“You’re going to love her, Mum. She’s an absolute dream!” Tom said excitedly. “And how long till living with a dream gets tiresome?” Sarah quipped back with a smirk.
Sarah stood at the stove, listening. When her husband was alive, she’d always timed dinner so everything was ready when he got home. He’d passed eight years ago. Now, she did the same for her son.
The front door clicked open, and Tom’s voice carried from the hallway.
“Mum, I’m home.”
“I can hear that,” Sarah replied, smiling.
“What’ve we got tonight? Sausages and mash?” Tom hugged her, peering over her shoulder and breathing in the comforting smell of his favourite fried potatoes with spring onions.
Sarah turned off the gas, covering the pan with a lid.
“You’re in a good mood. What’s happened?” She could always tell his mood by the tone of his voice.
Tom stepped back.
“Mum… I’m getting married.”
“About time. So why hasn’t Emily been round?” Sarah turned to face him, studying his suddenly clouded expression.
“I’m marrying Sophie.”
A chill crept down Sarah’s spine. Her son had been a grown man for years now. He only hugged her, showed affection, in moments of rare honesty or joy.
“Promising name. What about Emily?”
“Emily’s getting married on Saturday. Don’t wanna talk about it, Mum. Let’s eat.”
“Glad to hear Emily’s wedding hasn’t ruined your appetite. Wash your hands.”
She placed a plate of potatoes in front of him, sat opposite, propping her chin on her hand, and watched him eat.
“Who is this Sophie, then?”
“She’s lovely. You’ll see for yourself. I’d like you to meet her. This Saturday, maybe?” Tom stopped eating and looked at her. “You’ll adore Sophie, Mum. She’s an absolute dream!”
He’d said the same about Emily. That she’d chosen a wealthier man, Sarah had learned from Emily’s mum—old school friends who’d hoped their kids would marry. They’d bumped into each other at the shops, and her friend had apologised for her daughter’s choice.
“Too much of a dream gets dull. Won’t you tire of living with one?” Sarah teased.
“Mum, not funny.”
“Wasn’t joking. Tell me about her. What’s so dreamy?”
“Why’re you fixating on that word?” Tom hesitated. “She’s a teacher—English and literature, though she’s only been doing it a year. Smart, well-read. I’m happy with her.”
“What about her parents?”
“Dad’s an engineer. Mum stays home.”
“And she’s from…?” Sarah trailed off, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.
“What does it matter where she’s from?” Tom bristled.
“Fair enough. So, not local then. Planning to live here?”
“If you’ve got a problem with it, we’ll rent our own place.” Tom searched her eyes.
“Not at all. I’d love that. What else would I do alone? Wait for grandkids, I suppose. If it doesn’t work out, then you can move.”
“Sophie doesn’t want kids yet. Wants to work, gain experience.”
“Sophie doesn’t want, Sophie’s decided…” Sarah mimicked. “Fine, invite her round for lunch—your dream girl.” She stood, taking Tom’s empty plate to the sink.
“You’re the best mum ever,” Tom said, rising too.
“Hope you remember that when you’re married.”
As she washed up, Sarah mused. “A teacher, then. Evenings spent marking, weekends on school trips…” She sighed. “He’s grown up so fast. Wish his dad could’ve seen this.”
Come Saturday morning, Sarah was busy cooking while Tom agonised over shirts and ties in front of the mirror. Then he left to fetch Sophie.
Sarah tried picturing the dreamy schoolteacher—but all that came to mind was some serious, old-fashioned actress from a period drama.
Sophie turned out to be slight, with long straight hair and big eyes. Not exactly beautiful—just ordinary. She ate politely, complimenting each dish softly. She barely touched her wine, and Tom, watching her, didn’t drink either.
“Don’t hold back, Sophie,” Sarah encouraged.
Nervous, isn’t she? First time meeting the mother-in-law, Sarah thought. What does he see in her? Or is he rushing into this to spite Emily? Ah, Emily…
Two months later, they had a quiet wedding. Sophie’s parents came. Her mum was timid, quiet. Her dad joked about having named Sophie after some obscure character from a novel he’d loved as a teen.
