**A Family Recipe**
*12th June*
“Do you seriously want to marry someone you met online?” Margaret Evans eyed her future daughter-in-law with the same suspicion one might give a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy, scrutinising gaze trailed over Emilys simple hairstyle and modest dress. “You barely know each other!”
A shiver ran down Emilys spine. They sat in the small but spotless kitchen of the terraced house where Daniel had grown up, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and old floorboards.
“Mum, enough,” Daniel interrupted, squeezing Emilys shoulder. “We didnt meet onlinewe were in the same book club. We just chatted there first. Six months! And Emilys brilliant!”
Their story was simple: Emily ran a tiny blog about forgotten classics. Daniel, a software engineer with a quiet love for literature, stumbled upon her post about *Wuthering Heights*. Their debate turned to private messages, then to long phone calls. They discovered they laughed at the same jokes, valued the same thingsquiet evenings, honesty, the scent of old paper. Their first meeting at the Bronte Parsonage wasnt a date, just an extension of their conversations. He felt at ease with her in a way he never had before. She saw past his shyness to the thoughtful man beneath.
“Brilliant,” Margaret scoffed, clinking her spoon loudly against her teacup. “And yet shes from another city, no job herewho even knows what shes after? I raised my son, put him through university, and now some stranger”
Emily bit her tongue.
She had already realised: to Margaret, she wasnt a person but a threatan outsider stealing her son away. Margaret lived by rigid rules, her world narrowing to just Daniel after her husband passed five years ago.
Every attempt to bridge the gap failed.
When Emily baked an apple pie with cinnamon and nutmeg (“just like my nans”), Margaret took a tiny bite and muttered, “Too sweet. We dont make it like that here.”
When Emily offered to help clean, the reply was brisk: “No need. I know where everything goes. Id spend months searching otherwise.”
Alone in Daniels roomcluttered with model trains and physics textbookshe just shrugged. “Dont take it to heart. Mums prickly as a hedgehog. She means well.”
“Im trying,” Emily murmured, watching the identical rooftops outside. “But living in this cold war is exhausting. And moving out isnt an option yet.”
Still, Emily refused to give up. She believed even the hardest walls had a hidden door.
One Saturday, Margaret pulled out an old photo album while dusting. Emily asked to join and noticed her pause on a faded picturea younger, smiling Margaret beside a dark-haired man.
“Whos that?” Emily ventured.
Margaret stiffened, caught off guard. “My brother, Thomas,” she admitted, her voice softer than usual. “We quarrelled. Twenty years ago, maybe more.”
“Over what?”
“Stupidity. Inherited land. Both too stubborn. He said cruel things, I said worse. And that was that.”
Emily said nothing, but a plan formed. Daniel had mentioned his mother grew tighter-lipped after that rift.
Days later, chatting with the neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, Emily “accidentally” brought up Margarets family.
“Oh, Margaret and Thomas!” Mrs. Higgins sighed. “Thick as thieves, they were! Thomas lives over in the new estate now. Had heart surgery last yearhis kids are up in Edinburgh. Poor man, all alone.”
That evening, as Daniel read and Margaret knitted, Emily said carefully, “Margaret did you know your brother had heart surgery last year?”
The needles stilled. Margaret paled. “What? How do you?”
“Mrs. Higgins mentioned it. Said he was alone, no one to help”
Margaret left without a word. Emily heard her pacing all night.
The next morning, Margaret dressed in her best coat. “Visiting a friend,” she muttered.
She returned at dusk, eyes red but softer. Spotting Emily in the kitchen, she paused. “Thank you,” she whispered, then hurried away.
Later, Daniel learned shed taken the bus to Thomass flat. She stood outside half an hour before knocking. When he opened the door, they staredtwo greying, stubborn peoplethen embraced, crying over childhood memories, laughing at how petty their feud seemed now.
“You were right,” Margaret admitted a few nights later over tea. “Sometimes you just need to take the step. Twenty years wasted on pride Ridiculous.”
After that, she warmed to Emilynot as an intruder, but as family.
One evening, sorting groceries, she asked quietly, “Emily that pie of yours. With nutmeg. Could you show me? Daniel seemed to like it.”
Hands trembling, Emily reached for the flour. They worked side by side in the cramped kitchen, Margaretfor oncenot offering advice. As the pie baked, Margaret wiped her hands.
“Thomas hes glad we made up. Asked who talked sense into me.”
Emily just smiled.
Daniel returned from work to find them both at the table. “Looks like youve been busy,” he teased.
Emily leaned into him and nodded. Some wounds just needed the right thread to stitch them closed.
