“Mum, if you get in the way, I’ll leave. Forever.”
On her birthday, Grace woke early, chopped vegetables for salads, marinated the meat, peeled potatoes, and headed to the hairdresser. Returning, she immediately set to cooking.
“Happy birthday, Mum! You look lovely. Your passport must be wrong—you look ten years younger,” said Oliver, still in his pyjamas, freshly woken as he kissed her cheek.
“Get dressed and help me. I’m afraid I won’t finish in time,” Grace replied.
“Right, be quick.” Halfway to the bathroom, Oliver paused. “Maybe we should ask Emily? She’s better at this.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Call her, ask her to come and help,” Grace agreed.
When Oliver returned to the kitchen, clean-shaven and smelling of aftershave, Emily was slicing vegetables while Grace polished wine glasses.
“You two make quite the team.” Oliver swiped a slice of cucumber from the chopping board.
Emily turned, lips puckered for a kiss, but Oliver stepped back. Grace noticed. *He’s shy in front of me*, she thought.
“Oliver, set the table and use the tablecloth from the top shelf,” Grace said, smoothing over the awkwardness.
“Aye, aye!” Oliver snapped to attention, nodding sharply. A damp lock of hair fell onto his forehead, and he flicked it back with a quick shake.
“Grown man, acting like a boy,” Grace smiled.
“Mum, how many guests are coming?” Oliver called from the living room.
“Nine, with us,” Grace answered after a moment’s thought.
She’d raised Oliver alone, and he’d turned out well. Grace had always dreamed of a big, happy family. Her father had passed early; her husband left three years after Oliver was born. Grace never remarried. Once Oliver settled down, she’d have that family. But why was he dragging his feet? Twenty-six was the perfect age. And Emily was lovely—polite, from a good family. God willing, they’d marry, grandchildren would come… Grace smiled at the thought.
The roast was nearly ready. Time to boil the potatoes.
“Emily, don’t forget to slice the—” The doorbell cut her off.
Grace glanced over the festive table, checked her reflection in the hall mirror—hair still neat—tossed the apron aside, and opened the door.
Guests arrived gradually. A handful of rose bouquets on the coffee table filled the air with sweetness. Wrapped gifts and ribboned boxes sat nearby.
Oliver knew them all: Grace’s childhood friend with her husband, the head of accounting from her work—sans husband for obvious reasons—another colleague and her spouse. The guests hovered near the table, chatting eagerly, stealing glances at the spread, waiting to be seated.
But Grace hesitated. Oliver realised she was waiting for someone. Who?
“I’m starving,” Emily complained.
“Hold on, Mum’s expecting someone.” Oliver squeezed her hand.
Finally, the doorbell rang, and Grace rushed to greet the late arrival. She soon returned, arm around a striking woman.
“Everyone, meet Sophie—my old neighbour from years ago. I was in Year 9 when she started primary. Her mum asked me to watch over her. I hardly recognise her—she called out to me.”
“I knew you straight away. You haven’t changed,” Sophie said, her voice light and melodic. Oliver wondered if she sang.
A simple grey dress hugged her slender frame. Thick, honey-blonde waves framed her warm, smiling face.
“Right then, everyone—dig in!” Grace announced.
Chairs scraped as guests settled, eyeing the feast.
Oliver sat across from Grace’s colleagues, Emily beside him, Sophie on his other side. Her perfume was subtle, expensive. The men glanced curiously at her; the women eyed her warily.
Oliver lifted the wine bottle, raising an eyebrow at Sophie. Their faces were close—close enough for him to spot flecks of gold in her irises. She nodded with a smile.
*How old is she? A few years older than me?* He tried to calculate, but Emily interrupted. A guest stood for the first toast. Oliver barely heard, thoughts fixed on Sophie. Her presence, her scent—maddening, intoxicating. Brushing off the toast, he clinked glasses with Sophie.
“What about me?” Emily pouted.
Oliver turned reluctantly. She searched his eyes; he looked away. “What do you want? Salad? Mum says this one’s good.”
“Whatever.” Oliver drained his glass.
“I didn’t realise Grace had such a grown-up son. Studying or working?” Sophie asked softly.
