She’ll charm you, Mum. She’s absolutely brilliant! Elijah beamed. And how long till brilliance wears thin? Alexandra quipped, stirring a pot at the stove.
Alexandra listened, as she always did. When her husband was alive, she’d timed dinners to his return. He’d been gone eight years. Now, she waited just the same for her son.
The door clicked. Elijah’s voice carried from the hall.
Mum, I’m home.
So I hear, she answered, smiling.
What’s for tea? Bangers and mash? He hugged her from behind, inhaling the buttery scent of his favourite roast potatoes with spring onions.
Alexandra turned off the hob, covering the pan.
You’re chipper. What’s happened? She knew his moods by tone alone.
Elijah stepped back.
Mum, I’m getting married.
About time. Where’s Emily, then? Alexandra turned, studying his shadowed face.
I’m marrying Beatrice.
A chill prickled down Alexandra’s spine. Her son had long been grown—his embraces now rare, reserved for confessions or joy.
Promising name. And Emily?
Emily’s wedding’s on Saturday. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s eat.
Glad to see her nuptials haven’t spoiled your appetite. Wash up.
She set a plate of golden potatoes before him, propped her chin on her hand, and watched him eat.
This Beatrice—who is she?
She’s smashing. You’ll see. I’d like you to meet her. Say, Saturday? Elijah paused, meeting her gaze. You’ll adore her, Mum. She’s pure magic!
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen wealthier prospects, Alexandra learned from Emily’s mother—an old schoolfriend who’d hoped their children might wed. Apologies had been murmured over a chance meet at Tesco.
Magic’s all well and good. But won’t it tire, living with a sorceress? Alexandra arched a brow.
Mum, stop.
I’m not laughing. Tell me about her. What makes her so spellbinding?
Why fixate on the word? Elijah fidgeted. She’s a teacher—English and literature. First year, mind. Clever, well-read. We click.
And her parents?
Dad’s an engineer. Mum stays home.
And she’s from…? Alexandra trailed off, waiting.
What does it matter? Elijah bristled.
It doesn’t. So, not local. Planning to live here?
If you’d rather not, we’ll rent. Elijah searched her eyes.
Don’t be daft. I’d be chuffed. What’s here for me alone? I’ll wait for grandchildren. If we rub each other wrong, then rent.
Beatrice wants to focus on her career first, gain experience.
Beatrice wants, Beatrice decides… Alexandra mimicked. Fine, invite your enchantress to Sunday roast. She stood, clearing his empty plate.
You’re the best mum ever. Elijah rose too.
I hope you remember that when married.
Dishes clinked as Alexandra scrubbed, lost in thought. A teacher. Evenings buried in marking, weekends herded on school trips… She sighed. He’s grown so fast. Pity his father didn’t live to see it.
By Saturday dawn, Alexandra conjured a feast. Elijah preened before the mirror, fussing over shirts and ties. Then he left to fetch Beatrice.
Alexandra tried picturing this radiant educator—but all that came was Judi Dench in some period drama.
Beatrice was willow-thin, with pin-straight hair and owlish eyes. Not plain, but easily missed in a crowd. She nibbled politely, praised each dish in measured tones, barely sipped her wine. Elijah mirrored her abstinence.
Don’t stand on ceremony, love.
Nervous, poor thing. First meeting the mother-in-law. What does he see in her? Or is this haste just to spite Emily? Oh, Emily…
A modest wedding followed in two months. Beatrice’s parents arrived—mum meek and mute, dad boisterous, boasting he’d named his daughter after some film heroine, smitten as a lad.
The character was played by Judi Dench. Naming her after the actress might’ve been wiser, Alexandra couldn’t resist.
Told him the same, but he wouldn’t budge, Beatrice’s mother whispered, then shrunk under her husband’s glare.
And you—named for some beheaded queen? the father shot back.
Wish I were. They’d picked a boy’s name. So I became Alexandra.
Odd pair. The father drank, extolling his daughter’s virtues; the mother sat rod-straight, mute as a statue.
