Stanley Andrews, or simply Stan to his friends and colleagues, had recently been promoted to department head at a large firm in Manchester. The promotion was well-deserved—hardworking, quiet, and punctual, he wasn’t one to push himself forward, but he moved with steady confidence. The congratulations at the office were modest: Stan offered a faint smile, thanked everyone, and assured them he’d do his best to make sure the team never regretted his appointment.
His mother, Margaret, was the most delighted. She’d been the one who’d once dragged him to doctors, hired tutors, bought him winter coats, and saved from her pension to put him through university. She also insisted he treat his colleagues to homemade dishes—pies, salads, snacks. Though Stan had initially brushed it off, he eventually agreed. He couldn’t let his mum down.
On the day of the celebration, he drove home to pick up the food. His mother had an appointment with the cardiologist, so she’d left everything in the fridge, neatly packed. During his short lunch break, Stan decided not to carry it all himself and asked a new colleague, Emily, to come along and help. She readily agreed.
Emily, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, was the kind of woman people noticed. Around the office, whispers followed her—how she had her sights set on Stan, always flirting, smiling, asking for lifts…
They stepped into his mother’s flat—modest, but clean and cosy. Stan opened the fridge and began unloading the containers. Emily settled onto a stool, glancing around.
“Your mum’s place is lovely… So homely. And who’s this?”
A small black dog trotted out from the room and gave a low growl at the unfamiliar face.
“That’s Buster,” Stan said, scooping him up. “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”
“Buster? What a name,” Emily grimaced. “Keep him away from me. He’ll ruin my tights.”
Stan fell silent. Her expression bothered him more than he expected. But that wasn’t all—from the hallway emerged a well-fed black cat, rubbing against his legs with quiet dignity.
“And this is Oliver,” Stan said softly, pulling a dish of boiled fish from the fridge. “Here you go, mate—dinner’s ready.”
Emily took a step back toward the door.
“Goodness, it’s like a zoo in here. A cat and a dog in such a small flat? It’s not exactly hygienic… the fur, the smell… Your mum’s not allergic, is she?”
“Are you?” Stan asked quietly.
“Me? No… I don’t know. We never had pets. I don’t like them. They’re dirty…”
Stan continued packing the bags in silence, his smile gone. Emily stood back, shooing Buster away every time he sniffed at her shoes.
“I’ll come by tonight to walk them,” Stan finally said. “Mum’ll scold me for overfeeding them, but how can you not?”
“Wasting time on them, too… Well, someone’s got to, I suppose,” Emily muttered half under her breath as she made for the door.
On the drive back, she chattered about the new lunch menu, the awful skirt Janet from HR wore, and how someone in accounting was getting married for the third time. Stan stayed quiet, nodding occasionally. His head buzzed: *Shallow. False. Wrong…*
The office welcomed him—a thermos was handed over, shoulders were patted, arms slung around him. After hours, they set out the spread, drank a little, ate a lot. Emily hovered—jokes, glances, an offer of a lift home. But Stan simply replied,
“Sorry, I’ve got to rush. Important meeting.”
At home, his mother was waiting.
“How’d it go?” she asked, smiling as she opened the door.
“Brilliant, Mum. Your pies vanished first. Said they were restaurant-quality. They forgot all about me.”
“And what about that girl you brought along—Emily? The neighbour saw her, said she was a looker. Is she…?”
“No. Just a colleague. Truth is, there’s no one right now. I only said that to make you happy. Sorry.”
“Alright. But if she does come along—what should she be like, this ‘right one’?”
Stan thought for a moment.
“Kind. Decent. Smart. And… loves you. And Oliver. And Buster.”
His mother smiled.
“Oh, Stan, love—as long as she loves *you*, that’s what matters. She’ll take the rest of us, then. Even that bald old cat with his airs.”
He nodded. Then he grabbed the lead, called both “beasts,” and headed outside. The three of them raced across the yard like they were back in simpler times—his mother at home, a pastry in his bag, a puppy in his arms, a cat on his shoulder, and all of life ahead.
His mother watched from the window, hands clenched.
“Thirty years old, department head, and still a boy at heart. May God send you real love, son… And may she love the lot of you at once. Oliver. Buster. And your mum.”
