**Diary Entry – Mum’s Little Scheme**
*I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it!* My hands trembled as I paced the small sitting room. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Charlotte, please calm down,” Mum tried to take my hand, but I snatched it away. “Let’s talk about this properly.”
“*Properly?*” My voice rose to a shriek. “After what you’ve done? Do you realise I’m the laughingstock of the entire town now?”
“Don’t exaggerate. We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” I clutched my head. “Are you pretending to be daft, or do you genuinely not get it?”
Valerie sank onto the sofa with a sigh. At sixty-two, she still considered herself sprightly enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s life. But for the first time in years, she looked weary.
“I only wanted to help,” she murmured. “You’ve been shut away since the divorce, hardly going out.”
“That’s *my* business!” I snapped. “Mine! I’m a grown woman—forty-one years old!”
“Exactly why I worry. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And I what? Unwanted? Some kind of spinster?”
Mum shook her head. “You’re beautiful, clever. But too proud. Men are intimidated.”
I paced, fiddling with my dressing gown belt. Morning sunlight poured into the small lounge, but the air between us was thick with tension.
“Mum, *how* could you put an ad in the paper?” I said, exhausted. “And with *that* wording—”
“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” She frowned. “Perfectly respectable.”
“Respectable?” I yanked the folded newspaper from my pocket. “Listen: ‘Seeking a decent gentleman for my lovely, domestically gifted daughter, 41. Works as an accountant, doesn’t smoke or drink, enjoys cooking. Contact her mother.’ *Her mother*, Mum! Like I’m some secondhand toaster!”
“What’s the issue?” She blinked.
“The issue?” I dropped into the armchair, covering my face. “I’ve had calls non-stop. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old asked if I could bake a Victoria sponge and relocate to his farm to tend to his sheep!”
“Well, he’s clearly unsuitable,” Mum conceded. “And the others?”
“*What* others? Mum, it’s humiliating! As if I can’t find a man myself.”
“Can you?”
The quiet question hit its mark. I fell silent. Four years since splitting from Edward, and not one man had sparked my interest.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to newspaper ads like it’s the 1950s,” I grumbled.
“How else, then? Online? You barely know how to switch the computer on.”
“I’d figure it out.”
“Oh, like you’ve ‘figured out’ the last four years?”
Mum stood and shuffled to the kitchen. “Tea? Or shall I fetch the Valerian drops?”
“Don’t mock me.” I followed.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking—Mum’s stress relief. Today, the table bore sausage rolls, apple crumble, and shortbread.
“Up all night again?” I asked, softening despite myself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Wondering how to broach this.”
“Should’ve thought of that *before* placing the ad.”
She filled the kettle and fetched two mugs. “Charlotte, be reasonable. Your office is all women. You bury yourself in books and telly, slouch to the shops in joggers, hair a mess—”
“I look *fine*!”
“For lounging. But for attracting men? When did you last wear a dress?”
I paused. Post-divorce, I’d abandoned feminine clothes—just jeans, jumpers, trainers.
“Still no excuse for the ad,” I muttered.
“Then what is? Waiting for Prince Charming to knock?”
The kettle whistled. Mum brewed the tea and set out biscuits.
“Mum… how many calls were there?” I asked cautiously.
“Dozens. Wrote them all down. Want to see?”
She pulled out a school exercise book labelled *Suitors for Charlotte* in shaky cursive.
“Seriously?” I scoffed. “Like I’m twelve.”
“But organised. Look—this Michael seemed nice. Forty-five, engineer, divorced, no kids. Polite on the phone.”
I flipped through. Mum had logged names, ages, jobs, even red flags: *drinks, lives with mum, wants a maid, married (liar)*.
“Mum, you *interviewed* them?”
“Naturally. Think I’d hand you to just anyone? Asked about work, salary, housing—”
“Interrogation tactics,” I snorted.
“Necessary! Some chap called Thomas started talking about *intimacy* straight off. Told him where to go.”
I skimmed the notes. “This Simon—he’s crossed out?”
“Forty-three, site foreman, owns a flat. Widower—grown daughter, married.”
I set the book aside. *Mum means well. But is this really how people meet now?*
The phone rang. Mum pounced. “Hello? Ah, calling about the ad! How old? Thirty-eight? Occupation?”
I rolled my eyes and retreated to my room.
At my desk, I checked emails—among work memos, messages from strangers. *Mum posted online too?!*
“Mum! Get in here!”
She appeared, phone wedged to her ear. “What?”
“You put ads *online*?”
“Well, yes. Mrs. Henderson from next door helped. More options!”
I googled my name. *Oh God.* My face grinned back from a dozen dating sites—best holiday photos, even one from the office Christmas do.
“Mum, where’d you get these?”
“Your computer! Mrs. Henderson showed me how.”
I groaned. “And… responses?”
“Hundreds! See your inbox?”
I scrolled—pages of unread messages.
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how popular you are?”
The phone trilled again. Mum lunged—but I grabbed it first.
“Hello?”
“Ah, about the ad,” a warm voice said. “I’m Daniel, forty-two. Hoping to meet your daughter.”
I paused. No arrogance, no creepiness.
“Tell me about yourself,” I ventured.
“Construction project manager. Divorced three years. No kids. Own flat.”
“Why reply to *this* ad?”
“Honestly? The mum bit charmed me. Suggests good family values.”
Mum hovered, miming *Ask his salary!* I waved her off.
“Fancy meeting?” he asked. “See if we click?”
“Alright. Saturday, seven? ‘The Rose & Crown’ near High Street?”
“Perfect. I’ll be in a navy blazer.”
I hung up. Mum pounced. “Well?!”
“Seems decent. Meeting Saturday.”
“But you didn’t ask his wage! Or mortgage details!”
“Mum, it’s a *date*, not a bank loan.”
Saturday evening, Mum fussed for hours—rejecting half my wardrobe before approving a burgundy dress.
“Perhaps the green cardigan?” she fretted. “In case he’s stingy with the restaurant?”
“Mum, if he is, there won’t be a second date.”
She sighed. “Charlotte… do you really think you *can’t* find someone?”
I paused mid-lipstick. “Maybe I *don’t* want to.”
“Or you’re scared. Since Edward…”
I met her gaze. “What if I’m meant to be alone?”
She squeezed my hand. “Nonsense. You’re brilliant. You deserve love.”
At the pub, Daniel waited by the window—tall, kind-eyed. We talked for hours. He was funny, ambitious, *normal*.
“Your mum’s ad,” he admitted later, “might’ve been the best thing that ever happened to me.”
At home, Mum pounced. “Well?!”
“He’s lovely. Thank you.”
She beamed. “Told you there’d be good ones!”
I hugged her. *Mum orchestrated this… but maybe she was right.*
“Just promise no more ads,” I muttered.
She laughed. “Deal.”
**Final Thought:** Sometimes, the most meddlesome plans… work.
