Long ago, in a quiet corner of London, William sat hunched over his morning paper, struggling to focus on the article about pension reforms. The lines blurred before his eyeshis mind still churning from yesterday’s conversation with Emily.
Margaret entered the parlour carrying a tray with two china cups and a plate of digestive biscuits. Her son didnt look up. She set his tea beside his armchair and settled across from him, studying him with that piercing gaze that had unsettled him since childhood. At sixty-four, she carried herself with the stiff-backed dignity of a woman who had spent a lifetime facing hard truths.
“Youve been quiet this morning,” she remarked.
“Just work,” William muttered, finally setting the paper aside. “Thanks for the tea.”
Margaret sipped her own, eyes never leaving him.
“William Edward,” she said sharply, using his full name as she had when he was a boy caught in mischief, “enough dodging. I saw you speaking with thatwhats her nameEmily by the front steps yesterday.”
William choked on his tea. His mother had always known how to catch him unawares.
“Mum, whats Emily got to do with anything?”
“Do you think Ive raised you forty years without knowing when somethings weighing on you?” She set her cup down with a sharp clink. “Out with it. Whats on your mind?”
He stood and walked to the window. Late autumn had stripped the trees bare, matching the hollowness in his chestwhether from the impending conversation or the knowledge that his mother had already guessed his intentions, he couldnt say.
“I want to marry her,” he said without turning.
The silence stretched so long he finally looked back. His mother sat ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, wearing that familiar expressionthe one that always preceded a serious talk.
“Son,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely, “dont marry a penniless girl. Im begging you.”
The words stung more than hed expected. Not because they surprised himhed known his mother disapproved of Emilybut because hearing them aloud made them real.
“Mum, whats money got to do with it? I love her.”
“Love, love,” she sighed, shaking her head. “How will you live? You earn next to nothing at that museum, and she makes even less at the library. What of children?”
“Well manage. People get by on less.”
Margaret stood abruptly, fetched a photo album from the cabinet, and flipped to a well-worn page.
“Look,” she said, jabbing a finger at the image. “Your father and me, young and in love. Know what came next?”
William knew the story but let her continue.
“We lived in a bedsit on your fathers wages alone. I couldnt workyou were small, then your sister came. Money ran out by the twentieth of the month. We borrowed from neighbours, ate potatoes and carrots for days on end. Remember how your father snapped at us? The strain?”
“I remember,” William said softly. “But times are different now.”
“Times change. People dont.” She shut the album heavily. “Poverty eats away at love like rust. First, you bicker over trifleshe wants meat, but theres only pasta. Then its bigger thingsshe needs a dress, he needs shoes. Soon enough, you cant stand the sight of one another.”
“Emily isnt like that. She doesnt ask for luxuries.”
“Not yet. But when she sees her friends with nice things? When children come and theres nothing to dress them in?”
William sank back into his chair, gripping his cold tea. Her words cut deep because they held truth. Hed lain awake thinking the same.
“What do you suggest? Stay single forever?”
“Find a proper girl. Educated, with decent work. Remember Sarah Whitmore? Works at the bank now, earns well. Clever, too.”
“Mum, Im not applying for a job. This is marriage.”
“Stop romanticising,” she snapped. “At thirty-five, its time to think with your head, not your heart. Romeo and Juliet is for children.”
William winced. She always knew where to strike.
“So happiness only comes with money?”
“Not with it, but never without it.” She gathered the teacups. “Fine, I wont press. Youre a grown man. But mark my wordsyoull remember this when hardship comes.”
Left alone, William found no peace. Her warnings gnawed at him. He reached for his phone to call Emily but stopped. What would he say? That his mother opposed them?
That evening, Emily rang instead.
“Hello, how are you? You seemed off yesterday.”
“Just tired,” he lied.
“I saw the loveliest dress today,” she said, her voice dreamy. “In that boutique near Hyde Park. Blue silk, absolutely gorgeous. A bit dear, though…”
Something twisted in his chest. Coincidence? Or proof his mother was rightwas Emily already hinting at expense?
“How much?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Three hundred pounds. I know its steep, but its perfect for the office gala…”
Half his monthly wage. William swallowed hard.
“Well see,” he said vaguely.
“Youre upset,” she murmured. “Im not demanding it, just sharing…”
“Its fine. Just distracted.”
After hanging up, he sat staring at the wall. Emily hadnt insistedshed only shared a wish. But three hundred pounds… That could feed them for weeks. Or go toward a wedding.
Wedding calculations spiralled. A flat in Londonat least eight hundred a month. His museum salary: twelve hundred. Hers, nine-fifty. Two thousand fifteen total. Minus rent left twelve-fifteen. Food, travel, clothes, emergencies…
At breakfast the next morning, his mother acted as if nothing had happenedserved porridge, sipped coffee, asked after his day. But her watchful gaze told him she was waiting. Waiting for him to realise shed been right.
“Mum, how did you and Dad meet?” he asked suddenly.
She raised an eyebrow. “University. He was in his second year, I in my first. Handsome, clever. All the girls fancied him.”
“What drew you to him?”
She stirred her coffee, thoughtful.
“Truthfully? His looks first. Then his seriousnessunlike the other lads. He had grand plansengineering, good wages, providing for a family.”
“And did he?”
“At first. Landed a fine position after graduation. Then the factory closed, recession hit…” She set her cup down. “I didnt love him for money. But knowing he could provide mattered. A woman needs security, especially with children.”
“Would you have married him if hed been poor from the start?”
“I dont know,” she admitted. “At twenty, love seems enough. By forty, you know better.”
William finished his porridge in silence. Her words settled heavily, undeniable.
At work, he couldnt focus. Guiding tours through ancient relics while his thoughts circled modern woes. His colleague, Margaret, noticed.
“Whats got into you, Will? Youre miles away.”
“Personal matters.”
“Ah. Woman troubles,” she smirked. “You and Emily getting serious?”
“We are,” he said, though his certainty had frayed.
“She doesnt work?”
“At the library.”
“Ah.” Margaret nodded knowingly. “Not much there, then. Ever thought of moving to a private museum? Better pay.”
“They want languages, experience with wealthy patrons…”
“Right. Of course.”
She walked off, leaving William to wrestle with the unspoken verdict: even his colleagues saw his future as precarious.
That evening, he met Emily. She chatted brightly about new library acquisitions while he studied her. Lovely, yesdark hair, grey eyes, delicate features. But her clothes were worn. Jeans years old, a jumper fraying at the cuffs.
“You know,” she said suddenly, “I calculated what wed need if we married.”
William tensed.
“And?”
“A one-bed flat on the outskirtswe could manage. Tight, but wed be together.”
Her trusting smile made him ashamed of his doubts. Emily asked for nothing extravagant. Shed live modestly just to be with him.
“What about children?” he asked. “How would we raise them on so little?”
“Like everyone does,” she shrugged. “Mum raised my brother and me on a nurses wages. We turned out fine.”
He remembered her storiescouncil housing, second-hand clothes, the library as her only escape. Was that the life he wanted for his own children?
“Dont you want more?” he ventured. “A home of our own, holidays?”
“Of course,” she said softly. “But if it doesnt happenso long as were together.”
Walking her home, he was silent. Emily clung to his hand until, at her door, she turned to him.
“Youre hiding something. What is it?”
“Nothing. Onlymy mothers against