“You’d have done better naming her after the actress who played her,” Sarah remarked.
“I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen,” Sophie’s mum murmured, glancing at her husband before falling silent for the rest of the evening.
Strange pair. The dad drank, boasting about his brilliant daughter. The mum barely spoke, sitting stiff as a board.
Tom showed them around London. They arrived laden with household gifts—towels, bed linens—an old-fashioned dowry. The dad ruled the roost; his wife deferred to him in everything. Rare these days. Sarah returned the favour, showering them with parting gifts.
After the wedding, Sophie barely lifted a finger—left dishes piled up, never offered to cook or shop. Sarah bit her tongue at first. But irritation festered. Sophie clearly expected to be waited on. Sarah wasn’t having it.
One breakfast, Tom mispronounced a word. Sophie corrected him—twice. Humiliated, he clammed up. Sarah said nothing, but it stung.
Later, she gently confronted Sophie. “Better correct him in private. He’s a grown man.”
“I can’t stand hearing mistakes. It grates,” Sophie said coolly.
“Your dad mispronounces plenty. You don’t correct him.”
Sophie had no comeback and walked out. She’ll complain to Tom now, Sarah thought. Sure enough, that evening, Tom announced they were moving out.
“Sophie upset about my comment? Hope you know what you’re doing, son.”
“You’re not upset?” he asked.
“No. I’m the best mum ever, aren’t I?”
At first, Tom’s mates rang, wanting to meet up. But Sophie was always “busy.” Tom declined. Soon, the calls stopped.
Alone again, Sarah cooked out of habit. One day, Tom dropped by for a book—smelled his favourite potatoes and gulped. Sarah served him a plate. He devoured it, eyes rolling in bliss.
She noticed he’d lost weight. Had Sophie even been feeding him properly? Frozen pizzas and beans on toast, probably. She packed him leftovers. After that, he visited often—especially weekends, when Sophie was off with her class.
Two months later, he turned up with his things.
“Fought?” Sarah asked.
“Not exactly. Just… tired. Work, cooking, laundry—I’m knackered. She makes me read Dickens, Hardy. Feels like I’m back in school.”
“Had enough of your dream?” Sarah couldn’t resist.
“Don’t start, Mum.”
“So what now? With Sophie?”
“Dunno,” he muttered.
Life slipped back into rhythm. Tom joked again, went out evenings. Sarah hoped he was visiting Sophie—but then she bumped into her old friend.
“Your Tom’s been seeing Emily again,” she said.
“Emily’s not divorced, is she?” Sarah asked naively.
“No. Sneaking around. I’ve told her off, but she won’t listen.”
Sarah’s stomach dropped. Emily, of all people—dragging him back into drama.
At home, she asked Tom outright. He dodged, but didn’t deny it.
One night, he didn’t come home. Sarah wasn’t worried—until hours passed with no word. His phone was off. She paced, peering out the window.
Then Emily called.
“Auntie Sarah, Tom’s in hospital.”
Her heart seized. “What happened?”
“Beaten up. Badly. Come quick.”
Sarah barely remembered the taxi ride, the echoing hospital corridor.
“Is he alive? Please, God…”
Emily waited, pale. “He’s in surgery. Head injury, internal bleeding.”
“Who did this?” Sarah grabbed her wrist.
“My husband. Had his security do it. I thought he was bluffing… I’m so sorry.”
Sarah had no comfort to give.
Tom woke three days later. Sarah stayed by his bed. Emily visited once, then vanished. He asked for her. Sarah lied that she’d come while he slept.
Then Sophie arrived—heard from neighbours. She took charge, bringing soups, sitting with Tom so Sarah could rest. Slowly, he improved. The doctor said he’d recover fully, given time.
Sarah rang Emily’s mum. “They’ve gone abroad.” How to tell Tom?Sophie and Tom eventually moved back in together, and with the arrival of their baby girl, Sarah finally let go of her doubts, realizing that love—not perfection—made a family whole.
