**“Mum Planned It All”**
“I can’t believe this! I just *can’t* believe it!” Emily shrieked, her hands flailing in disbelief. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Emily, love, please calm down,” Margaret pleaded, reaching for her daughter’s hand, only for Emily to jerk away. “Let’s just talk about this properly.”
“*Calm down*? After what you’ve done?” Emily’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “Do you realise the entire town will laugh at me?”
“Don’t be dramatic. What town? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Emily clutched her head. “Are you pretending not to understand, or do you genuinely *not* get it?”
Margaret sank heavily onto the sofa. At sixty-two, she still considered herself sharp enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s life, but for the first time in years, she felt old—and exhausted.
“I was only trying to help,” she said quietly. “You’ve been shut away since the divorce. Never going out, never meeting anyone…”
“That’s *my* business!” Emily exploded. “*Mine*! I’m a grown woman, Mum—forty-one years old!”
“Exactly why I worry. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And what? I’m unwanted? Some ghastly spinster?”
Margaret shook her head. “You’re beautiful, love. Clever. But you’ve grown too proud. Men are *scared* to approach you.”
Emily paced the cramped sitting room, twisting the belt of her dressing gown. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, but the air between them was thick with tension.
“Mum, how could you place a *personal ad*?” Emily hissed. “And such a dreadful one!”
“What’s wrong with it?” Margaret sniffed. “It’s perfectly ordinary.”
“‘Perfectly ordinary’?” Emily yanked a crumpled newspaper from her pocket. “‘Seeking sincere gentleman for kind, attractive daughter (41). Works as accountant, non-smoker, enjoys cooking. *Contact her mother*.’ Contact *you*? Bloody hell!”
“What’s the harm in that?” Margaret blinked.
“The *harm*? I’m not a sodding *classified listing*! And why should they call *you* instead of me?”
“Because you’d find fault with everyone! Always an excuse why they’re not good enough.”
Emily dropped into the armchair, covering her face. “Mum, I’ve had calls nonstop. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old asked if I knew how to make shepherd’s pie and whether I’d relocate to his farm in Yorkshire with *three bloody sheep.*”
“Well, he’s clearly unsuitable,” Margaret conceded. “But the others?”
“*What* others?” Emily groaned. “This is *humiliating*. Like I can’t find a man on my own.”
“*Can* you?”
The question was soft, but it struck like a dart. Emily fell silent. Four years since her divorce from David, and she hadn’t met a single man who held her interest.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to *newspaper ads*, like some bloody *nineties* dating disaster,” she muttered.
“How else, then? Online? You barely know how to use the internet.”
“I’d figure it out.”
“Oh, like you’ve ‘figured out’ the last four years?”
Margaret stood and shuffled toward the kitchen. “Tea?” she called. “Or shall I fetch the Valerian drops?”
“Mum, *stop*,” Emily snapped, trailing her.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking—Margaret’s nervous habit. The table bore carrot cake, scones, and ginger biscuits.
“You baked all night again?” Emily asked, despite herself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Margaret admitted. “Knew you’d be furious.”
“You might’ve *thought* before placing that ad.”
The kettle whistled. Margaret fetched two floral teacups. “Emily, be fair. You work in a *women’s* office, never meet men, slob about in joggers—”
“There’s *nothing* wrong with how I look!”
“For lounging, sure. But for *catching a man’s eye*? When did you last wear a dress?”
Emily paused. She *had* abandoned skirts after the divorce. Jeans, jumpers, trainers—her uniform of solitude.
“Still no excuse for an ad,” she grumbled.
“What *is* the excuse, then? Wait for Prince Charming to knock?”
The tea steamed between them. Margaret nudged the biscuit tin closer.
“Mum… *how many* calls did you get?” Emily asked warily.
“Dozens. Wrote them all down.” She pulled a school exercise book from the drawer. *“Suitors for Emily”* sprawled across the cover in shaky script.
“Christ,” Emily muttered. “Like I’m twelve.”
“But *organised*. Look—this Michael seemed decent. Forty-five, engineer, divorced. Polite voice.”
Emily flipped through pages crammed with names, ages, salaries.
“Mum, did you *interrogate* these men?”
“Of *course*. You think I’d hand you over to *just anyone*? Asked about jobs, wages, houses…”
“Like a *job interview*,” Emily snorted.
“Well, *someone* has standards!”
Emily scanned the notes, smiling despite herself. Margaret’s notes were brutal: *“Drinks.” “Lives with mum.” “Wants a maid.” “Married (liar).*”
“Why’s this Thomas crossed out?”
“Started asking about *bedroom matters* in the first call. *Rude*.”
“This Stephen, then?”
“Seemed alright. Forty-three, project manager. Widower. Grown daughter.”
Emily set the book down. “Mum, do you *honestly* think this’ll work?”
“Why not? There used to be matchmakers! Parents arranged marriages, and people *got on*.”
“That was *centuries* ago.”
“Times change. People don’t. Everyone wants love.”
The phone rang. Margaret pounced.
“Hello? Oh! The ad… How old? Thirty-eight? What do you do? Divorced? Any kids? Why *not*, if I may ask?”
Emily rolled her eyes and stalked to her room.
Emails clogged her inbox—*dozens* from strangers. Margaret hadn’t stopped at newspapers.
“MUM!” Emily yelled.
Margaret bustled in, phone still clutched.
“What?”
“You put me on *dating sites*?”
“Well, yes! Mrs. Thompson next door showed me. More choice!”
“*Which* sites?”
“All the free ones!”
Emily googled her name. *Hundreds* of listings—same text, different photos.
“Where’d you get these *pictures*?”
“Your laptop. Mrs. Thompson helped.”
“Which *photos*?”
“The nice ones! That seaside one, and you in the blue dress at the Christmas do.”
Emily stared. Margaret *had* chosen well—smiling, glowing shots.
“How many *responses*?”
“Loads! Look at your inbox!”
*Over a hundred messages.*
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how *popular* you are!”
The phone rang again.
“Hello? Oh! Your name? William… Age? Forty-six… Job? Lorry driver… Personality? Easygoing? Good…”
Emily listened, stunned. Yesterday, she was just a divorced accountant. Today, a *matrimonial headline*.
Margaret grilled the poor man: “Salary? Smoke? Drink? *How much*? Hmm…”
“MUM!” Emily hissed.
“What? A woman needs *financial security*!”
“Not in the *first call*!”
The “interview” dragged on—*blood type*, *shoe size*—until Margaret finally hung up.
“Well? Suitable?”
“How would *I* know? I didn’t speak to him!”
“Shall I arrange a meeting? Dinner here? I’ll make roast—”
“NO. If I meet him, it’s *without* you.”
Margaret pouted. “*I* found him!”
“I’m not a *museum exhibit*! I’ll talk to him *alone*.”
“Ungrateful. All my effort—”
“Mum, I *am* grateful. But this is *insane*.”
“It *works*. Look how many men—”
“*Quantity* isn’t *quality*.”
“How do you *know*? Your soulmate could be out there!”
The phone rang a third time. Emily snatched it.
“Hello?”
A warm, steady voice replied, “Hi. I’m Daniel. Saw your mum’s ad. Wondered… might we meet?”
Emily hesitated. No arrogance, no desperation—just quiet confidence.*”Alright, Daniel,” Emily said, her voice softening as she glanced at her mother’s hopeful face, “let’s meet for coffee on Saturday—just you and me.”* .