Elijah showed them round town. They’d brought linens galore—generous dowry by old standards. The father ruled; the mother obeyed. Rare these days. Alexandra reciprocated with gifts at their departure.
Once the couple left for work, Alexandra cleaned. The young ones left dishes piled. Fine for Elijah—but Beatrice? No training, or just lazy?
Beatrice returned first each day, vanishing to their room. Never offered help with meals or shopping. If asked, she complied with thinly veiled reluctance.
Days passed. Resentment brewed. Likely, Beatrice expected wifely servitude like her mum’s. But Alexandra wouldn’t play housemaid. One thing to spoil a son—another his bride. A talk was overdue.
One breakfast, Elijah mispronounced a word. Beatrice corrected him. He stumbled, erred again. She corrected sharper.
Alexandra bit her tongue, but her heart ached for him.
When Beatrice returned that evening, Alexandra thanked her for Elijah’s education but suggested corrections be private. He’s a grown man—don’t shame him.
I can’t bear incorrect speech. Like nails on slate. Beatrice was cool.
Your father mangles words too, yet you stay silent.
Beatrice left wordless. Now she’ll whine to Elijah, paint me the shrew. True to form, after supper, Elijah announced they’d move out.
Beatrice bristled at my remark? I hope you know what you’re doing, son.
And you’re not cross?
Course not. I’m the world’s best mum. She swallowed protests. Let them learn independence.
At first, mates called Elijah often—pubs, football. Beatrice was always busy. He declined. Soon, calls ceased.
Alone, Alexandra cooked from habit. Once, Elijah dropped by for a book, caught the scent of roast potatoes, and gulped. She promptly served his favourite—golden spuds, pickled onion, a juicy cutlet. He devoured it, eyes rolling blissfully.
She noted with a pang how he’d thinned, how his spark had dimmed. Love doesn’t fill bellies. Doubtful Beatrice cooked proper meals. Scrambled eggs, takeaway—hardly nourishment.
She packed him leftovers. Soon, he visited often—especially weekends when Beatrice led school trips.
Two months on, he arrived with bags.
Row? Alexandra asked.
Nah. Just knackered. Work all day, then cook, shop, laundry. I’m not some lovesick schoolboy. Forces me to read Dickens, Austen—gives me migraines. Feels less like a marriage, more like detention.
Had your fill of magic? Alexandra couldn’t resist.
Don’t start.
Stay, then. What of Beatrice? Your future?
Dunno. He shrugged.
Alexandra often recalled her late husband. University sweethearts, shared passions, mutual support. Elijah came late—a miracle after years of longing. Now his path diverged wildly.
Life resumed its rhythm. Elijah joked again, went out evenings. Alexandra hoped he missed his wife, visited her. But a chance supermarket encounter with an old friend shattered illusions.
Your Elijah’s seeing my Emily again.
Emily divorced, then?
No. Sneaking about. I’ve warned her—but since when does she listen?
Alexandra’s heart hammered. Oh, Emily. Leading him astray.
At home, she confronted Elijah. He dodged but didn’t deny.
One evening, he didn’t return. She wasn’t alarmed—grown man, likely busy. Perhaps with Beatrice. But hours passed, no word. Calls went straight to voicemail. She paced, window-bound.
As panic crested, Emily rang.
Auntie Alex—Elijah’s in hospital.
What happened? Her heart lurched.
Beaten. Badly. Come now. St. Thomas’.
Alexandra scrambled. A cab, then racing down sterile corridors, heels echoing like gunshots.
He’s alive… God, please…
Emily rose from a bench, ghost-pale.
What’s wrong with him? Alexandra’s legs buckled.
Theatre. Skull fracture, internal bleeding.
How? Who did this?
My husband. Well, his security. He had us followed. I thought it was just threats… Forgive me.
Alexandra lacked the strength to console her. This recklessAs Elijah slowly recovered and Beatrice quietly returned, tending to him with newfound devotion, Alexandra watched them rebuild—fragile but hopeful—and knew that sometimes love, like life, must weather storms to find its way.
