**The Family Recipe**
*”You seriously want to marry someone you met online?”* Margaret Harrington scrutinised her future daughter-in-law as though inspecting a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy, assessing gaze flickered over Emilys simple hairstyle, her modest dress. *”You barely know each other!”*
Emily felt goosebumps prickle down her spine. They sat in the cramped but spotless kitchen of the terraced house where James had grown upthe scent of vanilla and old wood lingering in the air.
*”Mum, enough,”* James cut in, wrapping an arm around Emilys shoulders. *”We didnt meet online, just talked there first. It was a book club. Six monthsand Emilys brilliant.”*
Their story had begun with Emilys small blog about forgotten classics. James, a software engineer with a quiet love for literature, stumbled upon her post about *Wuthering Heights*. Their debate spilled into messages, then late-night calls. They discovered shared laughter, a mutual love for quiet honesty, the musty comfort of old pages. Their first meetingby the statue of Dickensfelt less like a date and more like the next chapter of an ongoing conversation.
*”Brilliant,”* Margaret scoffed, clinking her spoon too loudly against the china. *”Shes from another city, no job herewho even knows her real intentions? I raised my son, and now some stranger”*
Emily clenched her jaw but stayed silent.
Shed already understood: Margaret saw her not as a person but as a threatan outsider stealing her son away. Margarets world was one of rigid rules and relentless control, tighter still since her husbands death five years ago.
Every attempt to bridge the gap had failed.
When Emily baked an apple pie*just like her grans*Margaret took a tiny bite and muttered, *”Too sweet. Not how we do it.”*
When Emily offered to help clean, the reply was curt: *”No need. Ill only spend months finding things after.”*
Alone in Jamess room, surrounded by model planes and physics textbooks, he sighed. *”Dont take it to heart. Shes just prickly. Like a hedgehog.”*
*”Im trying,”* Emily whispered, staring at the row of identical gardens outside. *”But living in a cold war is exhausting. And moving out isnt an option yet.”*
Still, she refused to give up.
One Saturday, as Margaret dusted the shelves, she pulled out an old album. Emily hesitantly joined herand noticed how Margaret lingered on a faded photo of herself, young and smiling, beside a tall, dark-haired man.
*”Whos this?”* Emily ventured.
Margaret stiffened, as if caught in something forbidden. *”My brother, Thomas. We fell out. Twenty years ago.”*
*”Over what?”*
*”Stubbornness. Inherited land. He said cruel things, so did I. And that was that.”*
Emily stayed quiet, but an idea took root.
A week later, chatting with the nosy neighbour Mrs. Wilkins, Emily *”happened”* to ask about Jamess family.
*”Oh, Margaret and Thomas!”* Mrs. Wilkins sighed. *”Thick as thieves, they were! Thomas lives in those new flats near the high streethad heart surgery last year. All alone, his kids up in Edinburgh.”*
That evening, as James read and Margaret knitted, Emily said carefully, *”Margaret did you know your brother had heart surgery last year?”*
The needles stilled. *”What? How do you know?”*
*”Mrs. Wilkins mentioned it. Said hes been struggling alone.”*
Margaret left without a word.
The next morning, she dressed in her best coat. *”Visiting a friend,”* she muttered.
She returned at dusk, eyes red-rimmed but softer. Spotting Emily in the kitchen, she paused. *”Thank you,”* she choked out before hurrying away.
Later, they learned shed taken the bus to Thomass flat. Stood outside for half an hour before knocking. When he opened the door, they staredthen embraced, laughing through tears at the wasted years.
*”You were right,”* Margaret admitted days later over tea. *”Twenty years lost over a patch of land How foolish.”*
Gradually, her frost thawed.
One evening, while sorting groceries, she asked quietly, *”Emily that apple pie. Could you show me?”*
Hands trembling, Emily reached for the flour.
They worked side by side in the tiny kitchenMargaret obediently peeling apples without a single critique. As the pie baked, she said, *”Thomas he asked who convinced me to visit.”*
Emily simply smiled.
*”Well,”* James said, returning to find them both at the table. *”Looks like youve cooked up something together?”*
Emily leaned into him, nodding. She knew now: sometimes, healing old wounds just required the right threadone woven long before you arrived.
