Appreciate what you have
Once upon a Thursday that felt more like a drifting cloud than a day, there lived a family that, from the outside, seemed as sturdy as an old oak. Edward Thompson and Blythe. Not love at first sight, but something steadier, as familiar as a wellworn pair of house slippers. They had been friends since school, when he would carry her satchel and she would let him copy algebra. Later, college parties, weekend hikes in the woods, songs around a campfire. They married young, practically on impulse, as the relatives muttered about a quick step. And that quick step, Charlie, became the most beloved little person in the household.
They moved into the threebedroom flat that belonged to Edwards mother, Margaret Thompson. Her face looked like a ledger book, her mind like a detectives notebook. At first she regarded Blythe with the cold silence of someone who had already marked her as not the right match. Not suitable, she thought, without saying a word. The daughter of a modest labourer, plainlooking, unremarkable in intellectwhat had Edward seen in her? Margaret kept a deliberately frosty distance, and that icy indifference cut deeper than any criticism. Blythe, sensing the chill, slipped into the background, washing floors, cooking, laundering, rocking Charlie, becoming a shadow of the family she had joined.
The story unfolded on an ordinary Thursday. Margaret was returning from a distant pharmacy the nearest one didnt have her usual supply of cough syrup. She walked, lost in thoughts of her pension, of the soaring price of sausages (£5 per kilo), of how Blythe had again fried meatballs without onions, even though Edward adored them. Suddenly her heart, accustomed to spasms, tightened not from illness but from sheer dread.
Across the park, a pair emerged, arminarm. Her son, Edward, in the same jumper Blythe had smoothed yesterday. Beside him, not a girl but a young woman, bright as a parrot amidst sparrows. Scarlet pumps clicked on the pavement, a light raspberry coat fluttered in the wind, and her laugh rangsharp, brazen, demanding attention. She tossed her head back and spoke, while Edward stared at her with an adoration that he had never, it seemed, shown his wife.
Rascal! the thought of rascal burst through Margarets mind, and it felt almost gentle. And Blythe? And Charlie?
She froze, pressed against the flats wall, feeling her hands tremble betrayally. Inside her world flipped. The despised daughterinlaw no longer seemed the kidnapper of her son but a victim of circumstance. After all, it had been Margaret for years who whispered to Edward that he had got the wrong one, that he deserved something grander. She had moulded him into a prince, only to watch him wander left.
All evening Margaret prowled the flat like a wounded beast. Blythe, unaware, sang softly while bathing Charlie. Her humming seemed to gnaw at Margarets nerves even more. Edward slipped in, exhausted, his eyes glinting with a new, damp sheen.
Mum, why are you pacing like a lost soul? he asked, planting a kiss on her cheek. A foreign perfume clung to him.
She could not bear it. When Blythe slipped away to the bedroom to lay Charlie down, Margaret burst into the study where Edward sat at his computer.
I saw you! she hissed, slamming the door. Today! At five oclock! With that that paintedcrow!
Edward flinched and turned slowly. Fear flickered in his eyes for a heartbeat before he steadied himself.
Mum, dont make stories. I was seeing a colleague off. She broke her heel.
Dont lie to me! Margarets voice quivered. I saw the way you looked at her! You were strolling like a fiancé! You have a family! A child!
What did you want? Edward snapped, his feigned calm shattering. You always said Blythe was a grey mouse, that I could find someone better! And now you think I have?
He whispered his accusation, lest the next room hear. Margaret recoiled, as if struck. Her own words, hurled from a heart full of resentment, returned like a boomerang, bringing not righteous fury but the weight of her own guilt. She had coauthored this betrayal.
But Blythe Charlie she murmured, her tone shifting from spite to despair.
Blythe and I are already strangers. I love Charlie; I wont abandon him, Edward cut off, turning back to the monitor, ending the conversation with a theatrical sigh.
That night Margaret lay awake, staring at the ceiling, seeing two faces: one haughty, lips crimson, laughing, alien; the other weary, eyes kind, bent over her grandsons crib. She remembered Blythe, up until midnight, making Edwards favourite jellied meat, which he loved. She recalled how she, Margaret, had endured Blythes silent, cold indifference.
The night became her trial. Yet she judged not Edward, but herself. Every snide remark, every grey mouse and not suitable she had tossed back at Blythe now returned, gaining weight and meaning. She, a mother, had dug a pit with her own hands, into which her sons family now fell.
The thought that Blythe might discover the truth and leave with Charlie filled her with animal terror. Alone with a cheating son and without her beloved grandson? She could not allow that. Truth proved scarier than the affair. She chose silence, hoping it would be redemption, not collusion.
The next morning Margaret rose before anyone else. When Blythe entered the kitchen, instead of the usual cold stare, there was a breakfast spread and a steaming mug of tea.
Sit down, Blythe, Margaret said, her voice unexpectedly soft. You were exhausted with the baby yesterday; have a rest. Ill feed Charlie.
Blythe, startled, sat down, automatically taking the cup. She expected reproach, sharp glances, but received none.
From that day a quiet, almost invisible revolution began in the flat.
Edward, did you see how Blythe ties Charlies shoes? Margaret might say over dinner, looking straight at her son. She has patience for days. You could learn a thing or two.
