For Margaret Elizabeth, that October when Michael married Christine was a bitter one. She failed to notice the golden beauty of autumn, seeing only how her boyher lifes purpose, her greatest projectwas slipping into the clutches of that Christine.
From the first glance, she disliked the future daughter-in-law. Too self-sufficient, too opinionated. She met Margarets gaze unflinchingly, spoke her mind freely. Worst of allshe came with a child, born out of wedlock. What sort of woman did that make her? «Trapped my Michael,» Margaret thought bitterly, «and now hell be raising another mans child.»
There had been another girl, once. Emma. The daughter of a dear friendthe one Margaret had already imagined building a future with Michael. Quiet, obedient, a sensible accountant at a respectable firm. Most importantly, Emma understood the bond between mother and son. She had once said, «Margaret, Id always seek your adviceyou know him best.» Such proper words.
But this Christine! Impossible to reason with. Every offer of guidancehow to cook his favourite stew, how to starch his shirtswas met with polite but firm refusal: «Thank you, but well manage.» That word*we*cut Margaret to the quick. She was his *mother*! She knew best!
***
At Christines home, no one rejoiced either. Nearly thirty, she still lived with her parents, raising her daughter while longing for love. Michael proposed swiftlywithin a monththough at first without the child. Two months later, they married. He claimed he had found his match, ready to build a life together.
Christine was overjoyed. This was the blinding, all-consuming love she had dreamed of. When anyone cautioned herthat infatuation was fleeting, that Michael was ill-prepared for marriageshe bristled. She loved him fiercely, certain she could warm him, make him happy, help him «spread his wings.»
A month before the wedding, she sat at her mothers kitchen table. Her mother sipped tea, watching her with quiet sorrow.
«Christine you realise Michael isnt the easiest sort of man?» she ventured.
«Mum, hes just sensitive!» Christine defended. «No ones ever understood him. But I do.»
«Its not about understanding, love. Hes used to being coddled, living under his mothers wing, free of responsibility. Are you prepared to carry him, his mother, *and* your daughter?»
«Hell detach from her once were a family! He just needs love and patience. I can give him that.»
Her sister Beatrice was blunter. After an evening where Michael monologued about grievances with his former employer, barely letting anyone speak, she pulled Christine aside:
«Chris, your Michaels a thoroughgoing narcissist. Cant you see? He notices no one but himself.»
«Hes just upset. You havent seen how tender he can be!»
«Youre romanticising him,» Beatrice sighed. «Marriage isnt about tenderness. Its about who takes out the rubbish and brings you tea when youre ill.»
Christine ignored them. Surely, they envied her swift engagement. Didnt believe in true love. She and Michael barely quarrelled in those early months. She adored nesting in their home, trying new recipescooking for him was bliss. Besides, his frequent business trips made reunions sweeter. She dismissed outsiders doubts, and when Margaret tried to dictate her role as chief adviser, Christine calmly deflectedthank heavens Michael had his own flat. That, at least, was promising.
***
Had she been able, Margaret would have forbidden the marriage. But it all happened too quickly, and her boy was nearly thirty-four. Hopes that hed cast Christine aside in three monthslike all the othersfaded. Worse, the brides family took charge of the wedding. Margaret refused involvement. She was the grooms sole guest, reasoning that if the brides parents wanted a lavish affair, let them pay.
At the ceremony, Margaret watched the couple sharply. Christines adoration was unmistakable. «It wont last,» Margaret thought. «Shell tire of him. He could never endure her.»
After the vows, Christine brought her daughter home, throwing herself into domesticity. Margaret lived across town but called and visited so often it grated. She nitpicked everything. Michael never contradicted herperhaps never learned how. And when Christine tried to reform him, make him *responsible*, Margaret seethed.
When Michael lost his job, she doubled her presence. Daily calls. Uninvited visits with pies, inspecting cupboards.
«Oh, Michael, you prefer white socks. Christine, why havent you bought any?»
«Mum, enough,» hed grumblebut wore the socks she brought.
