**Diary Entry – 14th March**
My mother-in-law, Eleanor Whitmore, has lived without a husband for years. Her divorce from my father-in-law was messy, and she raised their son single-handedly. Men always noticed her—she’s sharp-witted and striking—but she never remarried. Said she feared a stepfather might mistreat her boy, and with her temper, she’d have unleashed hell if anyone tried. So her youth vanished into work and motherhood, no time for romance—just bills, groceries, and raising a decent man, especially when her ex couldn’t spare a penny in support.
And bloody hell, she pulled it off. For that, I owe her. My husband’s reliable, kind—that’s her doing.
Now, though, our son’s grown, married, and we’ve a daughter—little Sophie, Eleanor’s new joy. She dotes on her: park strolls, baking scones, bedtime stories. You’d think that’d be enough. But no—life’s chucked her a curveball, and I’m still reeling.
Before Christmas, she met a man. Randomly, in the queue at Harrods. They chatted, swapped numbers, and bam—courtship. Victor Ashford, ex-military, a retired colonel, also divorced. According to Eleanor, they’re a match carved by fate: both love *Brief Encounter*, long walks along the Thames, the same dog-eared novels. Even take their tea the same—black, with a twist of lemon. Straight out of a BBC romance!
Here’s the snag: Victor keeps asking her out. My husband and I work late, so Sophie’s usually with Nana. Bringing a toddler on a date? Hardly ideal. Then yesterday, Eleanor drops the bomb mid-sip of my Earl Grey: *”Emma, darling, could you watch Sophie tonight? I’ve… well, a date.”*
Nearly spat my tea. A *date*? At her age? She’s pushing sixty, yet there she was, giddy as a schoolgirl, planning starlit chats and a gallery visit. I suggested, *”Invite him round, have tea here—Sophie’s safe, you get your chat.”* But no. *”It’s not the same,”* she insisted. *”Proper dates matter—walks, conversation under the sky.”* Like some Jane Austen plot!
Had to duck out of work early. Boss gave me the side-eye but relented. Now I’m stewing—this won’t be a one-off. The way her eyes lit up talking about Victor? This is just the start. Soon I’ll be burning leave or scrambling for nursery spots. Because—plot twist—she hinted he’s *serious*. Might even be *ring shopping*. At her age!
I’ll never deny anyone happiness. But should it hinge on men at this stage? Isn’t it meant to be grandkids, fairy cakes, pushchairs in Regent’s Park? Or am I wrong? Maybe love’s got no expiry, and even pensioners get second chances. Still, I can’t square it—the woman who embodied no-nonsense discipline is now sighing over moonlit strolls.
I won’t dim her spark. Let her try. Maybe fate’s knocking when she least expected. But I keep wondering—do grandmothers *get* to want romance? Or is their lot just babysitting and *Strictly Come Dancing* on the telly? Tell me this—does passion have a shelf life, or are we fools to think it does?
