Natalie remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. But her mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson, spoke with unrelenting warmth.
“You’re a marvel, darling! Adorable, and such a good cook. You keep this house spotless. Peter’s a lucky man!” Margaret beamed, spooning hearty potted meat onto her plate. “My late husband, rest his soul, used to say women should have a strong work ethic. Beauty is a mere accessory, after all.”
Natalie forced a smile and rose to fetch more salad. She was used to Margaret’s backhanded praise—helmed by hidden daggers.
“Peter should be forever grateful he met such a fine woman. Merriest I’ve heard of girls today, always chasing clubs and parties.” Margaret waved a dismissive hand, oblivious to Peter’s wince. “Back in our day, women mastered the home and a child by their twenties…”
Peter shot Natalie a pleading glance from the kitchen doorway.
“Try some of my prawn salad, Mummy,” Natalie offered, her voice composed, though her hand trembled slightly. “It’s a family recipe.”
“God bless you, love! And don’t fret—everything will sort itself. When I was pregnant with Peter, I was only twenty-two.” Margaret patted her chest, her eyes glinting. “Nowadays, women chase careers until they cry over infertility. Such a pity.”
Natalie’s jaw tightened. At thirty-two, the jab cut deeper. Three IVF failures had left cracks in the veneer of their marriage. Margaret’s endless references to grandchildren had turned each gathering into a gauntlet.
“Mum. Let’s discuss something else,” Peter interjected, taking Natalie’s hand. “How’s your new flat? Settled in yet?”
“Settled? Good grief, the decorators wrecked the tiles. I’ve been nailing stuff back together on my own back.” Margaret groaned, rubbing her aching knee. “Though I’m not as spry as I used to be, of course. Mrs. Harper drops by to help.”
“We offered our help,” Peter reminded her.
“And you’re busy enough. Job, job, job. When do you ever visit an old spinster like me?”
“Mum!”
“All right, all right. But mark my words, Nat—when I was your age, I managed work, a child, and a home alone after the accident. Never let anything hold you back.”
A heavy silence fell. Peter squeezed Natalie’s hand harder. She stared at the lace doilies on the table, resigned to the fact that no argument would ever dent Margaret’s unyielding certainty.
“Peter, remember Sarah, the daughter of Valerie’s old friend?” Margaret suddenly chimed. “She’s already had three children and works as a head accountant at the firm.Thirty’s not too old, don’t you see—perfect woman!”
“Lovely, Mum,” Peter muttered. “More pie? Natalie made it as you love—apple and cinnamon.”
“Oh, darling, you spoil me. I only hope you and Nat…” Margaret’s voice trailed off, eyes twinkling with silent expectation.
Natalie stood abruptly. “I need to make a call. Excuse me.”
In the hallway, she gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened. A mix of tears and resolve welled within her. She deserved a wedding, not a battlefield.
When she returned, Margaret was gossiping about her neighbor’s second hip replacement. Peter kept polite company, though his eyes lingered on Natalie’s stiff posture. The tension ebbed into the familiar rhythm of tea and complaints about rheumatism.
Later, after Margaret left, Peter cornered Natalie in the hallway. “Why did you have to walk out like that?”
“She doesn’t know,” Natalie whispered.
“Know what? That we’ve had three IVF cycles? I told her yesterday.”
“She’s not cruel, Peter. She just wants grandchildren. It’s all she’s ever had.”
Peter cupped her face. “Good grief, I forgot what a saint you are.”
Natalie smiled, brittle and tired. “Just tell your mother it was my idea. Say I want to talk about something real with her.”
The next morning, the phone buzzed. Margaret’s name flashed on the screen.
“Natalie, love—did you catch the taxi?” Margaret’s voice quivered, softer now.
“Yes. I thought you were home.”
“I just… I felt selfish. Needed to say something. About Peter.”
Natalie froze. “Yes?”
“I lost three babies before him,” Margaret said in a breath. “I never told anyone. In our day, it was a mark of failure. You looked at the park like you understand. I know, love. And I know what I’ve said—it’s been cruel. I’m sorry.”
Natalie’s tears spilled. “You endured it alone?”
“Too proud to ask for help. Brave, yes. But lonely. I regret that. I want you and Peter to be happy. More than anything.”
Days later, a new dynamic settled over the Thompson home. Margaret moved in, not to meddle, but to teach Natalie to knit. And as the custom-blankets took shape, so did a fragile understanding.
In time, Margaret found a new rhythm at the dinner table—teaching her new friend Valerio, a retired Italian musician who moved in across the street. As tiny socks appeared in the living room, Margaret beamed. “You see, love? Beauty fades, but kindness lasts. And sometimes, it’s the quietest hands that stitch the strongest bonds.”
