Margaret Whitmore could not sit still—today her son Edward was bringing his betrothed home for the first time. She had been bustling about the kitchen since dawn, setting a fine table, leaving no detail overlooked. Jane charmed her at once: sweet, modest, well-mannered. They exchanged pleasantries, shared supper, and spoke warmly. But when Edward walked Jane home, he returned an hour later, utterly despondent.
“Mum, what’s happened?” Margaret asked, her voice trembling.
“It’s over. Jane’s called off the wedding,” he muttered.
“What? Why?”
“Because of you, Mum…”
Margaret froze. Could it truly be her fault?
Later, tears brimming, she rang her dearest friend, Eleanor.
“Ellie, come quickly,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to go on. I’m a burden to my own son—perhaps it’d be better if I weren’t here at all.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense!” Eleanor snapped. “I’ll be there directly.”
She and Edward had lived together in a modest rented flat in Bristol, with no family to lean upon and no home of their own. She’d worked tirelessly, stitching together a meagre living, while he studied and grew into a fine man. They’d had little, but they’d had each other. Only one sorrow weighed on Margaret—Edward had never settled down. How she longed for grandchildren…
So when Jane entered his life, Margaret’s heart swelled with hope. Six months later, he announced they’d filed for a marriage licence.
She had prepared for their visit as if for a grand occasion. Jane had seemed every bit the ideal match. Yet over supper, the girl suddenly asked, “Margaret, how long do you mean to stay?”
“Stay? I live here.”
“In this flat? With Edward?” Jane’s smile faltered.
“I do,” Margaret replied.
“I see… Forgive me, I hadn’t realised.”
The evening ended politely, but Jane’s manner had shifted. By morning, she refused to see Edward again—then she ended their engagement outright. Her reason? She would not share a home with his mother.
“I’m nothing but a millstone round their necks, Ellie!” Margaret wept. “And I’d have helped—with the house, with the baby… She’s expecting!”
“Listen,” Eleanor said sternly. “Your boy must make his own way. You did the same, once. He’s a man now; he must lead his own household, not cling to his mother’s apron strings forever.”
“But how shall I manage alone? My pension’s barely enough, and what work can I find now?”
“Then you’ll manage, like all mothers must. And you will. But stand in their way, and you’ll lose him entirely. Stand aside, and you’ll gain a grandson, a happy family—and a son who’ll thank you for it.”
Margaret steadied herself. The next day, she and Eleanor called upon Jane.
“Thank you for coming,” Jane said after a long, quiet talk. “I hadn’t the courage to say it myself. But… thank you. And know this—we’d never cast you aside. If ever you need help, you’ll have it.”
“We?” Margaret echoed.
“Yes. I’ll marry Edward. I love him. But we must have our own home. Thank you for understanding.”
The wedding went forth as planned. Edward moved into Jane’s cottage, and when their son was born, it was Jane who invited Margaret to stay—to help with the child.
Now Margaret dotes on her grandson, tends the hearth, and fills the house with the scent of roast suppers. One evening, Jane took her hand and whispered,
“Thank you, Mum. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.”
So it was.
