Hey, love, listen up Ive got a little tale about Margaret Whitmore and her son Max, just the sort of thing youd hear over a cuppa in the kitchen.
Margaret always saw herself as a practical sort of woman. She spent her whole working life as an accountant, keeping tabs not just on the numbers but on every little thing she did. No fluff, no drama. Even the divorce from her husband twenty years ago she handled without a tear just signed the papers once she realised hed never quit the pint.
The only thing that ever knocked her off balance was her son, Max.
He was the complete opposite. As a kid he was that dreamy lad doodling pirates in the margins of his school notebooks. In his teens he turned into a poet, scribbling verses at three in the morning. Now, at thirtyfive, he still cant seem to settle down, stuck in what Margaret called running from responsibility. He hops from job to job, lasting a month or a week and a half before moving on.
Mom, you dont get it, hed fling his arms about. I cant just plant myself in the same office for thirty years like you did!
Im not stuck, shed reply coolly. I built a career.
Max would just roll his eyes.
Every conversation spiralled into a debate. She stubborn, logical, with a spreadsheet for everything. He airy, chasing whims, living for the moment.
Youre still living at home because you cant afford a flat! shed chide.
But Im travelling! hed retort.
On what money?
On whatever I manage to earn, plus the allowance you give me, hed grin, and Margarets irritation would only grow.
She tried to fix him: set him up with proper jobs, booked him into counsellors, even threatened to cut him out of the will. Yet Max stayed Max carefree, impractical, and hopelessly loved.
Because, despite everything, when he burst into her flat with those bright eyes and a head full of new schemes, shed catch herself thinking, Lord, he looks just like me at his age.
That same youthful spark shes buried under a mountain of bills and duties. It drives her mad, honestly.
Fast forward to today: Max practically barreled through the front door, flinging it open so hard the wind sent a stack of bills scattering off the side table. Margaret winced, almost spilling the tea shed just lifted to her lips.
Ma! he gasped, stopping midroom, breathless as if hed sprinted across the whole city. His eyes shone like the sun had gone out and been replaced by something brighter, something you cant quite name.
Margaret set her cup down slowly, squinting. She recognised that look the last time shed seen it was when Max was sixteen and ran in, shouting about getting into art school.
I met her, he announced, sounding as solemn as a vow.
Whos her? she asked, already guessing from the way he could barely stay still.
The one, Max ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. A grin stretched across his face, barely held back.
Margaret crossed her arms, sighing. Shed heard this script three times in the past two years.
Another artist? she asked, keeping her tone even. Or, heaven forbid, a poet? Last time I had enough of your creative types.
Max laughed, that clear, honest laugh from when she used to tickle him before bedtime.
No! he exclaimed, stepping forward. Shes a doctor. A therapist. Works at the NHS clinic down the road.
He said it with the sort of pride youd expect if hed just won a Nobel. Margaret lowered her glasses, wiping them with the edge of her apron.
And whats so special about her? she asked, already seeing the seriousness in his eyes.
Everything, Max whispered, the single word loaded with reverence.
He couldnt give her the usual resume talk. He just stood there, his face lit up.
Just yesterday, he began, I went into the clinic for a referral for the local pool, and she looked up at me
He paused, his lower lip trembling slightly.
And I thought, thats her.
He went on: Ma, we met today at the little café on the corner!
Margaret placed her cup on the table. So howd the date go?
She, Max faltered, unsure how to start. She turned out to be ordinary and yet extraordinary.
Extraordinary? Margaret raised an eyebrow. What makes her extraordinary?
Max thought for a heartbeat, then his face softened into a warm smile. You know, Mum, being with her feels like being with an old mate. No tension, no games. We just chatted about nonsense like how she cant stand mandarins with seeds, and I cant stand getting pulp in my orange juice.
He chuckled, recalling: At one point I caught myself rambling about our old countryside cottage and how, as kids, I was terrified of frogs in the pond. She didnt yawn, didnt stare at her phone she actually listened.
Margaret couldnt help but smile. Well, thats a rarity these days.
The strangest thing, Max lowered his voice, is that I didnt have to put on any act to impress her. I was just me and that was enough.
He started pacing the kitchen, gesturing wildly. Then we left the café and you wont believe it! She suggested we walk when it was already dark and drizzling. Said she loved the smell of wet pavement.
Margaret glanced at his soggy trainers by the door. So thats why your shoes are soaked? Thought youd slipped into a puddle again.
