Margaret paced back and forth across the sitting room, unable to settle. For days now, Edward had been coming home late—yesterday, it had been nearly dawn. She’d scolded him for not ringing to let her know, and they’d quarrelled. Now she waited again, checking the clock every few minutes.
“Of course he’s in love. But a phone call wouldn’t hurt. Sooner or later, he’ll marry. Best get used to it. And heaven knows what sort of wife he’ll choose—more worries then. Best not dwell on it. He’s a grown man, but a mother’s heart still aches.” Margaret couldn’t stop her thoughts from spiralling.
She used to laugh at mothers who coddled their grown sons, yet here she was, no better. Every girl Edward brought home never seemed good enough. Like any mother, she believed he ought to consult her on something as important as marriage—after all, she knew best. The thoughts tumbled on without end. If only he’d come home already.
The latch clicked, and Margaret startled, though she’d been listening for it. “At last!” She hurried to the hallway but stopped halfway, retreating to the kitchen and folding her hands on the table.
“Mum, why are you still up?” Edward stood in the doorway.
“You know I worry. You could have rung,” she said reproachfully.
“Mum, I’m grown. I don’t need to account for every hour.”
“Where were you?” she challenged.
“With Sophie.” His voice softened, dropping lower.
“Another girl, and likely not the last. But you’ve only one mother.” Jealousy crept into her words.
“Not *another*. She’s the one, just like you.” He kissed her cheek. “Don’t speak ill of her. You’ll only regret it. Besides, how would I choose a wife if I didn’t court anyone? You always said not to marry the first girl I met. Didn’t you?”
“I did,” Margaret admitted. “So, you’ve chosen, then?”
Edward crouched beside her, searching her face. Her heart swelled—he looked so like his father just then.
“I have.” He rested his head in her lap.
“Well, introduce us, then,” she said, milder now.
“I will, only…” He lifted his head.
“What? Is something wrong with her?” Margaret nearly asked if he meant to bring home some stray, as he’d done with every puppy and kitten in his boyhood.
Compassion was fine, but one couldn’t take in every creature. Back then, she’d pretended to sneeze, claiming allergies, and he’d found other homes for them. That trick wouldn’t work now. The words burned her tongue, but his warning glance silenced her.
“There’s nothing wrong. She’s lovely, a fine cook—I’m fond of her. But she’s not alone.”
“You’ve fallen for a married woman?”
Fear must have shown on her face, for Edward quickly said, “No! But she has a son. He’s five.”
“Five?” Margaret gasped. “How old is she?”
“Mum, don’t shout. Yes, she’s older.”
“I see.” Rage nearly choked her. Her boy, her sunshine, whom she’d have done anything for, loved an older woman with a child!
“What do you *see*? I love her. People make mistakes—you’ve said so yourself.”
“Yes, but some last a lifetime. And young, free girls don’t tempt you anymore?” she snapped.
“This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t understand.” He stood abruptly. “Remember that girl at your work—the one left with a child? You said she’d find a good man to be a father to her girl. Why shouldn’t that man be me?”
“Love fades, son. I adored your father, and he left us for another.”
“Exactly. A young wife doesn’t guarantee forever. I love Sophie. And her boy—he’s wonderful. Even if you object, I won’t leave her. Understood? Let’s drop it.”
“Edward, I raised you to be happy—”
“Enough. It’s *my* life. Interfere, and I’ll go.” He turned and left.
“Son…”
Come morning, he left for work without breakfast. Days passed in silence, Edward returning late, vanishing into his room. Margaret didn’t know how to mend things. It felt like yesterday she’d rocked him to sleep, tended his scraped knees—now he was grown, with a life of his own. Harder to accept than she’d thought.
“Edward, let’s talk,” she ventured once.
“We’ll talk when you’re ready to listen.”
“Seems he truly loves her. Push him, and you’ll lose him,” said Mrs. Hawkins, the eldest at work, when Margaret confided her strife over lunch.
“I know I’m wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself,” Margaret near wept.
“Did you expect him to stay at your apron strings forever? He needs your support, not interference. Did your mother-in-law welcome you straight off?”
“No. But I was younger, with no child.”
“And she still found fault. Mothers are jealous creatures—they never approve. Some make peace; others wage war. It never ends well. Night owls outlast the day. You married without a child, yet raised yours alone.”
“Edward said the same.”
“Then yield. He’s not wed yet, still comes home. He’s waiting for you to show wisdom—a mother’s love, not scorn. Meet this Sophie. See what’s so special. And stop weeping—he’s not off to war, just to marry. The heart wants what it wants.”
Margaret slowly calmed. Three weeks of silence was enough. She resolved to visit Sophie—to ask her to let Edward go.
She learnt the address from Edward’s friend. On Tuesdays and Fridays, he went to the gym after work—she had time. But arriving empty-handed seemed hostile. A cake? Too conciliatory. A toy? That was for the boy, not his mother.
At the shop, she lost herself choosing a toy car, even imagining future visits. Though likely there’d be none.
At the door stood a pretty woman, a smiling boy beside her. His grin faltered at the stranger.
“Hello, I’m Edward’s mother,” said Margaret.
“I gathered. Come in. Charlie, go play.”
Margaret slipped off her shoes, donning Edward’s slippers. The flat was cosy, tidy.
“I’m Charlie! Look at my aeroplane—it makes engine noises!” He demonstrated proudly.
“Marvellous. I brought you something.” She produced the toy.
Charlie’s eyes lit up. For fifteen minutes, they examined the car, its doors opening, wheels spinning.
“Do you like it?”
“*Yes!* How’d you know I wanted this?”
“I guessed. I’ve a grown son too.”
She forgot her purpose entirely, only noticing Sophie lingering in the doorway before retreating to the kitchen. When it neared Edward’s usual return, Margaret stood.
“I must go.”
“Won’t you wait for Edward?” Sophie asked.
“Will you come back?” Charlie pleaded.
“I will.” She realised she meant it.
All the way home, she recalled Charlie’s joy, how easily he’d called her “you,” as if she belonged. Warmth flooded her. She’d liked how Sophie hadn’t interfered, letting them bond.
Back in her silent flat, she imagined Edward never returning—the loneliness crushed her, and she wept.
Next morning, she told Mrs. Hawkins of her “confrontation”—how she’d ached to hug Charlie, breathe in that sweet child-scent.
Then Edward rang, casual as ever. Sophie had baked a pie—would she come? He gave the address, though he surely knew she’d been.
After work, Margaret bought another toy for Charlie and four coloured-glass tumblers.
“Thanks, Mum.” Edward kissed her cheek. “Four?”
“I thought—three for you, one for me when I visit.”
Sophie smiled.
“Though soon we’ll need five,” Edward said. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket. “Sophie, will you marry me?”
Margaret gasped. “You—you’re expecting?”
“Not yet. But we will be. A girl.” He winked at Sophie, embracing Margaret. “You’ll be a grandmother.”
“You’re my grandma?” Charlie’s face was alight with wonder.
