**A Family Recipe**
“Do you really want to marry someone you met on the internet?” Margaret Thompson eyed her future daughter-in-law with the same suspicion one might reserve for a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy, scrutinising gaze swept over Emilys simple hairstyle and modest dress. “You barely know each other!”
Emily felt goosebumps prickle down her spine. They sat in the cramped but spotless kitchen of the small flat where James had grown up. The air smelled of vanilla and old wooden floorboards.
“Mum, enough,” James cut in, wrapping an arm around Emilys shoulders. “We didnt meet onlinewe met in a book club. We just talked there first. Six months! And Emilys wonderful!”
Their story had begun when Emily, who ran a tiny blog about forgotten classics, posted about *Wuthering Heights*. James, a software engineer with a quiet love for literature, stumbled upon it. Their debate spilled into private messages, then long phone calls. They discovered they laughed at the same jokes, valued the same thingsquiet evenings, honesty, the scent of old books. Their first meeting by the Bronte statue in Haworth wasnt a date, just a continuation of their conversation. With Emily, James felt at ease, like slipping into a favourite jumper. She saw in him a gentle, thoughtful man beneath the shyness.
“Wonderful,” Margaret scoffed, clinking her teaspoon loudly against her china cup. “But shes from another town, no job here, and who knows what shes really after? I raised my son, worked hard for him, and now some stranger”
Emily clenched her jaw but stayed silent.
Shed already realised: to Margaret, she wasnt a person, but a threatsome outsider snatching her son away. Margarets life was governed by rigid rules and an uncompromising war against perceived weakness. After her husbands death five years ago, shed tightened her grip on James even more.
Every attempt to bridge the gap had failed.
When Emily baked an apple pie with cinnamon and star anise (“just like my grans”), Margaret took a tiny bite and muttered, “Too sweet. We dont do it like that here.”
When Emily offered to help clean, Margaret replied stiffly, “No need. I know where everything goes. Id spend months searching otherwise.”
Alone in Jamess room, surrounded by model trains and physics textbooks, he sighed. “Dont take it to heart. Shes just prickly. Like a hedgehog.”
“Im trying,” Emily murmured, watching the uniform balconies outside. “But living in a cold war is exhausting, and moving out isnt an option yet.”
Still, Emily refused to give up. She believed every fortress had a hidden door.
One Saturday morning, as Margaret dusted the shelves, she pulled out an old photo album. Emily asked to look, then noticed how Margaret lingered on a faded snapshot of herself, young and smiling, beside a tall, dark-haired man.
“Whos this?” Emily ventured.
Margaret startled, as if caught doing something forbidden. “My brother, Andrew,” she sighed, her voice softer than usual. “We fell out. Twenty years ago, maybe more.”
“Over what?”
“Stupidity. A patch of land after our parents died. Both too stubborn. He said cruel things, I said worse. And that was that. Same city, different worlds.”
Emily stayed quiet, but an idea formed. James had mentioned his mother growing even more withdrawn after that fight.
A week later, chatting with their talkative neighbour Mrs. Carter, Emily “happened” to ask about Jamess family.
“Oh, Margaret and Andrew!” Mrs. Carter exclaimed. “Thick as thieves, they were! Andrew lives over in the new estate now. Had heart surgery last yearhis kids are in London, poor man, all on his own.”
That evening, as James read and Margaret knitted, Emily said carefully, “Margaret, did you know your brother had heart surgery last year?”
The needles froze. Margaret paled. “What? How do you know?”
“Mrs. Carter told me. Said he was alone, no one to help”
Margaret left without a word. Emily heard her pacing all night.
The next morning, Margaretusually slow to risewas dressed early. “Visiting a friend,” she muttered, buttoning her best coat.
She returned at dusk, eyes red but softer. Seeing Emily in the kitchen, she paused. “Thank you,” she managed, then hurried away.
Later, Emily learned Margaret had taken the bus to Andrews, lingered outside, then finally knocked. Theyd stared at each othertwo greying, stubborn soulsbefore embracing, laughing at how petty their feud seemed now.
“You were right,” Margaret admitted days later over tea. “Sometimes you just have to take the first step. Twenty years wasted over a scrap of land Ridiculous.”
After that, she treated Emily differentlynot as an intruder, but as family.
One evening, sorting through the pantry, Margaret asked quietly, “Emily that pie of yours. The one with star anise. Could you show me? James mentioned he liked it.”
Hands trembling, Emily reached for the flour. They stood side by side in the tiny kitchen, peeling apples, rolling dough. For once, Margaret didnt offer a single correction.
When James came home, he found them both at the oven. “Well,” he grinned, “looks like youve made something together?”
Emily leaned into him and nodded. Some rifts just needed reminding of the love that existed long before you came along. You only had to find the right thread to pull.
