My wife Mary always told her friends that I had rushed into choosing a wife for our son, as if Id grabbed her off a bar counter. Id just come back from the army, still hotblooded, when a clever lass appeared and we fell into each others arms. She didnt argue; she agreed to everything.
She was short, sturdy, with stubby legs, no waist, a rather broad face, tiny narrow eyes. In Marys eyes the name Emma didnt suit a future daughterinlaw at all, and her friends nodded in agreement.
Shes a bit of a nonestarter, a minus three, they said.
A teachers college and Oxford? they added.
Our son, Michael, was a handsome athlete, top of his class, and immediately after demob he went straight back to university. The girl hed just met, Emma, got pregnant after their first encounter.
Shes doing it on purpose! some whispered.
Emma isnt his match!
Michael decided to marry. Mary, when catching up with former schoolmates, poured out her heart, but at home she kept her thoughts to herself in brief exchanges with Michael.
His eyes shone too brightly for her comfort. She feared the night owl would outsing the morning bird, or perhaps she simply didnt want to hurt Michael.
She recalled how she herself had gotten pregnant at nineteen, before turning twenty, giving birth a month before her birthday.
Our boy had been a sickly child, but grew strong, took up sport, and often surprised usnot only with his wish to wed. Mary wasnt thrilled, but she hid her displeasure well.
A child bears no blame for parents mistakes. Michaels desire to behave properly, to give his child a name and a fathers role, I fully supported.
I resolved not to be the kind of motherinlaw who, from day one, rejected the daughterinlaw and never said a kind word until the divorce. Though we lived in the same town, we never met.
When Marys marriage collapsed, my mother took her in, registered her before she died, and was glad the flat wouldnt disappear, staying in the familys hands.
Mary didnt believe in God, yet she regularly arranged services for her late mothers soul, knowing how important that was to her. She kept her mothers photographs, albums, and even framed a portrait of her wartime grandfather, now hanging above the kitchen table. In her youth my grandmother reminded Mary of the actress Love Orlova.
Mary was a different sort of woman, but Michael grew into a fine fellow.
One autumn, Michael asked whether he could stay with his mum for a while, or if he needed to claim a room in the university halls for families. He cooked borscht and promised not to cause trouble if his mother refused.
Mary, surprised at herself, gave a verdict: Take your Emma and well swap rooms. Ill give you the larger one for three of you.
Michael leapt up, kissed her, and whispered warmly, Mum, youre the best in the world! Dont worry, Ill get a parttime job. We wont be a burden on you!
He was proud, believing his statements, though he barely understood what a child meant for two students.
I didnt stare into my happy sons eyes. Life would manage better than I could.
Yet the early days of the young couple living under my roof didnt go as I had imagined. I worked at the central library in Manchester, ran the reference department, earned a modest salary, and thought it would stretchthough with constraints.
Then the nineties came with their promises of freedom and change, which turned into hardship. My friends marriages crumbled one after another; husbands drank, left for work, or vanished. Nightly shots rang out in the stairwell, blood stained the pavement. Factory wages stopped; my library pay looked like pocket change against soaring prices.
Michael kept his head down, studied hard, and on weekends went countryside with friends, helping elderly neighbours with their gardens. Emma, roundfaced and evercheerful, kept smiling, even when she trudged up the fourth floor of our flat without a lift, swollen belly and all.
After a painful delivery, on the first morning she showed me our sleepy boy in the window and asked, What shall we call him? A light seemed to flicker inside her, reflected in her smile.
Soon Emma struck a deal with two retired veterans on the ground floor, Ivan and Elena, who rarely talked to anyone. She coaxed them into tending a garden shed started under our windows, planting potatoes and carrots. By the next spring many neighbours followed suit.
Where I once felt lost and worried, Emma scratched her head, thought quickly, and acted. She refused to accept defeat; there was no time for endless philosophising. She switched to parttime study to accommodate the baby, exclaiming, Brilliant! Perfect! Simply superb! The garden by the window meant no travel, no theft, and a hearty characterbuilding experience.
Emmas endless energy made the child thrive. He crawled at nine months, spoke his first words at one year. I walked with him, taught him gladly. He never whined, never screamed without cause; if he fussed, we looked for the reason. He inherited his mothers sunny disposition and his fathers good looks.
During Emmas exam periods, little Daniel the boys nickname shuffled between Emmas best friend Liza, the Smirnov veterans, and me. He ate well, slept heavily, and behaved exactly like the model infant in the pediatric handbook.
I once thought that calm, content children were a myth doctors invented. No they exist, those who dont bawl from dawn till dusk, who sleep plenty and smile readily.
Before New Years, I felt a pang that I still hadnt met Emmas parents. The couple had married a year and a half ago without fanfare, visited them once, but never invited anyone over for holidays. Determined to fix this, I took our oneyearold grandson on a coach to their small market town, promising Michael Id return by the weekend so they could enjoy a couple of days without us.
Emma had already arranged the visit, exchanged messages, and even sent telegrams as was proper. At the tiny bus station we were greeted by a crowd of ten waving arms. A Welcome! banner hung, though we hadnt brought it.
They had decorated the spare room for a guest with a bright sign on the door that read, in cheerful letters, The children of Ivan and Zina, Emmas siblings, have prepared this for you. My heart stopped for a halfday when I realised they meant me, Mary, as the guest.
They whisked our grandson away near the bus, refusing to hand him back, as if he were a marching flag between Emmas family and theirs. I burst into tears that night, finding a festive teacup and a sweet bun on my bedside table, with a note in three different handwritings, presumably from my relatives.
