The air in the small London flat was thick with tension as William set down his newspaper, unable to focus on the article about pension reforms. The words blurred before his eyes, his mind still reeling from the conversation with Emma the night before.
Margaret entered the sitting room carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a plate of digestives. Her son didnt even glance up. She placed a cup beside his armchair and sat opposite him, studying his face with the sharp gaze of a woman who had spent sixty-four years reading people.
“Youve been quiet today,” she observed.
“Just work,” William muttered, finally pushing the paper aside. “Thanks for the tea.”
Margaret sipped hers slowly, eyes never leaving him. “William Edward,” she said firmly, using his full name as she had when he was a boy caught in mischief. “Out with it. I saw you speaking with that… Emma yesterday.”
William nearly choked. His mother always had a way of catching him off guard.
“Mum, whats that got to do with anything?”
“Dont play daft. Ive raised you for thirty-five years, did you think I wouldnt notice when somethings eating at you?” She set her cup down hard enough for it to clink. “Tell me plainlywhats on your mind?”
He stood abruptly, walking to the window. Outside, autumn had stripped the trees bare, leaving skeletal branches against the grey sky. The same hollowness gnawed at himwhether from the impending conversation or the realization that his mother already knew.
“I want to marry her,” he said without turning.
The silence stretched until William finally glanced back. His mother sat rigid, hands folded in her lap, wearing the expression shed had before every serious talk of his childhood.
“Son, dont marry a woman with nothing to her name,” she said, locking eyes with him. “Im begging you.”
The words stung more than hed expected. Not because they surprised himhed known she disapproved of Emmabut because hearing it aloud made it real.
“Mum, what does money have to do with it? I love her.”
“Love, love,” Margaret scoffed, shaking her head. “And how will you live? You earn pennies at that museum, she makes even less at the library. How will you raise children?”
“Well manage. People survive on less.”
His mother rose sharply, pulling a photo album from the sideboard. She flipped through the pages until she found the one she wanted.
“Look,” she jabbed a finger at the faded image. “Your father and me, young and in love. Know what came next?”
William knew the story. She was determined to tell it anyway.
“Council flat, one income when I had to stay home with you and your sister. Money gone by the twentieth, borrowing from neighbours, eating beans on toast for days. Remember how your father snapped at us? How the stress wore him down?”
“I remember,” William said quietly. “But times are different now.”
“Times change. People dont.” She snapped the album shut. “Poverty eats love like rust. First, its petty rows over meals. Then its resentment when she wants new shoes, and you need a coat. Eventually, you cant even bear to look at each other.”
“Emma isnt like that. She doesnt ask for much.”
“Not yet. But when she sees her friends with nice homes? When your children need school uniforms you cant afford?”
William sank back into his chair, gripping his cold tea. His mothers words burned because they were truehed lain awake worrying over the same things.
“So what? Spend my life alone?”
“Find a proper girl. Educated, with a decent job. Remember Sophie Whitaker? Works in finance now. Bright, pretty”
“Im not applying for a job, Mum. Im choosing a wife.”
“Stop being romantic,” she cut in. “At your age, you think with your head, not your heart. Romeo and Juliet were teenagers.”
William flinched. His mother always knew where to dig the knife deepest.
“So happiness only comes with money?”
“Not with money. But never without it.” She gathered the teacups. “Fine, I wont nag. Youre a grown man. But remember this when life becomes unbearable.”
Alone, Williams thoughts churned. His mothers warnings tangled with his own doubts until his phone buzzedEmma.
“Hi, love. Youve been off. Everything alright?”
“Fine,” he lied. “Just tired.”
“I saw the loveliest dress today,” she sighed. “In that boutique near Hyde Park. Blue silk, absolutely stunning. Bit dear, though…”
A cold prickle ran down his neck. Coincidence? Or proof his mother was right?
“How much?” he asked evenly.
“Three hundred quid. I know its steep, but the office partys coming up…”
Three hundred pounds. Half his monthly wage. William swallowed hard.
“Well see,” he hedged.
“Are you upset? Im not demanding it, just”
“No, its fine.”
After the call, he stared at the wall. Emma hadnt insistedjust shared a dream. But three hundred pounds could feed them for weeks. Or go toward a wedding.
The wedding. More sums: a one-bed flat in Zone 3£1,500 a month. His museum salary: £2,000. Hers: £1,800. Total: £3,800. Minus rent: £2,300. Food, transport, utilities… God forbid anyone fell ill.
At breakfast, his mother acted as if nothing had happened. But her expectant gaze said everythingshe was waiting for him to admit shed been right.
“Mum,” he asked suddenly, “how did you meet Dad?”
She raised an eyebrow. “University. Second-year engineering student, hopelessly handsome. All the girls fancied him.”
“What drew you to him?”
She stirred her coffee, thoughtful.
“Honestly? His ambition. He had plansgood career, providing for a family. That mattered.”
“And did he?”
“At first. Good job after graduation. Then the recession hit…” She set her cup down. “I didnt love him for money. But knowing he could provide? That mattered.”
William pushed his plate away. Her words settled like stones in his chest.
At work, he mumbled through tours about ancient relics while his mind fixated on modern problems.
“Blimey, youre miles away,” his colleague, Sarah, remarked.
“Just personal stuff.”
“Ah. Woman trouble.” She smirked. “You and Emma serious, then?”
“Very.” Though after last night, he wasnt sure.
“She work?”
“Library.”
Sarah whistled. “Right. Well, ever thought of switching jobs? Private galleries pay better.”
“And require fluent French and rich clients. Which I dont have.”
“Says it all, really.”
Sarah walked off, leaving William to grapple with the unspoken verdict: even his colleagues thought his future looked grim.
That evening, he met Emma in Regents Park. She spoke animatedly about new library acquisitions while he studied herthe frayed cuffs of her coat, the worn-out boots.
“Listen,” she said suddenly, “I calculated our expenses if we married.”
His stomach tightened. “And?”
“We could manage a one-bed in Croydon on our salaries. Tight, but doable. As long as were together.”
Her smile was so trusting it shamed him. Emma didnt crave luxuryshed live frugally just to be with him.
“What about children?” he asked.
“Same as everyone else manages. My mum raised me and my brother on a cleaners wage. We turned out alright.”
William recalled Emmas storieshand-me-downs, free school meals. Was that the life he wanted for his children?
“Dont you want more?” he ventured. “A house? Holidays?”
“Of course. But if we cant have them… Id rather have you.”
He walked her home in silence, her grip tight on his hand. At her door, she turned.
“Youre hiding something. What is it?”
“Mum… doesnt approve.”
Emmas face fell. “She thinks Im not good enough.”
“Its not that”
“Then what? That Im poor? That Ill drag you down?”
William couldnt answer. Because she was right.
“Lets take a break,” she said quietly. “Maybe your mothers correct.”
She disappeared inside without looking back.
Home again, his mother took one look at him and knew.
“Falling apart?” she asked, filling the kettle.
“She wants time to think.”
“Smart girl,” Margaret nodded. “Saves you the trouble.”
“Could you at least try to understand her?”
His mother turned. “William, I dont dislike her. But I want you happy. And happiness without money is a fairy tale.”
Three days passed without a word from Emma. William didnt reach out either.
On Saturday, she
