Mum Had It All Planned
“I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!” shrieked Emily, flailing her arms. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Emily, love, calm down, please,” Margaret Wilson tried to take her daughter’s hand, but she jerked away. “Let’s talk properly.”
“Properly?” Emily’s voice pitched into a screech. “After what you’ve done? Do you realise I’m the laughingstock of the whole town now?”
“Don’t exaggerate. What town? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Emily clutched her head. “Are you pretending to be thick, or do you genuinely not get it?”
Margaret sank heavily onto the sofa. At sixty-two, she still considered herself young and energetic enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s life. But for the first time in years, she felt old and worn out.
“I only wanted to help,” she said quietly. “You’ve been shut away, never going anywhere. Ever since the divorce, you’ve closed yourself off.”
“That’s *my* business!” Emily exploded. “*Mine!* I’m a grown woman, Mum—I’m forty-one!”
“That’s exactly why I worry. Time’s slipping by, and you—”
“And *what*? I’m unwanted? Some sort of hideous spinster?”
Margaret shook her head.
“You’re my beautiful, clever girl. You’ve just grown too proud. Men are scared to approach you.”
Emily paced the room, nervously fiddling with her dressing gown belt. The morning sun bathed the small living room in golden light, but the air inside was thick with tension.
“Mum, how could you put an ad in the *local paper*?” Emily sighed. “*That* sort of ad…”
“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Margaret asked, indignant. “Perfectly ordinary words.”
“Ordinary?” Emily pulled a crumpled newspaper from her pocket and unfolded it. “Listen to this: ‘Seeking decent gentleman for lovely, homemaking daughter, age 40. Works as accountant, doesn’t drink or smoke, enjoys cooking. Contact her mother.’ *Her mother*, for God’s sake!”
“What’s wrong with that?” Margaret still didn’t get it.
“What’s *wrong*? I’m not a sack of potatoes at the market! And why contact *you* instead of me?”
“Because you’d find fault with anyone. You’d invent reasons why they’re not good enough.”
Emily slumped into the armchair opposite her mother and buried her face in her hands.
“Mum, I’ve had calls nonstop. Can you imagine? Yesterday, some seventy-year-old granddad asked if I could make shepherd’s pie and if I’d move to his village to tend his three cows.”
“Well, he’s obviously not suitable,” Margaret conceded. “What about the others?”
“*What* others?” Emily huffed. “Mum, it’s humiliating! Like I can’t find a man on my own.”
*Can* you?”
The question was quiet but struck deep. Emily fell silent, knowing her mother was right. Four years had passed since her divorce from Daniel, and she hadn’t met anyone who interested her.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to newspaper ads like it’s the nineties,” she grumbled.
“How else, then? Online? You wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”
“I’d figure it out.”
“Oh, like you’ve ‘figured out’ how to meet someone in four years?”
Margaret stood and headed to the kitchen.
“Cuppa?” she called. “Or shall I fetch the valerian drops?”
“Don’t tease me,” Emily muttered, following her.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking. Margaret always baked when she was nervous. Today, the table held cheese scones, apple turnovers, and shortbread.
“Up all night again?” Emily asked, smiling despite herself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Margaret admitted. “Kept thinking how to talk to you.”
“Should’ve thought of that *before* placing the ad.”
Margaret filled the kettle and fetched two mugs.
“Emily, love, think about it. You work with women, no blokes there. You stay home with your books and telly. You pop to Tesco in joggers, hair half-brushed.”
“I look fine!”
“For lounging, yes. But for men? When did you last wear a dress?”
Emily paused. She *had* forgotten about being feminine since the split. Jeans, jumpers, trainers—that was her whole wardrobe now.
“Still not a reason to place an ad,” she muttered stubbornly.
“What *is* a reason, then? Sit and wait for Prince Charming to knock on your door?”
The kettle boiled. Margaret made tea and set a plate of shortbread on the table.
“Mum… how many calls *were* there?” Emily asked cautiously.
“Lots. I wrote them all down. Want to see?”
She pulled a school exercise book from the drawer. On the cover, in childlike handwriting, it read: *Husbands for Emily.*
“Seriously?” Emily snorted. “Like I’m in primary school.”
“But it’s all in order. Look—this Michael sounded decent. Forty-five, engineer, divorced, no kids. Nice voice, polite.”
Emily flipped through the pages. Margaret had neatly listed names, ages, jobs, and quick notes about each caller.
“Mum, did you *interview* all of them?”
“Of course! Did you think I’d hand you over to the first bloke who rang? Asked about everything—jobs, wages, if they owned a home.”
“Sounds like an interrogation,” Emily smirked.
“Well, yes. Got to know who you’re dealing with.”
Reading the notes, Emily couldn’t help but smile. Margaret *had* been thorough. Some names had scribbles beside them: *drinks*, *lives with mum*, *wants a maid*, *married, liar.*
“Why’s this Andrew crossed out?”
“He brought up *you-know-what* straight away. I told him my daughter’s a respectable girl, and he got rude.”
“Right. What about this Simon?”
“Seemed nice. Forty-three, site foreman, owns a flat. Widower, grown daughter, married.”
Emily set the book down and studied her mum.
“Mum, do you *really* think this is how you find a decent person?”
“Why not? They had matchmakers in the old days. Parents arranged marriages, and folks got on fine.”
“That was *ages* ago. Times have changed.”
“Times change, people don’t. Everyone wants love, family, understanding.”
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Hello? Yes, about the ad… How old? Thirty-eight? And your job? I see… Ever married? Divorced… Kids? None… Why no kids, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Emily rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. Her mother could grill callers for *hours*, digging into their life stories.
At her desk, Emily checked her emails. Among work messages were several from strange men. Turns out Margaret hadn’t stopped at the paper—she’d placed ads *online* too.
“Mum!” Emily yelled. “Get in here!”
Margaret appeared, still holding the phone.
“What?”
“You put ads *online* too?”
“Well, yes. Mrs. Jenkins next door showed me. Said there’s more choice.”
“*Which* sites?”
“All the ones I found. They’re free.”
Emily googled her name. The results stunned her. Dating ads for her were plastered across *dozens* of sites. Same text, different photos.
“Mum, where’d you get these pictures?”
“From your laptop. Mrs. Jenkins taught me how.”
“*Which* pictures?”
“Different ones. This seaside one’s lovely, and this one in the dress from your office do.”
Emily stared. Margaret *had* picked her best photos—ones where she looked happy and attractive.
“So… loads of replies?”
“Loads. Look at your inbox.”
Margaret pointed to the *hundreds* of unread messages.
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how popular you are?”
The phone rang again. Margaret rushed to answer.
“Hello? Yes, go on… Name? James… Age? Forty-six… Job? Lorry driver… What sort of lorry? Right… Temper? Easygoing? Good…”
Listening to the “*interview*,” Emily pondered life’s odd turns. Yesterday, she was just another divorced woman quietly working and living. Today, she was the star of a matchmaking campaign, besieged by strange men.
Meanwhile, Margaret pressed on:
“Any vices? Smoke? No? Good. Drink? Just holidays? Fair enough… How’ll you support a family? Wage? That’s *low*, son. My girl’s used to proper comforts…”
*”Mum!”* Emily cut in. “Stop scaring him off!”
Margaret cupped the receiver.
As Emily and James wrapped up their next date—planned without her mother’s meddling this time—she realised that sometimes, even the most absurd schemes could lead to something unexpectedly lovely.