Christines awakening was slow and painful. First, she paled in comparison to Margarets cooking and cleaning. Second, she worked longer hoursMichaels «temporary» unemployment stretched to six months. He waited for severance from his bankrupt firm, refusing to search, insisting the world owed him something «worthy.» They lived on Christines wages and dwindling savings.
Once, when money ran too low for groceries, he said lightly, «Just borrow from Mum till payday.»
She stared. «Michael, were adults. Couldnt you at least *look* for work?»
«You dont believe in me?» His face twisted. «I wont take just *any* job! Or do you want me hauling crates?»
Margaret seized every complaint, every grievance against Christine, fanning them:
«She doesnt understand you, darling. Doesnt appreciate you. I always said. Emma wouldnt have treated you so.»
She spun illusionsof a world where Michael was cherished, unlike Christines realm of demands and blame. Michael listened. Nodded when Margaret scolded over unwashed dishes or muddy floors. Then, after she left, hed snap at Christine: «Why cant you just *clean properly*?»
Christine fought back, of course. Pleaded, reasoned. But she hit a wall. Michael obeyed his mother. He *wanted* to lead his householdbut had been raised to defer to her. Her word was law. She knew best. In crisispenniless, quarrellinghe fled to her. Because she fixed things. Because she provided. Because with her, he was safe, unchallenged. His father, guilt-ridden, had always bought his way out: the finest bicycle, the motor scooter, the car, even a flat by thirty.
Before the betrayal came to light, Christine realised shed married an eternal childdoomed to compete with his mother forever. So when she received *that* video, she didnt confront him. She called her parents, packed her things, and left.
Margaret, hearing the news, felt only relief. At last, that foolish marriage had crumbled. Her boy was hers again.
Her first act was to console him:
«These things happen, darling. *She* drove you to it. Never made a proper home. A contented man wouldnt stray. Dont fret, son. Well set things right. Ill cook, Ill clean. Perhaps Emma will visitshe always fancied you.»
***
Christine, though resolute, was shattered. In her family, marriages endured; divorce after two years was failure. She expected pleas to reconcile, to endure, forgive. None came.
Then came the true astonishment.
When she phoned her mother, sobbing, «I cant stay. Im filing for divorce,» the reply was simply, «All right, love. Come home.»
That evening, as Christine poured out her grief, her mother listened without interruption.
«Leave him, darling,» she said softly when Christine finally paused. «Has Michael ever once put you first?»
«Never, but youre not going to dissuade me?»
«No. That man will never change. Youd be nursing him forever. Is that what you want?»
Her sister agreed: «Thank God! Youve woken up at last.» Even her grandmother, wed fifty-five years, blessed the decision. Her typically stern father slammed the table: «Good for you! No one should endure that.»
Then, a new bitterness surged in Christine. She confronted her mother, ready to rage.
«Why didnt you *stop* me?» she cried. «You *saw* what he was! At the wedding, before it! Why didnt you drag me away? Didnt you *care* who I married?»
Her mother gazed at her, weary and loving.
«Christine, my girl. What would it have changed? If Id knelt outside the registry, begging you not to wed himwould you have listened? Would you have believed me? Or would you have hated me forever, convinced Id stolen your happiness?»
Christine was silent. She had no rebuttal. Of *course* she wouldnt have listened. And they *had* warned hershed thought them jealous.
«Sometimes, the only way to learn is through bitter experience,» her mother said gently. «We couldve robbed you of this mistake by force. But youd have spent your life mourning the fairy tale, blaming us. This way now you *know*. For yourself. That knowledge stays. It hurtsbut its *yours*.»
Christine weptnot just for the broken marriage, but for the revelation. They hadnt been indifferent. Theyd been wise. Theyd let her err, so she might learn to see the man, not the myth. And that lesson was priceless.
***
What do you think?
A familys hardest dilemma. Sometimes love means holding on. Sometimes it means letting go. And sometimes, the deepest love is knowing when not to speak at all.
