Stanley Andrews, or simply Stan to his friends and colleagues, had recently been promoted to department head at a large firm in Manchester. The promotion was well-earned—he was diligent, quiet, and punctual. He never pushed to lead, yet he advanced steadily. Congratulations at work were understated: Stan offered a small smile, thanked everyone, and assured them he’d do his best to prove their faith in him justified.
His mother, Margaret, was the most thrilled. She had been the one who once took him to doctors, hired tutors, bought him winter coats, and tucked away bits of her pension to pay for his university. She insisted he celebrate by treating his colleagues to homemade food—pies, salads, and snacks. Though Stan initially resisted, he eventually agreed. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
On the day of the celebration, he drove to his mother’s flat to collect the food. She had a cardiologist appointment, so she’d left everything packed in the fridge. During his short lunch break, Stan decided not to carry it all alone and asked a new colleague, Emily, to come along and help. She agreed eagerly.
Emily, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, was the sort of woman who turned heads. The office buzzed about her—how she flirted with Stan, always smiling, asking for lifts home…
They stepped into his mother’s modest but tidy and cosy flat. Stan opened the fridge and began pulling out containers. Emily perched on a stool, glancing around.
“Your mum’s place is lovely… so homely. And who’s this?”
A small black dog trotted out, growling at the stranger.
“That’s Penny,” Stan said, scooping her up. “Don’t worry, she’s friendly.”
“Penny? What a name,” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Keep her away—don’t want my tights ruined.”
Stan fell silent. Her distaste stung, though he couldn’t say why. Then, a plump black cat sauntered in, rubbing against his legs.
“And this is Oliver,” Stan murmured, pulling a bowl of cooked fish from the fridge. “Here you go, mate.”
Emily stepped back toward the door.
“Bit of a menagerie, isn’t it? A cat *and* a dog in such a small flat? The fur, the smell… your mum’s not allergic, is she?”
“Are *you*?” Stan asked quietly.
“Me? No… I don’t think so. We never had pets. I don’t like them. They’re dirty.”
Stan continued packing the food in silence, his smile gone. Emily lingered by the door, swatting Penny away as the dog sniffed at her shoes.
“I’ll walk them tonight,” Stan finally said. “Mum will scold me for overfeeding them, but how can you resist?”
“Wasting time on pets… Well, someone has to, I suppose,” Emily muttered with a half-smile, stepping out.
On the drive back, she chattered about the new canteen menu, a skirt their colleague Linda wore, and how someone in accounting was marrying for the third time. Stan barely responded, only nodding occasionally. His mind buzzed: *Shallow. False. Wrong…*
Back at the office, they handed him a thermos, clapped his shoulder, hugged him. After work, they set out food, drank a little, ate a lot. Emily hovered—joking, glancing his way, hinting for a lift home. But Stan simply said,
“Sorry, I’ve got somewhere to be.”
At home, his mother was waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked, opening the door with a smile.
“Brilliant, Mum. Your pies vanished first. Said they tasted restaurant-quality. They barely remembered me after that.”
“And what about that girl you brought round—Emily? Mrs. next door saw her, said she was pretty. Is she the one?”
“No. Just a colleague. And honestly… there’s no one yet. I lied before, to make you happy. Sorry.”
“That’s alright. But when she does come along—what should she be like, this ‘right one’?”
Stan thought for a moment.
“Kind. Gentle. Clever. And… she’d love you. And Oliver. And Penny.”
His mother chuckled.
“Oh, Stan, the main thing is she loves *you*. Then she’ll love the rest of us. Even that bald old cat with his moods.”
He nodded, then grabbed the lead, whistled for the “beasts,” and headed out. The three of them raced across the courtyard like it was the old days—his mum at home, a bun in his pocket, a puppy in his hands, a cat on his shoulder, and life stretching ahead.
Margaret watched from the window and clenched her hands.
“Thirty years old, a department head, and still a boy at heart. May God send you real love, son… and may she love all of you at once. Oliver. Penny. And your mum.”
The lesson? Love isn’t about perfection—it’s about finding someone who cherishes the whole messy, imperfect life you’ve built. Even the scuffed shoes, the shedding pets, and the mother who still packs your lunch.