Edward merely frowned, chewing his food.
Oh, what a perfect casserole! Blythe exclaimed, tasting her own dish. I never managed this before. Youre a real homemaker, Blythe.
At first Blythe was bewildered, fearing a trap. Then she began to nod politely. Weeks later, when Margaret praised her embroidered cushion for the nursery (A stitch now costs its weight in gold!), Blythe finally allowed a shy smile.
Edward watched the transformation with puzzlement and irritation.
Mum, why are you praying to the daughterinlaw now? he hissed when they were alone.
Ive simply opened my eyes, Margaret replied coolly. And I advise you to do the same.
She offered no moral lesson, only a living, tangible proof of the value of the woman he had betrayed. Each compliment to Blythe was a rebuke to Edward.
One evening, when Edward lingered late at work, they sat together in the kitchen, sipping tea. Charlie slept soundly.
Margaret, Blythe said softly, thank you. It was so hard before now it feels almost like home.
Margarets heart clenched. The gratitude in Blythes voice was so vulnerable it made her want to weep. She placed her dry hand over Blythes warm one.
Home is where youre appreciated, love, she breathed. Forgive me for everything.
She did not name the sin, but Blythe seemed to understand not the affair, but the years of coldness. She nodded, her fingers briefly squeezing Margarets.
Edward watched as a new, inexplicable bond formed between the two most important women in his life. His secret betrayal, known only to him and his mother, lingered like a phantom, poisoning his existence more than any scandal could. His mother no longer blamed him; she simply fell out of love with the ideal son she had imagined. By her new attitude toward Blythe, she forced Edward to see his wife not as a grey mouse but as a strong, worthy woman he had wronged.
The family did not collapse in an instant. It slowly, painfully, regenerated. The chief engine of that rebirth was not passion, but the quiet, stubborn, lateblooming wisdom of a motherinlaw, who, for the sake of her grandson and for her own redemption, learned to love her daughterinlaw. In this new feeling she found far more peace than in all her previous, proper but icy life.
For Edward, the change was a quiet, painful revelation.
At first he was angry. His mother had defected, siding with the enemy. And Blythe she seemed oblivious to the fact that he was on the brink of fleeing the family. She did not weep, did not stage scenes. She changed.
She changed imperceptibly, yet irrevocably. It was as if a layer of dust had been brushed off her. She stopped hunching. The old, motheaten dresses his mother called grandmas vanished. A new, elegant cardigan appearedMargaret helped pick it; she knows her stuff. It sounded less like a reprimand and more like a simple fact.
One night, Edward turned on the television and heard, not the usual muttering, but a soft, melodic laugh from the kitchen. He rose, peered through the doorway. Blythe and his mother sat at the table, a photo album open before them. Margaret narrated, Blythe laughed, a blush colouring her cheeks. In that moment she seemed genuinely beautifulwarm, tranquil, a calm strength that tightened something in Edwards chest.
When was the last time I heard her laugh? the thought darted through his mind.
He began to notice other things. How deftly and calmly she explained something to Charlie without raising her voice, unlike the angry shouts he used to make when exhausted. How confidently she now spoke to him about household mattersno longer timid, but offering solutions. His grey mouse had vanished, replaced by a woman his own mother now respected.
The climax came unexpectedly. He walked into the kitchen for a glass of water and found Blythe alone, gazing out at the sleeping city, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her face held not resigned suffering, but a gentle, contemplative melancholy. She resembled a heroine from an old blackandwhite filmbeautiful in her inner life, something he had never cared for before.
Bly he began, stumbling.
She turned, her eyes holding only a question.
Yes, Edward?
He moved forward and embraced her, both tender and firm.
Nothing, he muttered. Just something beautiful.
Yes, she replied, hugging him back. It feels right.
That night he could not sleep, tossing and turning. Two images haunted him: the flamboyant woman from the park, whose laugh now seemed hollow, and Blythe by the windowcalm, strong, the new centre of his sons and his mothers world, the family he had once thought to trade for fleeting excitement.
Come morning he skipped work, taking a day off. He waited for his mother to head to the market, and for Blythe to set off on a walk with Charlie.
Blythe, we need to talk, he said, blocking her path in the hallway.
She looked at him, holding Charlies tiny hand.
Charlie, go to your room and fetch your bear for the walk, she said softly to her son. When the boy darted away, her gaze returned, distant. Speak.
He inhaled deeply, eyes fixed on the floor.
I I was a blind fool. Youre the best woman I could ever have. The family, his voice cracked, the family is you and Charlie. Ill do anything to keep you both happy. Everything.
Blythe was silent. Then, in a low voice, she said: Edward, your words are welcome. Just make sure they match your deeds.
Without waiting for a reply, she added, Were going for a walk. Will you join us?
Yes, he exhaled. Of course.
He stepped out with them, hoisting Charlie onto his shoulders, and the boy burst into delighted laughter. Blythe walked beside them, her head occasionally brushing his shoulder. In that simple, ordinary contact lay more worth than all the scarlet shoes and brazen laughter in the world. He understood, belatedly and painfully, that the greatest treasure was not passion but silence. Not if but despite everything. And he resolved, for years to come, to earn the right to share that quiet with her.
Appreciate what you have.
