Christopher married at twenty-four. His wife, Emily, was twenty-two. She was the only child of a university professor and a schoolteacher, born late in their lives. Soon after the wedding, they had two boys close in age, followed by a daughter.
Emilys mother retired and devoted herself to the grandchildren.
Christophers relationship with her was odd. He always addressed her formally»Margaret Elizabeth»and she replied with a reserved, chilly «you,» using his full name. They never argued, but her presence made him uneasy. Still, he had to admit she never interfered, spoke to him with deliberate respect, and remained strictly neutral in his marriage.
A month ago, the firm where Christopher worked went under, and he was let go. Over dinner, Emily remarked,
*»We cant live long on Mums pension and my salary, Chris. You need to find work.»*
Easy to say*find work*! Thirty days of pounding the pavement, and nothing!
Frustrated, Christopher kicked an empty beer can. Thank God Margaret hadnt said anything yet, but her meaningful looks spoke volumes.
Before the wedding, hed overheard a conversation between mother and daughter.
*»Emily, are you sure hes the one you want to spend your life with?»*
*»Mum, of course!»*
*»Im not sure you grasp the responsibility. If your father were alive…»*
*»Mum, please! We love each other, and itll be fine!»*
*»And children? Can he provide for them?»*
*»He will, Mum!»*
*»Its not too late to reconsider, Emily. His family…»*
*»Mum, I love him!»*
*»Well, dont say I didnt warn you.»*
*»Too late for warnings now,»* Christopher thought grimly. Margaret had seen it coming.
He didnt want to go home. Emilys forced encouragement*»Dont worry, tomorrows another day!»*her mothers silent sighs, the childrens teasing *»Dad, found a job yet?»*he couldnt face it again.
He wandered along the riverside, sat on a bench in the park, and, as night fell, drove to the familys countryside cottage, where they stayed from May to September. A single light burned in Margarets bedroom. Stealthily, he crept up the path. The curtain twitchedChristopher ducked, landing hard on a tree stump.
Margaret peered out.
*»Christophers late. Have you called him, Emily?»*
*»Yes, Mum. His phones off. Probably still job-huntingor just wandering about.»*
Her voice turned icy.
*»Emily, dont you dare speak of your husbandyour childrens fatherlike that!»*
*»Oh, Mum, come on! I just think Chris is slacking. A whole month sitting on his backside while Im keeping us afloat!»*
For the first time in six years, Christopher heard Margaret slam her fist on the table and raise her voice.
*»Enough! You made vowsin sickness and hardship! To stand by him!»*
Emily babbled, flustered.
*»Mum, Im sorry. Dont upset yourself, please. Im just exhausted. Forgive me.»*
*»Go to bed,»* Margaret sighed, waving her off.
The light went out. She paced, then pulled back the curtain, peering into the dark. Suddenly, she looked up, crossed herself, and whispered fiercely,
*»Dear Lord, Merciful and Kind, protect the father of my grandchildren, the husband of my daughter! Do not let him lose faith. Help him, Lordmy dear boy!»*
Tears streamed down her face as she prayed.
A warmth swelled in Christophers chest. No one had ever prayed for himnot his stern mother, whod buried herself in county council work, nor his father, whod vanished when he was five. Hed grown up in nurseries, after-school clubs, then universitywhere hed worked immediately; his mother despised idleness.
The heat rose, choking him, spilling over in silent tears. He remembered mornings when Margaret rose earliest, baking his favourite pies, simmering rich stews, her dumplings near miraculous. She tended the children, kept the house, grew vegetables, made jams, pickled cucumbers, preserved onions…
Why had he never noticed? Never thanked her? He and Emily had worked, had children, assumed it was how things should be. Or had *he*? He recalled once, watching a documentary on Australia, Margaret murmuring how shed always dreamed of visiting. Hed joked the heat would melt her icy shell…
Christopher sat long under the window, head in hands.
At breakfast the next morning, he joined Emily on the veranda. The table was laidpies, jam, tea, milk. The children bright-eyed, smiling. He looked up softly.
*»Good morning, Mum.»*
Margaret startled, then, after a pause, replied,
*»Good morning, Christopher.»*
Two weeks later, he found work. A year after, he sent Margaret Elizabeth on a holiday to Australiadespite her protests.
