– So this again, your father is off? – Margaret clutched a tray of cream scones with strawberry jam, arranging them on the table. – Shall we have tea or perhaps a glass of sherry before he returns?
– Mother, sherry in the morning? – Lily shook her head but her eyes sparkled. – Though, a splash, perhaps. It *is* a special occasion.
– Of course it is! – Margaret gasped, arms flailing. – Six months since I saw my only daughter!
Tom at the window rolled his eyes, but thankfully neither his mother-in-law nor Lily noticed. From London to this sleepy village in the Cotswolds, they’d traveled in silence all morning. She, to see her mother, whom she truly hadn’t seen in far too long. He, to fulfill a marital duty. Margaret greeted them as prodigals returning to the nest—tight hugs, exclamation marks, and a chorus of “Lily, how thin you’ve gotten!”
– Mother, I brought you gifts from the city, – Lily began, digging into her tote.
– No need for gifts just yet, let me look at you! Tom, she looks like a sapling. Do you feed her?
– I do, of course, three square meals a day, by the clock. Just ask the supermarkets.
– You’re a joker! – Margaret jabbed the air with a finger. – As for *you*, Harold told me you’ve lost no weight.
Tom forced a grin and muttered, “Sherry it is, then.”
– Harold! Bring the sherry! – Margaret called to the hallway, where Harold, Lily’s stepfather, had been rummaging in the coat closet.
– I say, this is delightful, – Harold appeared, grinning, his tweed jacket crumpled. – Tom, old boy, off for a tramp? I’ve a feel for fishing today.
Tom brightened. Fish, fresh air, and avoiding Margaret—what more could a man want?
– Lovelies, how about we relax! I’ve the kettle on, and these scones will grow cold, – Margaret scolded, slamming a tray of crystal glasses onto the table.
– Mother, let the men go! Just a couple of hours, – Lily whispered, tugging at Tom’s sleeve.
– A full day is better, – Harold shrugged, brandishing a walking stick. – Lily will manage, and we’ll return by tea time.
Tom wasn’t so sure. Margaret’s sherry was as tart as her mood, and Harold had a knack for sneaking off to the garage, a habit Tom envied.
By lunchtime, they were back, and Harold reeked of trout and damp earth. Margaret, however, was less than impressed with his catch.
– Three perch? That’s scarcely enough! I was expecting something for the stew!
– For grilling, it’ll do, – Harold shrugged, squirting lemon over a plate of greens.
Tom noticed Lily’s hunched shoulders, her eyes dulled with resignation. *God, I’ll be like that in thirty years?*
Afternoon brought more of Margaret’s nostalgia. “You were so bright when you recited that poem in the fifth grade,” she began. Lily corrected her: it was sixth grade. Margaret countered: the mother of that other girl, Verbrauch, was the headmaster’s wife. Tom sipped his sherry, counting to ten in his head—a trick his university therapist once taught.
Then came the unspoken elephant in the room.
– And when will you give me grandchildren, then? – Margaret asked, leaning forward. Tom nearly choked.
– We’re working on it, I mean, stabilizing, buying a flat, – Lily stammered, blushing.
– My generation managed, before the material concerns, – Margaret cut in, sipping her sherry with a smirk.
– Patience pays off, – Tom interjected, surprising himself.
Margaret’s gaze turned to him, sharp. “Men can wait. Women can’t. You were born in your mother’s twenties, Lily. Look at her—she’s at that age now!”
– She’s only twenty-seven, – Tom said evenly. – We’ve time.
– Time? My Lily was a mother at twenty-eight!” Margaret clapped her hands.
Harold, sensing the storm, cleared his throat. “Enough, enough! Tom, come along, fresh air! Lily, manage it, old girl!”
Outside, the air was crisp, the kind that cleared the mind.
– She’s a bit much, isn’t she? – Tom asked as they wandered the path to the river.
– Only to us. To me, she’s a hurricane, – Harold sighed. – I retreat to the garage, he retreats to the river. Thirty years now.
– And it works?
– Works? No. Ends, perhaps. But the soup’s good, and the house is warm. Character?” Harold raised an eyebrow. “What, no character left to share?”