The note read, dear Mary, hugs! Sweet dreams in your new home! May a groom visit you in dreams! It was clear the whole family knew my exwife was divorced and played a harmless joke.
The next morning, some cheeky youngsters asked my motherinlaw how she dreamt of a suitor. Their lively grandmother, ever spry, retorted, What, surprised? Shes as pretty as a schoolgirl, lips like a bow. Shes a virgin in our eyes, so we promised to set her up!
Later, the youngest grandson was sent away to school. My motherinlaw, Nasty, came over for breakfast, asking where Daniel was. I learned he was with the older children of Ivan and Zina, who had taken him to the countryside. I felt a surge of shame, not for fear but for feeling like a bad mother and unreliable grandmother.
Nasty soothed me, assuring, Well bring your treasure back, dont worry. Hes our lad, fed and slept through the night. Well roll the sled for the kids. Her words made my eyes water, but I sprang up and hurried after Daniel.
After a short walk we found him with Ninas family; theyd taken him to the village. I sat, sobbing, ashamed not so much of danger as of my own shortcomings. A calming cup of mint tea with a spoonful of honey and a splash of whisky finally eased me. Nina soon sent us back, promising a sauna session that evening. The next morning, Aunt Anastasia, the family matriarch, insisted I attend church for a service, despite my lack of baptism.
The holidays stretched from two days to a week. I never let Daniel out of my sight, so both he and Emma visited us regularly. The relatives were eager to meet, and I never hesitated to accommodate them.
When it was time to return by coach, we loaded Daniel, now a rosycheeked boy, along with a slightly fullerbodied Emma and me, not ten but five people. We stuffed four huge bags under the seatsmushrooms, preserves, pickles, knitted socks, sweatersfor the boy, Emma, and Michael.
They urged us to visit often, saying wed set a trend. The nineties, with all their sharp edges, had stopped being a corridor of fear and became a tough but normal school of life, where occasional slaps and pokes made room for happiness, surprise guests, warm knitted socks, notes from Nasty, smiles, dancing, and loud folk songs.
Spinning through all that, I found myself smiling more, frowning less, and overall feeling content.
One of Emmas nephews, a medical student, arrived and was offered a room at our house. He accepted, saying the cramped space wasnt an insult. He bowed respectfully, and I felt a surge of prideour family truly understood each others ways, even across the capital and the provinces.
At that point everything in the family was settled. Daniel went to kindergarten, Michael began teaching history at a local school, and Emma took a job with a construction firm. It was unexpected, but they were offered a proper salary, not just schoolyard allowances. Michael puffed up a bit, thinking the invitation was for him, not his wife, but he was reminded that he was about to write a dissertation and move to university.
Ten years later, Daniel started winning maths Olympiads. Michael met a charming young colleague the deans daughtermuch younger than him and Emma, with sleek shoes and a pencilskirt. He told Emma he was filing for divorce. Emma went pale, almost fainted. I stepped in, sat her down, and whispered hoarsely, You always said youd never leave like your father. You wont abandon your family, your child.
Michael said nothing, packed his bags, moved out, and filed the papers.
A few months later he dropped by while Emma was out and Daniel still at school, asking how his mother would view the division of property.
What do you mean? I asked, bewildered.
He replied, The flat, of course. And maybe ask Emma to move out. I dont want her to be upset, to cry and whine.
For a heartbeat I realized my son was clutching his cheek, while I clenched my fists, grunting, Out of my house! Got it?
Did I regret the legal battles, the dirty laundry, the public scrutiny? Absolutely. Yet Michaels luck ran thin. The first judge was an old friend of my mother, the second a close associate whose daughter had just been abandoned by her husband in London. The judge showed no mercy to the adulterer.
Our former motherinlaw came to mediate, but Emma and I barred her entry.
Daniel, the grandson, walked around the house with her, listening politely. Hed seen that old lady many times, and despite his occasional outbursts, he remained courteous.
I ended up staying with Emma and Daniel, firmly on their side, listening to my sons endless grievances, even his curses, but I never altered my decision.
Emma and Daniel are registered here. This is their home, I said.
Mother? Daniel whispered.
I couldnt raise you right, became a rogue. Im sorry. The tension lingered for a couple of years, finally easing when we paid Michael a settlement to avoid splitting the flat. Most of the money was gathered by relatives and sent to Emma, Daniel, and myself.
A young doctor, Igor, set me up with IV drips, and gradually life steadied.
Twenty years later, Emma never remarried, but she built a career, drives a car, bought a onebed flat nearby, and quietly dates a divorced accountant from her firm. I, now older, no longer live alone; Daniel, though hes built a house out of town, visits his beloved grandma three times a week, teaches at a grammar school, and his pupils win international contests.
I have no time to be bored. Students from the extended family pop in and out of my flat. Grandmother Nasty passed away not long ago. Her farewell was loud and cheerful, demanding her favourite songsthree days and three nights of singing, like a bad joke where two accordions broke.
She was a whirlwind in life, raising wonderful children and grandchildren, giving them wings.
A year before she died, she promised me Id never be alone. And so, at sixtyseven, I feel fine, joke that Im still young thanks to her prayers, and look ten years younger. Now Im being courted by the widower of Emmas former boss, a man younger than me but not yet sixty. He says, If youve found happiness, dont let it slip awaygrab it with both hands! Thats what my grandmother taught us. Listening to our grandmothers is important.
