Good morning, love! – Emily Margaret set the tray of currant scones on the kitchen table, twirling her beanie-green woolen apron. Shall we start with tea or something stronger, like sherry?
– Mother, sherry first thing in the morning? – Emily rolled her eyes but smiled. – Well, a splash wouldn’t hurt, since we haven’t seen you in ages.
– Aren’t you precious! – Margaret clapped her hands, her voice as brash as ever. – It’s been six months since my little girl! Thomas, fetch the decanter, will you?
David, by the window, crossed his eyes but quickly averted his gaze. Since sunrise, he and Emily had traveled from London to this quaint Yorkshire village. She to reunite with her mother, he to fulfill marital obligation. Margaret greeted them like long-lost orphans, hugging, cooing, and clutching them as if they’d fallen from the sky.
– Mummy, I’ve brought you gifts, – Emily fumbled in her “Lush” bag, tongue stuck out in concentration.
– Gifts! Girl, you’re as thin as a willow branch, not a shopping center! – Margaret swatted air at the bag. – David, does your wife eat? She’s more bone than butter!
David chuckled, though his stomach tightened.
– She does, ma’am, three times a day, like a clockwork rabbit.
– Now you’re fibbing! – Margaret jabbed the air, her voice half-teasing. – Still, if the dear boy wants to join us, let’s pour that sherry!
As Margaret vanished to the kitchen, Emily leaned toward David and whispered, her freckles crinkling:
– David, please don’t get on her case this week. Just one week, okay?
– One week? – David nearly choked. – We agreed on a weekend! Saturday, Sunday, done!
– But Mum’s been waiting, she’s planned so much. You could work from here, like you said on the train.
Tom, the stepfather, burst into the room, a kitted-out fishing reel in one hand.
– Zym, son, we’re off to the river! Let’s not waste sherry time.
David perked up—both from escaping his mother-in-law and the promise of a traditional English escapade.
– Splendid! – He rubbed his hands, though Tom’s “adventure” likely meant a muddy pasture and a single cormorant.
– Really, Tom? Fishing on their first day? – Margaret returned with a cask of sherry and crystal glasses, lips pursed. – You two need rest after the journey!
– Best rest is a change of pace, love. Be back by lunch.
David’s gratitude toward Tom deepened, until…
– Nonsense, let’s eat. David, stay. You’ll help Tom with the fishing, of course, but tonight we must discuss matters truly important.
“Matters truly important” soon became a litany of Emily’s childhood: the poetry recital she’d secured second place at, the sari Emily wore to Tom’s fortieth birthday party (lavender, with gold thread, *not* lilac, according to Margaret).
– And now, when will you give us grandchildren? – Margaret broke the nostalgic stream, nearly spilling sherry. David’s glass tilted.
– Mummy… – Emily blushed, eyes downcast. – We’re focusing on saving for the new house first.
– Nonsense! In my day, we worried about roofs after having children.
– Good things take time, – David interjected, surprising himself.
Margaret’s gaze hardened. “Men can wait. Women can’t. Emily, dear, you’re only twenty-seven!”
– Mummy, I’m not thirty-two yet.
– *You were only twenty when Emily was born,* Margaret snapped.
David felt the room shrink. Tom quietly hid under a newspaper—upside down, no less.
– Zym, let’s go breathe some fresh air, – Tom interrupted.
– Go ahead! Have a nice… *rest,* – Margaret’s “rest” dripped with the weight of a clenched fist.
Outside, the chill air hit David like a Yorkshire windwall.
– Don’t take it to heart, – Tom said simply. – She’s a tidal wave. I’ve learned to float on the surface and let her pass.
– And you’ve done that all these years?
– Thirty years now. She makes decent stews, keeps the house dean. The rest? Well. Some of us don’t have roses in our graves, only lilies of the field.
By dinner, the “fishing trip” had yielded three whitebait and a sunburned David. Margaret scorned the fish, but Tom, with a stoic shrug, declared, “Plenty for soup.”
Emily looked smaller that evening, her shoulders slumped like wilted primroses. David thought, *Is this what decades of this conversation feels like?*
Over beetroot stew and Yorkshire pudding, Margaret critiqued Emily’s work as a graphic designer—too much screen time, too little “proper workwear.” David grew quiet, mirroring Tom’s strategy of not adding fuel to the fire.
That night, in a single room that smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs, Emily whispered, *“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”*
– Don’t be. Tom’s right. Sometimes silence is the loudest answer.
– But tomorrow? I heard Mum saying she’s “prepared a contingency plan for tomorrow morning.”
– Then we vanish early with Tom, – David winked.
Early proved a challenge. Margaret caught them at the door in a neon-pink robe: *“You expect me to watch you vanish again like a pair of gremlins?”*
But Tom, now a committed conspirator, led them to a serene lake, where David learned that British “fishing” meant patience and a lot of staring at the surface.
“You never moved to London, Tom?” David asked as they reeled in pike.
– Why should I? I’m a custodian here, timeless. Margaret, well… She’s like a storm. Wakes up, rages, then just… settles.
As they returned, the house was quiet. Emily sat on the sofa, eyes red. Margaret hummed in the kitchen.
– What happened?
– She didn’t shout this time. Just said we’re selfish.
David sat, his hand on her shoulder. *“We will leave tomorrow. I don’t care if she throws a hissy fit.”*
– No. She’d never forgive that.
Their next argument was triggered by Margaret’s “friend” Veronica from the bridge club, now with two children: *“She doesn’t moan about space or time. Just lives her life!”*
David felt the air thrum. He stood. *“Enough. We’ve tried for two years. We’ve been to doctors, procedures, missed holidays. It’s not *easy*, okay?”*
Margaret gaped. Tom’s knife clattered against his plate.
– I… I didn’t know, – she whispered, her hands trembling.
Emily’s sobs echoed in the silence.
By morning, the storm had gone. Margaret brewed tea with trembling hands, and David noticed the tear lines on her apron.
On their last morning, Margaret hugged David—longer than any other guest ever had.
– Goodbye, sweet mother-in-law, – he joked.
– Don’t be silly. *Goodbye, son.* Take care of her. I… I do.
Emily clutched his hand as the train pulled out of York, her eyes misty. *“Thank you for speaking up. She finally sees us as… people, not her project. She even said she’ll let us have space.”*
David smiled. *“And I still can’t wait to meet the grandkids.”*
Emily’s laughter was a bright, bittersweet sound. The world outside the window blurred with trees and hills, just like the lines between duty and love, between tradition and understanding.
And months later, when Emily called with a trembling voice to say, *“We’re going to have a baby,”* Margaret wept not with commands—but with quiet, proud joy.
*Sometimes the deepest love isn’t in the giving of orders, but in the learning to let go.*
