For Margaret Whitmore, that October when Michael married Christine was a dark time. She barely noticed the golden beauty of autumn. All she saw was her boy, the very meaning of her life, her greatest project, slipping into the grasp of that Christine.
She had taken an instant dislike to her future daughter-in-law. Too self-sufficient, too independent. Met her gaze without flinching, had opinions of her own. Worst of allshe came with a child. Born out of wedlock, no less. What kind of woman did that make her? «She’s trapped my Michael,» Margaret thought bitterly, «and now well have to feed her daughter too.»
There had been another girl. Eleanor.
The daughter of a friend. The one Margaret had already envisioned sharing Michaels futurequiet, obedient, sensible. An accountant at a respectable firm. And, crucially, she understood the special bond between mother and son. Eleanor had once said, «Margaret, Id always ask your adviceyou know him better than anyone.» Such proper words.
But Christine? Impossible to reason with. Every offer of helphow to make Michaels favourite roast, how to starch his shirts just rightwas met with polite but firm refusal: «Thank you, well manage.» That word*we*cut Margaret to the quick. She was his *mother*. She knew best!
***
In Christines home, no one was overjoyed either. Nearing thirty, she lived with her parents, raised her daughter, and longed for love. Michael proposed swiftlybarely a month after they metthough at first, he insisted her daughter stay behind. Then came the registry office, his grand pronouncement: he was ready to build a home with her at last.
Christine was over the moon. This was the blinding, all-consuming love shed dreamed of. When anyone cautioned hersaid infatuation was fleeting, that Michael wasnt husband materialshe dismissed them. She loved him fiercely, certain she could warm him, make him happy, help him «spread his wings.»
A month before the wedding, Margaret could have forbidden it if shed had the power. But it all happened too fasther boy was nearly thirty-four, after all. Hopes that hed toss Christine aside like the others within months dwindled when the brides family threw themselves into wedding plans. Margaret refused to help. She was the grooms sole guest, convinced that if the brides parents wanted an extravagant affair, that was their burden. At the ceremony, she watched the newlyweds intently. Christines adoration was unmistakable. «It wont last,» Margaret thought. «Shell tire of him. He could never live with her.»
After the vows, Christine brought her daughter home and threw herself into domestic life. Margaret lived across town but called and visited so often it frayed Christines nerves. Nothing pleased herthe cooking, the cleaning, the child-rearing. Michael never contradicted his mother. Perhaps he didnt know how. Seeing Christine try to reshape him, demand responsibility, filled Margaret with outrage.
When Michael lost his job, she doubled her presence. Daily calls. Unannounced visits with pies, inspecting cupboards and fridge.
«Oh, Michael, you prefer white socks. Christine, why havent you bought any?»
«Mum, enough,» hed grumblebut wore the socks she brought.
Christines disillusionment came slowly, painfully. She was outmatched in housekeeping. She worked longer hours as Michaels «temporary» unemployment stretched to half a year. Hed wait for severance from his bankrupt firm, refusing «beneath him» jobs, expecting the world to offer something «worthy.» They lived on Christines wages and dwindling savings.
Once, when money ran too low for groceries, he said breezily, «Just borrow from Mum till payday.»
She froze.
«Michael, were adults. Maybe you could actually look for work?»
«You dont believe in me?» His face twisted. «I wont just take *anything*! Or do you want me to haul crates?»
Margaret seized every complaint, every grievance against his wife, fanning them into crises:
«She doesnt understand you, son. Never appreciated you. I always said. Eleanor would never treat you so.»
She spun an illusionsomewhere, Michael was wanted, valued. Unlike Christines world of demands to grow up. Michael nodded mutely when she criticised unwashed dishes or tracked-in mud. After she left, hed snap at Christine: «Why cant you just clean properly so theres no reason to complain?»
Christine fought back at firstargued, pleaded. But she hit a wall. Michael obeyed his mother. He wanted to lead his new family, yet his whole life had taught him: *she* was in charge. Her word was law. She knew best. In crisesno money, marital strifehe fled to her. She fixed things. She provided. With her, he was safe. As for work, hed never had to strivehis guilt-ridden father had bought him bicycles, then a car, then a flat by thirty.
Before the affair came to light, Christine already knew: shed married a perpetual child, doomed to compete with his mother. So when someone sent her damning footage, she didnt ask for explanations. She called her parents, packed her bags, and left.
Margaret felt only relief. That foolish marriage had crumbled. Her boy was hers again.
First, she soothed him:
«Youre a manthese things happen. *She* drove you to it. Never made a proper home. A contented man doesnt stray. Dont worry, dear. Itll be like before. Ill cook, Ill clean. Perhaps Eleanor will visitshe always liked you.»
***
Christine, though resolute, was shattered. In her family, marriages endured; divorce after two years was failure. She expected pleas to reconcile, forgive, endure. None came.
Then came the real surprise.
When she phoned her mother, sobbing, «I cant do this. I want a divorce,» the reply was simply, «Alright, love. Your rooms ready.»
That evening, as Christine poured out her misery, her mother listened without interruption.
«Divorce him,» she said softly when Christine finally paused. «Did Michael ever once put you first?»
«Never, but youre not going to talk me out of it?»
«No. That man wont change. Youd be his nursemaid forever. You want that?»
Her sister said, «Thank God! Im glad you finally see.» Even her grandmother, married fifty-five years, blessed the decision. Her usually traditional father slammed the table: «Good for you! No one should tolerate that.»
Then, a different fury seized Christine. She confronted her mother, tears streaming.
«Why did none of you *stop* me? You *saw* what he was! At the wedding, before it! Why didnt you grab me, forbid it? Didnt you *care* who I married?»
Her mother gazed at her, weary and loving.
«Christine, my darling. What would it have changed? If Id knelt outside the registry, begged you not to wed himwould you have listened? Or resented me forever, convinced Id ruined your happiness?»
Christine had no answer. Of course she wouldnt have listened. They *had* warned hershed called it envy.
«Sometimes the only way to learn is through your own bitter mistakes,» her mother said gently. «We couldve forced you away from this one. But youd have spent your life mourning a fairy tale, blaming us. Now you *know*. For yourself. And that knowledge will stay. It hurtsbut its yours.»
Christine weptnot just for the ruined marriage, but for the clarity. They hadnt been indifferent. Theyd been wise. Theyd let her stumble so shed learn to see the man, not the myth. And that lesson was priceless. In the quiet weeks that followed, Christine began to rebuildnot just her life, but her understanding of herself. She found a smaller flat, closer to her parents, where her daughters laughter once again filled the rooms. She stopped flinching at the phone, stopped bracing for disappointment. Michael never called. Margarets silence was deeper, a void where control had once hummed.
One autumn afternoon, nearly a year later, Christine walked through the park, her daughter skipping ahead. The trees blazed gold and red, fiercer than any she could remember. The air was crisp, sweet with decay and promise. She paused, breathing it in, and realised she was no longer waiting for someone to make it right. She already had.
