Susan Greaves was bustling around the kitchen, waiting for her son to arrive with his girlfriend. The oven was still humming, filling the house with the scent of her signature roast duck, while steaming meat pies sat on the table and a jellied terrine chilled in the fridge.
She took the guestarrival very seriously the spread had been in the making since the night before. After all, this was a big one. Andrew had been dating Blythe for a year now, and today he finally wanted his parents to meet the girl he was planning to marry.
A quick knock echoing down the hallway made Susan straighten her cardigan in the hallway mirror and rush to the door.
Hey love, come in, drop your coat, she greeted, her voice soft as ever. Andrew pushed his way in, gave a shy smile, and let Blythe step ahead. Hed taken his coat off himself.
Blythe, this is my mum, Susan, he said.
Susans eyes immediately went to Blythes slim frame she thought the girl looked a touch undernourished. Then she noticed the inked design on Blythes wrist and raised an eyebrow. She decided not to comment on the tattoo just yet; after all, Andrew had been raving about how wonderful she was.
Good evening, Mrs. Greaves, its lovely to finally meet you, Blythe said, beaming.
Susan watched the way Andrew looked at his future wife pure adoration.
The conversation around the table was polite and pleasant, until Margaret Greaves, Susans sister, pointed out that Andrew was eating very slowly and his plate was halfempty, while Blythe wasnt even offering him any of the food. Susan gave Andrew a gentle, lingering look, rose, and started topping his plate with small portions.
Mum, Ive got it, I can help myself, Andrew tried to protest, but years of trying to keep the peace had taught him it was useless to argue.
Having rescued her son from a potential hangry disaster, Susan turned her attention back to Blythe, still puzzled by the girls behaviour. When Susan reached for Blythes salad, Blythe calmly said,
Mrs. Greaves, everything looks absolutely delicious, but I dont actually eat that sort of thing. This salad is wonderful Im on my third helping already. Could you share the recipe?
Susan, flustered, sliced off a piece of the orangeglazed duck leg, plonked it on Blythes plate, tossed in a sardine toast and a generous heap of coleslaw, and replied, Its our family secret, love.
Mom, no need. Ive been watching my diet for years, Blythe replied.
Dont worry, dear, this is the proper way to eat! Susan insisted.
George Whitfield, Susans husband, started to say something, but fell silent under her steely stare.
Content with the plates finally looking fuller, Susan settled back into her chair.
Weve always grown up on bacon, chips, and dairy, and were all healthy, she declared.
Mom, the doctor actually told you to watch what you eat. Youve been complaining about feeling poorly, Andrew chimed in.
Dont be ridiculous. Do you even have breakfast at home? she shot back.
Andrew and Blythe exchanged a quick grin.
Were fine, Mum. We eat lots of veg, and I try to skip heavy stuff, Andrew said.
Susan stared at her son, shocked at his sudden slimness.
So whats Blythe feeding you? she asked.
Why Blythe? We both cook, we both work late, and we often order in. Blythe added, It actually saves time and keeps the house tidy.
Susan was in disbelief a man in the kitchen? In her day, George never even peeled potatoes. When Susan got married, her own mother and grandmothers drilled into her that a lady should keep the house spotless, cook hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes immaculate. Shed been proud of George never ironing shirts, and now she was horrified by how things had changed.
Andrew, youre cooking? You have a demanding job, you need a break, Susan fretted. Blythe, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont work.
Blythe replied, I also earn a decent salary, sometimes more than you. We share everything equally, and were happy.
Susan was taken aback by Andrews tone. Hed been a softspoken kid not long ago; now he sounded like a different person. She tried to smooth things over.
Alright, its your call. Ill just tidy up. Blythe, youre looking a bit thin, you need to eat more, she said.
The chat went on, and Susan kept trying to feed them more, but they ate modestly. Blythe then described her job she works in media, organising concerts, travelling a lot for gigs. Susan frowned. Where have I heard of a woman hopping around the country? What about the home front? she thought.
Finally, Susan decided to ask about the tattoo.
Blythe, whats that on your wrist? Some kind of temporary thing? she asked, hoping for an easy answer.
We got matching tattoos about six months ago, Andrew and I. We like them, Blythe said confidently.
Susan gasped. Andrew, dear, tattoos are something only well, you know, those in prison get. George, are you staying quiet?
George muttered, I Im not sure.
Andrew, accustomed to his dads indecisive stance, stayed silent.
Times are changing, Mrs. Greaves, Blythe said gently. Tattoos are a fashion statement now, many people think theyre beautiful and they can be removed later. Andrews twentyeight, he can make his own choices.
Susan felt her world tilt. Sweetheart, this is crossing a line. Parents opinions should matter most! We never allowed our son to do such foolish things.
