13May2025
Dear Diary,
I can still hear Arthurs snort as he lingered in the kitchen, his nose twisted up at the scent drifting from the pot. Youve really outdone yourself, loveoffering guests a bowl of beet soup? he muttered, halfdisgusted, halfamused. The air was thick with the smell of sautéed tomatoes and a cabbage that had been simmering since last winter. Theyre the sort who dash off to chain restaurants and bistros in the capital, he complained, and you serve them the same old borscht. Could you at least throw something a bit more exciting together?
Eleanor, my sisterinlaw, snapped back, Therell be meatballs, a mayodressed salad, crêpes, and the usual slices and stop pestering me, you old fool. Ill manage without you. Get out of here before I give you a ladle on the head. Waitstay. Turn off the pot in five minutes, Im heading out, she said, snatching off her apron with a sudden change of heart.
Where are you off to? Arthur asked, looking baffled, his eyes darting toward the stove.
To meet the gueststen minutes away. Ill grab a loaf; someone always arrives starving. I lingered in front of the mirror, fixing my hair. My short, bobbed curls sit just so, but they never seem right to me any more. Once I was a flourishing beauty, holding onto that image for years, but now I feel my bloom fading, a wilt I cant quite halt.
Do you think theyre too young to help themselves? Arthur asked, surprised.
Dont be ridiculous, Pete. Ill handle the potjust remember to dress properly, for heavens sake. You cant keep wandering about in just your underwear.
Why so cross today? he pressed, looking hurt.
I dont know! Youll never understand, you know, I snapped, turning toward the lift, hips swaying with each step.
Its always the samemy sons new girlfriends arrive every year, each one more pretentious than the last. Ones a vegetarian, another counts calories, another cant stand the salt, another the fat. They complain they lack proper cutlery for their restaurant meals, as if such knives were a birthright. They sit, sniff, and find nothing in my cooking to their taste. So I decided this time to keep it simplejust a hearty, everyday stew. That should keep them fed and not leave them starving.
The street greeted me with a gentle May breeze as I stepped outside. I inhaled the fresh air, feeling steadier before I spotted my sons silver Mini pulling up. Peter, now thirtyseven, still drifts between freelance gigs and endless coding projects, never quite settling. He rushes about, always saying he wants a proper family and a child. I long for a grandchild. All my friends already have little ones; I feel left behind, a mother whose world has stalled. Peters girlfriendsall the same, eager for marriage but unwilling to start a family.
Mum, why did you come out? We could have taken the stairs, Peter greeted, wrapping an arm around me. Meet Fiona.
Hello, Fiona replied with a bright smile.
Ahhhello, I stammered, relieved that at least one of them seemed ordinarynothing over the top.
Finally, someone who looks like a regular person, I thought, a smile creeping onto my face. Maybe this one will be alright, she looks wholesome enough, a bit like a country girl from Yorkshire.
Shall we sit? Peter prompted.
Hold on, Mum, theres a bag of drinks and a box for you in the boot, Fiona said, eyes twinkling.
What?! I asked, curiosity bubbling. Fiona explained, She works in environmental activism, so the gift is something ecofriendly for the kitchen.
I sighed, deciding Id take the bag and let Peter handle the heavy box. I hauled the bag away like a robot, already dreading any further meddling in my sons love life.
We all gathered around the table after the usual round of greetings. Fiona didnt flinch at the borscht; she took a spoon and started eating. She talked reluctantly about her job, blushing as she described herself as a junior environmental inspectora detail I barely caught.
Is it a proper job? I asked.
Yes, Im contracted.
Peter rolled his eyes, Look at you, Dad, no proper paperwork for ten yearswhat happens if you get sick? What about a pension? Time flies, and youre still thirtyseven. The thought seemed to gnaw at me, too.
Dont worry, Mum, I wont live to see my pension, Peter muttered.
Dont be foolish, I retorted. One day youll be sitting on your arse, complaining about the state of the world.
Enough, Peter hissed, Youre ruining my appetite. Dad, pass the crêpe and cheese.
Peter tried to raise a toast, but every time his father leapt in with a booming wish, cutting him off.
Fiona, blushing, said, The borscht is delicious, Eleanor. May I help clear the table? She gathered the dishes, then remembered, Your gift! She opened the box, revealing a set of biodegradable cleaning products. These are made from vegetable extracts, fully dissolve in water, and are completely harmless to the environment, she explained, enthusiasm bubbling. Shall we try them now? I could clean the stove and the dishes with the gels.
I backed away from the stove. No, love, I havent washed it in three days; Im too embarrassed.
She laughed, I grew up on farms, Ive seen every type of stove. Use the spray yourself, Ill finish with a sponge.
While Fiona scrubbed, I tossed crumbs of bread across the table, peppering her with questions about where she studied, her family, how she met Peter. Her answers were respectable, satisfying my curiosity. She worked effortlessly, the grime disappearing under her sponge.
Youve given me lovely gifts, Fiona, thank you, I admitted, still wary of hidden motives.
Peter clinked his glass, calling everyone back to the sofa. He wrapped his arm around Fiona, his hand resting gently on her belly, and announced, Weve decided to get married.
Oh! I gasped.
And thats not all Peter paused, then smirked, Were expecting a babyprepare for a grandchild this winter.
My goodness, what joy! I cried, arms flailing. The Blessed Virgin has heard my prayers; the heavens have shown mercy!
I embraced Fiona, Come here, my sunshine, my little angellet me hold you tight, I whispered, shushing Peters clumsy movements. Be careful, love, I know how to look after a pregnant woman.
Fiona, eyes glistening, murmured, Eleanor, could you share some of your recipes? Im terrible in the kitchen, especially with borscht.
Fiona, dear! I shouted, ecstatic, Its my dreamto pass on my culinary knowledge and love to my future grandchild.
What a modest wish I had, and now, thanks to you, it finally feels within reach.