“Graduated three years ago. Working now.”
“Figures, with a mum like yours.”
They spoke, heads nearly touching, shoulders brushing. Every accidental touch sent heat through Oliver, flooding him with reckless desire. He angled closer, chasing the contact—but Sophie shifted away.
Emily asked him something. Oliver answered distractedly, irritated. After a few toasts, wine loosened his thoughts.
“Oliver, put music on—let’s dance,” Grace said.
They’d planned the playlist. Oliver queued up lively nineties hits. Women moved to the sofa; men stepped out to smoke. Grace cleared plates; Emily helped, acting every bit the *almost-wife*, which grated on Oliver.
Sophie lingered, unsure. He approached her.
“Want to dance?”
She arched a brow, then rested her hands on his shoulders. Space was tight—they swayed in place, eyes level, dangerously near.
When the men returned, the room grew crowded. Without a word, Oliver and Sophie slipped into the hall. Nowhere else to go. Sophie took her coat.
“Leaving already?” Oliver asked, disappointed, addressing her informally for the first time.
“Just popped in to say happy birthday. Apologise to Grace for me,” Sophie said, stepping out.
Oliver turned—Emily’s wounded glare made him want to bolt. He grabbed his jacket and followed Sophie.
“I’ll walk you,” he said outside.
She didn’t protest. “Call a cab? These shoes ruined my feet.”
“I forgot my phone.” He hesitated, ready to dash back.
“Don’t bother.” Sophie dialled, recited an address Oliver memorised silently.
“Three minutes. Go back—your mum’s alone.”
He nodded but stayed. A yellow cab pulled up. Sophie slid in; Oliver hesitated, then decisively said, “Move over,” and joined her.
They rode in silence. In the lift, they avoided each other’s eyes. Inside her flat, Oliver pulled Sophie close, kissing her fiercely. She didn’t push him away.
He returned at dawn.
“Where *were* you?” Grace demanded.
The flat was bright, the table cleared.
“Walking Sophie home. Why aren’t you asleep?” He avoided her gaze.
“What’s *wrong* with you? Emily was in tears! Why humiliate her?”
“Mum, *you* decided she was right for me. I don’t want to marry her.”
“But why? I thought—”
“You *thought*. I’m an adult. Let me choose who—”
“Wait—” Grace’s eyes widened. “Were you with *Sophie*? If I’d known, I’d never have invited her!”
“Mum, let’s sleep.” Oliver shut his bedroom door, staring at the ceiling as birdsong filtered in. Sophie’s perfume clung to him, restless and thrilling.
Morning brought Grace’s hushed, frantic voice. He listened.
“How *could* you? He’s young enough to be your—I never expected this… Leave him *alone*.”
“Who are you calling?” Oliver stepped out.
Grace jumped. Hair dishevelled, dark circles under her eyes—she looked older, exhausted.
“I told her to back off. That you’re practically engaged…” Her voice shook.
“I’m *not* engaged. You and Emily decided that.” He sighed, brushing past her to the bathroom.
“Oliver!” She banged on the door. He turned the tap on, drowning her out.
When he emerged, Grace sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands. He crouched before her.
“Mum, stop deciding my life for me. *Please*. It’s *mine*.”
“Son—” She reached for him, but he dodged her touch.
“I love her.”
“You barely *know* her! She’s too old for you—”
Oliver stood, towering over her. “If you interfere, I’ll leave. Forever.”
“Fine. At least eat breakfast,” Grace sighed, fetching leftover cake.
Afterwards, Oliver prepared to leave.
“Where? To *her*?” Grace instinctively reached to stop him.
“Mum.” He caught her wrists, gently lowering them. “I love you. You’re the best. But I can’t live without her.”
“Don’t come home too late. Work tomorrow,” Grace sniffled.
“It’ll be okay.” He left.
Sophie opened the door instantly, unsurprised, studying him.
“Grace said I should—”
“Forget it.” Oliver pulled her close, and she melted into him.
Grace pacedAnd in the end, as she held her granddaughter for the first time, Grace realised love was never about control, but about letting go.
