you give the poor souls a break?” Margaret returned with the tray, now gleaming with a bottle of amber liqueur and vintage crystal glasses. “They need to rest after the journey, not chase fish in the rain!”
George raised an eyebrow. “Mum, the best rest is doing something entirely different. We’ll be back by noon, sharp as a quill!”
Daniel found himself strangely grateful as they trudged through the drizzle, a rod in one hand and a bag of sandwiches in the other. But, as always, the universe had a sense of humor.
“Not a minute,” Margaret said from the porch, her voice cutting through the mist. “We’re staying for tea and catching up, and nothing is getting in the way of my conversation with the apple of my eye.”
By midday, Daniel was seated at the dining table—once a noble oak but now bearing the scars of generations of family feasts—trying not to grimace at Margaret’s sixth anecdote about Olivia’s childhood.
“Do you remember when Olivia won the poetry recital in primary school?”
“Of course, the one where she tripped over her flowery skirt?” Olivia beamed.
“Second place,” Margaret corrected. “Sally Smith got the prize because her mother knew the headmistress. But I will never forget how you stood there, a little girl, and recited your poem with the dignity of a queen.”
Daniel counted to twenty. Breathing exercises from his ex-therapist had become a lifeline.
And then, of course, the topic turned to grandchildren.
“When are we getting some?” Margaret asked, sipping her tea with the solemnity of a monarch.
Olivia paled. “Mum, we’ve talked about this. First—”
“Financial security, Matilda and I always say,” Margaret interrupted, dodging Olivia’s corrected name. “But in *my* day, we had babies, *then* sorted the mortgage. Try your luck for longer, love!”
“Maybe someone should have mentioned that to you when *you* were 28 and pregnant with my sister,” Daniel couldn’t help but say.
Margaret’s face contorted. “I was 28! And Olivia was three when I was—”
“Mum,” Olivia snapped, her voice a fragile thread.
“Let me,” Daniel said, his tone surprisingly calm. “Because while you’re worried about biological clocks, Olivia’s been undergoing fertility treatments, DNA tests, and wondering what we did to earn God’s disfavor. So maybe, just *maybe*, we could have a conversation without the guilt trips?”
Silence followed, heavy as the Devon fog. Margaret’s hand tightened around her teacup, her knuckles whitening. Olivia buried her face in her hands, and George—Daniel’s former lifeline—abruptly stood, muttering about needing more bait for the fish.
The next few days were quieter, though not precisely peaceful. Margaret offered passive-aggressive “motherly advice” from behind lace curtains, and George largely disappeared into the shed, presumably in solidarity. But on the last morning, as Daniel and Olivia packed their overnight bags, Margaret surprised him with a gentle hug.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” she murmured. “But I’ll be more thoughtful about my questions. The next time you’re here, I swear on my grandmother’s grave, we’ll not tiptoe around the topic. But I’ll give you more than three days—I promise.”
Daniel blinked back the absurd tears and replied, “I believe you, Margaret. And thank you.”
Back on the train home, Olivia squeezed his hand. “Do you think she really meant it?”
“She used my full name in the middle of a sentence,” Daniel said, grinning. “That’s more progress than I’d ever hoped for.”
And as the green English hills rolled past the window, Daniel couldn’t help but notice a shift in the air. Maybe it wasn’t peace, but it was something close. Maybe it was *hope*.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the next family holiday might last exactly as many hours as Olivia had planned.