Mom, calm down, please. Youre the one crossing the polite bounds. As Blythe said, Im an adult now, Andrew replied with a grin. This is my life, and Im confident in my decisions.
The evening quickly lost its charm. Andrew and Blythe gathered their things to head home, politely declining any leftover bits. Left alone, Susan washed the dishes while George dozed on the sofa with the paper. A flood of thoughts raced through her mind.
She wondered how her son had ended up in this spot. Yes, Andrew and Blythe seemed happy; hed often called his mum to gush about how supportive she was. Blythe had a good education, a solid background, and seemed welloff. But was this modern approach to partnership really normal?
Susan had always prided herself on being the perfect housewife. For years shed started each day caring for everyone, not going to bed until the last cup was cleaned. It kept the marriage running smoothly, even though theyd had a few spats, and George had his youthful flirtations, which shed long forgiven. Their thirtyyear wedding anniversary had just passed, but now they barely talked. George spent evenings glued to the telly, Susan knotted scarves, tended to the garden, and chatted with friends on the phone. What more could be said?
Would Andrew be happy with this girl? Was he making a mistake? Hed changed his voice sounded firmer, his work was finally taking off thanks to Blythes advice. He called less, but when his mum needed him, hed still drop everything unless he had plans with Blythe. Hed stopped going to the country house, saying it was cheaper to shop locally and his health wasnt ironclad. Susan felt she was losing touch with her son.
Well, its his life, but a mothers word should still count for something, right? Well see how it all plays out.
Meanwhile, Andrew and Blythe were driving back home. Andrew had already apologised a few times for being late, and Blythe brushed it off with a smile.
I kinda expected this, she said. No worries, I understand the bumps. Just stay on my side, Andrew, okay? Thats the most important thing.
Of course, Andrew replied, planting a kiss on her temple.
Their married life promised to be interesting.
—
Diane was wandering through a massive department store. It felt like a maze the clever marketers had set it up so shoppers could easily lose themselves in the endless aisles of tempting goods.
Everything you could wish for, love! Fancy some fruit? a cheerful voice called out.
In woven baskets, glossy cherries glistened like tiny jewels, begging to be popped into your mouth. Fluffy peaches, their skin as soft as a babys cheek, were displayed in neat rows. Pears of all varieties sat side by side. Exotic bananas, from green to bright yellow, mingled with deepred apples that looked almost burgundy. Grapes, honeygolden and hanging in elegant trays, seemed to whisper, Buy us, buy us, please!
Diane admired the sweet, sunkissed berries and the bright juices spilling over the displays. She slipped past the refrigerated section, where rows of milk, yogurts, cheeses, and cottage cheese stood shouldertoshoulder behind spotless glass doors.
She imagined scooping a spoonful of strawberry jam into a pot of creamy curd, or grabbing a slice of goat cheese healthy, they say. She thought of the chocolateflavoured milkshake she used to buy for her son Sam at the local café The Little Red Lion. Now, she could just grab a readymade bottle and sip it without queuing.
The thought of Sam made her heart ache. She remembered the days when he was eight, sitting at a café table, giggling while sipping his thick strawfilled shake, the straw rattling in the empty glass. Where was Sam now? He wasnt around, and the Little Red Lion café had been replaced by a trendy sushi bar on Victoria Street. Diane had never even tried sushi, but she passed the place without looking.
A couple nearby argued over a bag of frozen meals.
Just grab the whole pack, its less ice! a middleaged woman in bright trousers said.
Her husband, a burly man with a friendly grin, tossed a handful of oddly coloured bits into a bag, calling them crablike snacks.
The man resembled Sams age, but he was stockier, with sandy hair and blue eyes, while Sam had dark hair and hazel eyes. Their smiles were both warm. Diane couldnt help but ask, What are you picking up?
Shrimp, the woman replied, glancing at Diane. But you probably wont like them.
Why not? Diane asked.
Ever tried crayfish? the man chimed in. Theyre similar. Cook them with a bit of dill and theyre perfect with a pint.
Diane laughed, admitting shed never tried crayfish.
Anyone could catch a few, the man joked.
Not us, love. We lost our dad in the war, just me, Mum, and three kids. No lads around, so no crayfish for us, the woman sighed.
The strangers sympathetic eyes made Diane feel a strange warmth, as if a door had opened to a longclosed room.
She found herself spilling her story: how her husband had died a year earlier, how Sam had left three months after, how shed been alone ever since, with no daughterinlaw visiting, and even her granddaughter seemed unsure if Grandad was still alive. She mentioned her 87th birthday, her roots in the little village of Dymford, the wartime raids shed witnessed as a child, and how she missed Sam terribly. She confessed that every night her neighbours dog, Kolka, would bark at her, while Sam never returned.
She just wanted someone to listen, to hear her after years of silence.
