“She’ll win you over, Mum. She’s an absolute marvel!” Ilyas exclaimed with enthusiasm. “And won’t you tire of living with a marvel?” Alexandra countered dryly, standing by the stove, listening for his return the way she once had for her late husband.
The lock clicked, and Ilyas announced himself from the hallway.
“I’m home.”
“I hear you,” she replied, smiling.
“What’s for dinner? Beef pies and fried potatoes?” He hugged her, peering over her shoulder and inhaling the familiar scent of his favourite dish—golden spuds with spring onions.
Alexandra turned off the gas, covered the pan.
“You’re cheery. What’s happened?” She knew his moods by tone alone.
Ilyas pulled back.
“Mum, I’m getting married.”
“Finally. Why hasn’t Emily stopped by?” She turned to face him, noting the shadow that crossed his expression.
“I’m marrying Daphne.”
A chill ran down her spine. Her son was a grown man—rarely affectionate unless moved by joy or confession.
“Promising name. And Emily?”
“Emily is marrying someone else on Saturday. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s eat.”
“Good that her wedding hasn’t spoiled your appetite. Wash your hands.”
She set his plate before him, rested her chin on her hand, and watched him eat.
“This Daphne—who is she?”
“She’s wonderful. You’ll see. I’d like you to meet her. Saturday, maybe?” He looked up. “You’ll adore her, Mum. She’s a marvel!”
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen wealthier prospects—Alexandra had learned from Emily’s mother, an old school friend who’d hoped their children might marry. She’d apologised for her daughter’s choice.
“Too much of a marvel can be tiresome,” Alexandra remarked drily.
“Mum, it’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t laughing. Tell me about her. What makes her so marvellous?”
“Why fixate on the word?” He hesitated. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though only her first year. Serious, well-read. I’m happy with her.”
“And her parents?”
“Dad’s an engineer, mum’s a homemaker.”
“And she’s from…?” Alexandra trailed off, waiting.
“What does it matter where she’s from?” he snapped.
“Fair enough. So she’s not local. You’ll live here?”
“If you’re against it, we’ll rent.” His gaze held hers.
“No, not at all. I’d be glad. What would I do alone? Wait for grandchildren. If we don’t get on, you can move later.”
“Daphne doesn’t want children yet. She wants to work, gain experience.”
“Daphne doesn’t want, Daphne has decided…” Alexandra mocked. “Fine, invite your marvel to lunch.” She stood, clearing his plate.
“You’re the best mum in the world,” Ilyas said, rising too.
“Hope you remember that after you’re married.”
As she washed up, Alexandra mused. “A teacher. Evenings grading papers, weekends on school trips… He’s grown so fast. Pity his father didn’t live to see it.”
Come Saturday, she’d been cooking since dawn. Ilyas agonised over shirts and ties before leaving to fetch Daphne.
Alexandra tried picturing this marvellous teacher, but only conjured the severe heroine of some period drama.
Daphne was slight—straight-haired, large-eyed. Not striking. Ate sparingly, praised each dish politely. Barely sipped her wine. Ilyas mirrored her restraint.
“Don’t be shy, Daphne,” Alexandra encouraged.
“Stiff with nerves, scared of me,” she decided. “What does he see in her? Or is this haste to spite Emily?”
A modest wedding followed. Daphne’s parents arrived—her mother meek, silent; her father boisterous, claiming he’d named Daphne after a film character, smitten in youth.
“Hardly the namesake I’d choose,” Alexandra remarked.
Her mother whispered agreement, eyes downcast when he glared.
“And were you named for some doomed queen?” he shot back.
“Hardly. My parents wanted a boy. Got me instead.”
An odd pair. He drank, extolled his daughter; she sat rigid, mute.
Ilyas showed them the city. They gifted linens, quilts—generous dowry, though old-fashioned. The father ruled; the mother obeyed.
Once the couple moved out, irritation festered. Daphne never offered help. One morning, she corrected Ilyas’s pronunciation—twice. Humiliated, he fell quiet.
Alexandra bit her tongue but seethed. Later, she warned Daphne: correct him privately.
“It grates,” Daphne said coolly.
“Your father mispronounces too. Do you correct him?”
Daphne left wordless. Predictably, Ilyas announced they’d rent.
“Daphne’s offended?” Alexandra asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m the best mum in the world.”
Alone, old routines returned. Until friends stopped calling—Daphne kept Ilyas busy. He grew thin, quiet.
Once, smelling fried potatoes, he lingered. Alexandra fed him. He visited often after, especially when Daphne was out.
Months later, he arrived with bags.
“Fighting?”
“Just tired. I cook, shop, clean. Work exhausts me. She makes me read Dickens, Austen—like I’m her pupil.”
“Had enough of marvels?”
“Don’t start.”
“And Daphne?”
“Don’t know.”
Alexandra recalled her husband—their shared life. Ilyas had come late, a joy. His marriage was nothing like theirs.
Life resumed. Until a friend revealed: “Your Ilyas is seeing Emily again—secretly.”
Alexandra’s heart lurched.
At home, he deflected but didn’t deny.
One night, he didn’t return. She called—his phone dead. Near dawn, Emily rang: He’s in hospital. Beaten badly.
Her pulse hammered. A taxi, white halls, Emily pale on a bench.
“His skull’s fractured, internal bleeding. My husband’s men did it.”
Alexandra gripped the bench, breathless.
A doctor emerged—alive, but unconscious.
Emily vanished after one visit. Days later, Daphne appeared, steadfast. Brought broth, massaged his legs.
“You’ve changed,” Alexandra said.
“I saw what submission did to my mother. I feared becoming her. Almost lost him.”
“Foolish girl.”
They talked late. Morning came. She told Ilyas the truth—Emily had fled abroad.
As he recovered, walking with a stick, Daphne stayed. Alexandra urged them home.
One evening, Daphne devoured cake, blushing when questioned.
“The baby wants it.”
“Baby?” they cried in unison.
“Nine weeks.”
Alexandra wept.
A marvel indeed—fear had nearly cost her love.
And parents should remember: children often mirror what they see.