That evening, Margaret served her famous shepherd’s pie, a first for Tom, who noted it was drier than his taste. “In London, you’d confine yourself to takeaways, I suppose?”
– Nothing like that. Lily’s a excellent cook, thank you.
– Of course. She learned from the best, – Margaret beamed. – Though I do wonder when she finds the time. All work and no play, isn’t it?”
Tom glanced at Lily, her expression more of a plea now than a protest. He knew then to keep quiet.
That night, in a narrow guestroom, Lily whispered, “I didn’t think it’d be this…”
“They called off the river trip this morning,” Tom muttered. “But we’re going tomorrow, first light.”
By dawn, they nearly made it. Margaret caught them in the hallway, a floral dressing gown flowing about her.
– Off to the river again? At this hour?
– Or we all might go, – Harold offered, nodding to Tom.
– Lily, don’t you run off again! You’ve only just arrived!
– We’ll be quick, mother, – Lily stammered.
– Quick? I know that word well! You’ll be gone the day, and I’ll remain, like a ghost in the house. No, Lily stays. We have to talk. Off with you, men.”
They left, guilt-heavy, as the sun rose.
The river conversation was lighter. Harold was a willing companion. He spoke of his retirement as a groundskeeper, of his nights by the fire. Tom found himself more relaxed, even laughing at a joke about his son’s recent marriage.
– Why don’t you come to London? – Tom asked as they packed.
– Sentiment, but no. I like this place, and the garden. Margaret… well, you’ve met her.
That evening, though, was a different story.
Lily, tear-streaked, sat on the sofa. Margaret muttered in the kitchen, her voice clipped.
– What’s wrong? – Tom rushed to her.
– Nothing. Just her usual. The children. The work. The time.
– Let’s just leave, pretend it’s urgent. A meeting in London, something.
– No, she’d never forgive me.
The tension finally snapped that night.
– You only care for yourselves! – Margaret snapped, sipping her sherry. “Verbrauch’s daughter has two children. She doesn’t whine about flats or work! She just gets on with it!”
– Mother, I don’t whine.
– You want to blame it on the flats, the work? Or him?
– Can we please stop? – Tom stood. “We’ve tried. For two years. Procedures, doctors, nothing. It’s not easy, do you think it is?”
Silence. Margaret’s teacup clinked against the saucer. Harold stared, aghast.
– Why didn’t you tell me? – she asked, voice trembling.
“Because you *insisted* on it. Every time. ‘Everyone else has kids, time is passing, back in my day.’ How do you think it feels, Lily? After every failed test, every visit, you heap more pressure? The doctors say, ‘Relax. Don’t stress. But how? With you?”
The room hushed. Margaret’s hands trembled.
– I… I didn’t know, – she whispered. – Lily, why didn’t you say?
– I didn’t want to burden you. I thought maybe it’d resolve itself.
– It will. The doctors say so. – Harold took her hand. “Margaret, enough. Let them be.”
To Tom’s shock, she acquiesced, retreating to the kitchen.
The rest of their visit was quiet. Margaret conversed less, her tone softer. She still cooked until their plates were piled high, but her remarks were gentler.
On their last day, as they packed, Margaret approached Tom.
– No more jokes about ‘goodbye, dear mother-in-law,’ eh?
– I promise, – he replied, squeezing her hand.
– Take care of her.
In the train back to London, Lily remained quiet.
– Thank you, – she said finally.
– For what? For telling her the truth?
– She finally understood. It’s like a burden lifted.
– I thought I’d hate her, – Tom mused. “But maybe she just didn’t know how else to love us.”
– She’s not perfect, but she’s… mine.
– And now… mine, too. By the way, she really is different. This morning, she said, ‘Lily, it’s not just being a mother. Sometimes, you must let go.’”
– That was deep. She also said if we succeed, she’ll stay no more than three days when she visits.
They laughed, the train rumbling toward home.
Six months later, Lily called her mother.
– Mother, – she whispered. – I think you’ll have a grandchild.
Margaret’s sobs were audible through the phone, but this time, they were different.
