My mother-in-law is giddy for a date, and I’m left with the grandkids.
My mother-in-law, Margaret Wilkins, has lived without a husband for years. Her divorce from my husband’s father was messy, and she practically raised her son alone. She never lacked male attention—she’s a striking woman with a strong personality—but she never remarried. Said she was afraid a stepfather might mistreat her boy. With her temper, she’d never have stood for that. So, her youth was spent working and raising her son. No time for romance—just making ends meet and turning him into a decent man, especially when his father never paid a penny in child support.
And I’ll admit, she did well. For that, I’m grateful. My husband is dependable, caring—and I know that’s down to her.
But now her son’s grown, married, we’ve had our little Emily, and suddenly Margaret has a granddaughter—a new purpose. She adores fussing over her: walks in Hyde Park, baking Victoria sponge, bedtime stories. You’d think she’d be content. But no—suddenly, there’s a twist in her story, and I’m still reeling.
Just before Christmas, she met a man. Pure chance, in a queue at the Selfridges food hall. They got talking, swapped numbers, and that was that. Victor Dawson—retired military, Lieutenant Colonel, divorced, lives alone. According to Margaret, they’ve got everything in common—fate, she calls it. Both love classic British films, strolling along the Thames, reading the same books. Even take their tea the same way—no sugar, just a slice of lemon. Straight out of a romance novel!
But here’s the catch: Victor keeps asking her out. My husband and I work late, so Emily’s usually with her grandmother. Dragging a toddler along on a romantic date? Hardly ideal. So yesterday, Margaret rings me, and I nearly choke on my tea: “Darling, could you watch Emily for an evening? Just a little while—I’ve got a date.”
Honestly, I struggled not to laugh. A date? At her age? Over fifty and fluttering off like a schoolgirl for a stroll in Regent’s Park, then some modern art exhibit! I suggested, “Why not have Victor round yours? Tea, chat, Emily safe at home.” But no—Margaret dug her heels in. “That’s not the same, dear. A proper date—walking, talking under the stars.” Like something from a melodrama!
So I had to beg off work early. My boss gave me the look reserved for madwomen but let me go. Now I’m sat here realising: this won’t be a one-off. The way Margaret’s eyes light up when she talks about Victor? She’s smitten. Soon I’ll be taking unpaid leave or scrambling for nursery spots. Because I reckon this is serious. She even hinted Victor’s the sort to settle down—might be heading for a wedding. A wedding! At her age!
Don’t get me wrong—everyone deserves happiness. But at this stage, is it really about romance? Shouldn’t it be grandkids, pancakes, playground trips? Or am I wrong? Maybe love knows no age, maybe even retirees find their missing piece. Still, it jars—Margaret, always the picture of discipline, now blushing like a debutante.
I won’t begrudge her this. Let her try. Let her be happy. Maybe fate’s knocking when she least expects it. But I can’t help wondering—do grandmothers need love lives? Or is their lot just doting on grandkids and quiet evenings with knitting and the telly? Tell me—is there room for romance after fifty?.
