“Your mum isn’t invited,” said the new wife, slamming the door in her mother-in-law’s face. The wood thudded shut, followed by hurried footsteps retreating as if afraid the older woman might get a word in.
Margaret Hughes stood frozen, disbelieving. In one hand, she clutched a bag of marshmallows, in the other, a neatly wrapped box of embroidered handkerchiefs. She hadnt planned to stay longjust to pop in, offer congratulations, maybe catch a glimpse of her grandson, little Thomas.
She sank onto the first step of the stairwell, awkwardly smoothing her skirt. The hurt was sharp, like being scolded unfairly as a childold enough to know better, but too young to push back. Tears pricked her eyes, but Margaret dabbed them sternly with the edge of her handkerchief. No use crying now.
“Mum, you have to understand,” her son, James, had mumbled the night before, shifting uncomfortably. “Emily… shes got her own way of doing things. Wants everything modern, you know?”
“And Im some relic, am I? I wasnt going to barge in with unsolicited advice. I even brought a gift. Made it myself, actually.”
James had stared at the corner of the kitchen.
“Mum, dont take it to heart. Its just… tense right now. Emily says theres no spaceher mums coming, her aunt, colleagues…”
“Ah, so Grannys not a guest. Grannys a nuisance,” Margaret said calmly, though her chest tightened.
“Youre not a nuisance! We just thought… fewer relatives from my side might keep things simpler.”
“And you just let her decide that for you?”
Silence.
“Listen, son,” her voice quivered, “I wont force myself where Im not wanted. But mark my wordsif you let her call the shots today, it wont stop here.”
“Mum, I dont want drama.”
“And you think I do?”
James straightened his shirt, grabbed his phone.
“Ive got to go. Emilys waiting.”
“Go on, then.”
Her neighbour, Mrs. Thompson, caught her outside.
“Maggie, love, wherere you off to with that gift?”
“Oh, just… thought Id drop by Thomass wedding. Turns out I wasnt invited.”
“Not invited? But hes your grandson!”
“Apparently that doesnt count.”
Mrs. Thompson huffed. “Come round mine for tea. No use sitting about.”
“Thanks, but Ill head home. Need to get used to my new status, dont I?”
“Dont take it to heart. Young folks these days…”
“And what am I, then? Ancient?”
“Course not! Just too soft for your own good. Lets folk walk all over you.”
Back in her flat, Margaret carefully set the gift box on the kitchen table and placed the marshmallows beside it.
“White, too. Wedding colours. With little roses, just for the new missus.”
Her fingers trembled. Outside, car horns blaredprobably the wedding party off to the park for photos. People laughing, celebrating, while her own chest felt hollow.
That evening, her cousin Sophie rang.
“Maggie, didnt you go to the wedding?”
“I wasnt invited.”
“Youre joking. Thomas adored you! Spent every summer at yours as a boy.”
“Past tense, Soph.”
“What now, then?”
“Now, I suppose Im out of fashion. Too old-school.”
“Dont cry.”
“I wont. Whats the point?”
A few days later, James turned up. Lingered in the hallway, still in his coat. Held a supermarket bouquet like an afterthought.
“Mum, we… went away for a bit. Just got back. I wanted…”
“To tell me how lovely it was? How perfect?”
“Mum…”
“Or maybe to offer me a slice of cake I wasnt good enough to eat?”
“Emily… she regrets how things went.”
“Does she now? And here I was, regretting everything toositting here terrified to glance out the window in case I spotted you two, happy as anything. Wouldnt want to ruin the mood.”
James fidgeted.
“Look,” Margaret sighed, “youre grown. Live your life. But know thismy doors always open for you. For her? Not until she apologises.”
“Mum, she doesnt… do apologies. Her familys not like ours. No warmth, no soft words.”
“And what, mine was all sunshine and daisies?”
“No, I just… want you both to get along.”
“Takes two for that. And Im clearly not one of them.”
Time passed. One morning, Margaret bumped into Emily at the bins. The younger woman clutched a rubbish bag, hair hastily tied, slippers scuffing.
“Morning,” Emily muttered.
“Morning.” Margaret turned to leave.
“Wait.” Emily hesitated. “I… mightve overreacted. About the wedding.”
Margaret paused. “Go on.”
“It was stressful. I thought youd… fuss. Or the guests wouldnt know how to act.”
“So you cut the problem out?”
“I suppose.”
“What if James had told your mum she wasnt invited?”
“My mum wouldnt have turned up uninvited.”
“I did. Because I thought I *was* welcome.”
Emily exhaled. “I dont… do family well. Ours is all rules, no heart.”
“And what am I to you?”
“Dont know yet.”
“Work that out first. Then well talk.”
A week later, James returned.
“Mum, Emilys pregnant. Just found out.”
“Good for you.”
“She wants… you involved. More.”
“Does she now? Ill need to think about whether *I* want that.”
“Mum”
“What? Im not a light switch, to be flicked on and off.”
James dropped his gaze.
“But I do love my grandchildren,” Margaret relented. “If shes serious, she can come herself. Without you.”
Emily came alone. No flowers, no gifts. Just a nervous face in jeans and a shirt.
“I dont know how to do this,” she admitted at the door. “But Id like to learn.”
Margaret nodded. “Come in. Just baked a pie.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Sipped tea. Emily nibbled pastry, spoke haltingly about work stress, sleepless nights, morning sickness.
“If you need help, come round,” Margaret said softly. “No shame in it.”
“Thanks.”
When the baby arrived, Emily called first.
“Want to meet your grandson?”
“Of course.”
“Come over.”
Margaret went. Hesitant. But Emily opened the door herself.
“Come in. Were glad youre here.”
The kitchen smelled of milk and flowers. James cradled the baby. On the tablemarshmallows and the embroidered handkerchiefs.
“Found them in a box,” James said. “Lovely work.”
Margaret sat. Studied the sleeping newborn.
“Whats his name?”
“Oliver. But I want him to know his gran. Properly.”
For the first time in ages, Margarets heart felt lighter. Just a little.
“Right then,” she said. “Tea first. Then Ill show you how to make porridge without lumps. And the hankies… Ive got more put by.”
Years rolled on. Oliver grew, toddled, babbled. Where Emily had once hovered anxiously, she now called Margaret for backupwhen exhaustion hit, or nappies overflowed.
“Mum, youre a lifesaver,” James would murmur, kissing her cheek at the door. “Emilys struggling. Youve no idea how much this means.”
“No trouble,” Margaret would say, adjusting her knitted shawl. “Olivers a darling.”
The house filled with her baking, her stews. Embroidered handkerchiefs appeared in every room. Some evenings, Margaret realised Emily was thawing. Slowly, but surely.
“Your homes so cosy,” Emily admitted once over tea. “Mine was… correct. But cold.”
“Homes like pastry,” Margaret mused. “Needs patience, care. Rushing ruins it.”
“Im trying.”
“I see.”
They werent confidantes yet. Just two women bound by a child. But Emily no longer stiffened when Margaret entered a room. And Oliver reached for her without fear, giggling “Gran-gran” like it was his favourite word.
One spring evening, James arrived unannounced with chocolates and gladioli.
“Your birthday, Mum. Emily and Oliver couldnt cometeething nightmare.”
“She rang. Said theyll visit tomorrow.”
James hesitated. “Mum… we wondered if youd move in. Youre here half the time anyway.”
Margaret blinked. “Move in?