Ma, we walked for two hours! Max flailed his arms. We laughed, we talked
He fell silent, watching the rain streak down the window. And you know what the best part was? When I saw her off at her flat, she just said thanks for a lovely evening and left. No maybe well see each other again nonsense, no games.
Margaret poured hot tea into his cup. Well, love, looks like youve finally met someone worth sticking around for. Just remember, if you catch a cold walking in the rain, Ill be the one treating you, not her. Got that?
Max grinned, reaching for a biscuit, but Margaret gave his hand a gentle smack. First change into dry clothes! And wash your hands!
He made a sour face, then obediently headed to the bathroom. A minute later he returned, dry in a sweater, drying his hands on a towel.
Ma, can I invite her over on Sunday? he asked, hopeful.
Margaret pretended to scowl. Alright, since youre so determined Just tell her Im not planning a formal reception. She can come as if she were stepping into her own home.
Thanks! Max practically bounced. She said she loves simple home cooking.
Good, so youve already sorted the menu, Margaret teased. Ill bake your favourite apple crumble then.
Youre the best! he exclaimed, giving her a quick hug.
He snagged a biscuit, and this time Margaret let him have it.
She watched him munch happily and realised she hadnt seen him look that content in ages.
By the way, she asked suddenly, whats her name, your doctor?
Max froze midbite, eyes widening. Oh, Mum, you wont believe it shes called Anne. Just like you. She asks people to call her Annie.
Margaret stared, cup still in hand, eyebrows shooting up.
Anne? she repeated slowly. Well, I guess fate has a sense of humour.
She set the cup in the sink and turned to him. So whens she coming? Sunday afternoon?
Yes, if thats alright, Max fidgeted on his chair. Mum, you wont interrogation her about career prospects or bank accounts like last time, will you?
Margaret chuckled. Fine, fine. If shes managed to tolerate your damp socks and frog stories, Ill try to be civil.
She rummaged into a cupboard, pulling out a notebook of recipes. Just tell her I havent cooked for guests in five years. If the crumble fails, the blames on you.
Max smirked. Dont worry. She actually likes things a bit imperfect. Says it makes people alive.
Sunday morning. By twelve, the kitchen smelled of caramelised apples, cinnamon, and a perfectly golden crust. Margaret, in a crisp apron and hair neatly pinned, set the table in the sitting room.
Ma, relax a bit, Max said, arranging plates.
No relax. If youre going to do it, do it right, she retorted.
Half past two, the doorbell rang.
Anne stood on the doorstep in a simple yet elegant dress, holding a modest bouquet of daffodils and a bottle of decent red wine.
Good afternoon, Mrs Whitmore. Thank you for having me, she said.
Come in, Margaret nodded, noting Annes tidy manicure, the lack of overpowering perfume, and the polite removal of shoes at the entry hall.
The conversation was light, comfortable. Anne didnt pepper them with questions, didnt flit about like a nervous mouse, but she wasnt a wallflower either. When Margaret served the crumble, Anne cut a slice with a fork and tasted.
Wow, thats brilliant, she said earnestly. The balance of tart and sweet is spot on.
Thank you, Margaret softened a touch. Its an old family recipe.
You can really taste the love in it, Anne smiled. It shows.
Max beamed like a lightbulb, trying not to intrude.
After tea, Anne got up and started clearing the dishes.
No, no, you dont have to! Margaret stepped forward.
Please, let me help with the kitchen, Anne replied gently but firmly.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, then let her.
When Anne left, Margaret wiped the already immaculate table, then muttered under her breath, Shes not daft.
Max froze, cup in hand. Is that a compliment?
Its a statement of fact, she said, placing a napkin back. Invite her again sometime.
She turned to the window and smiled, a soft warmth spreading through her chest.
Well, there it is, she thought, feeling a strange joy bubbling up.
Not a pretentious artist, not a fleeting poet, but a doctor with steady hands and a calm gaze. Someone who didnt put on a performance but simply helped clear the plates as if shed done it a hundred times before.
The crumble was spot on, Margaret noted to herself with quiet satisfaction.
She stole a glance at Max, who was still holding the very cup Anne had used, his eyes shining with something new not the usual mischief, but a deep, quiet happiness.
Lucky you, love, she mused silently. Finally got some luck.
And in that moment she realised the luck was shared. Looking at her son now, she no longer saw the perpetual boy who could never find himself. She saw a grown man, genuinely happy.
And she was, for the first time in a long while, genuinely thrilled for him.
