28October2025
Ive always prided myself on being a pragmatic woman. My whole career has been in accounts, not just tallying money but keeping a ledger of my own choices. Nothing superfluous, nothing rash. Even the divorce from my husband twenty years ago was handled without drama I simply filed the papers when it became clear his drinking would never cease.
The only thing that ever unsettled my equilibrium was my son, William.
Hes my complete opposite. As a child he was the dreamy type, sketching pirates in the margins of his school notebooks. As a teenager he turned poet, scribbling verses at three in the morning. Now, at thirtyfive, he still cant seem to pin himself down, as if forever chasing something I call running from responsibility. He hops from job to job, never staying longer than a month or six weeks.
Mother, you dont get it, hed say, gesturing wildly. I cant just sit in one office for thirty years like you did!
Im not stuck, Id reply coldly. I built a career.
Hed just roll his eyes.
Every conversation spirals into an argument. Im stubborn, rational, with a clear plan. Hes airy, impulsive, living in the moment.
You still live at home because you cant afford a flat! Id chide.
But I get to travel!
On what money?
On whatever I scrape together, plus what you hand over to me, hed grin, and my irritation would only deepen.
I tried to fix him: nudging him toward respectable jobs, booking appointments with counsellors, even threatening to cut him out of my will. Yet William remained William carefree, impractical and hopelessly beloved.
Because, despite everything, when he bursts into the kitchen with that fire in his eyes and starts rattling off his newest schemes, I catch myself thinking:
My God, hes exactly who I was at that age
That very youth I buried beneath debts and duties. It drives me mad.
This morning William practically barreled through the front door, slamming it so hard the papers on the sideboard fluttered like startled birds. I almost knocked over the mug of tea I was about to sip.
Mum! he panted, halting in the middle of the room, breathless as if hed sprinted across London. His eyes shone, reflecting not the sunlight through the window but something far brighter, more elusive.
I set the mug down deliberately, squinting. I recognised that look the last time I saw it was when he was sixteen, racing home with news of his acceptance into an art college.
Ive met her, he announced, his words sounding like a solemn oath.
Whos her? I asked, already guessing from his restless posture.
The one, he ran a hand through his hair, leaving it messier than usual. A smile tugged at his lips, the kind he tries to hold back.
I crossed my arms, already aware of the script this was the third time in two years.
Another artist? I inquired, keeping my voice even. Or, heaven forbid, a poet? Last time I was fed up with your creative types.
He laughed, a bright, genuine chuckle that reminded me of the evenings Id tickle him before bedtime.
No! he exclaimed, stepping forward. Shes a doctor. A therapist. She works at the community health centre.
He declared it with the pride of someone announcing a Nobel prize. I lowered my glasses, wiping them with the edge of my apron.
Whats so special about her? I asked, already sensing seriousness.
Everything, he whispered, and that single word carried such reverence that I couldnt help but raise an eyebrow.
He could not put it into the tidy categories I was waiting for education, title, prospects. He simply stood there, his face lit from within.
Yesterday, he began, when I went to collect a referral for the swimming pool, she looked at me
He fell silent, his lower lip quivering.
And I realisedshes the one.
He continued, Mum, we met today at the café on the corner!
I placed the mug on the table. So how did your date go?
She he paused, searching for words. She turned out to be utterly ordinary and yet extraordinary.
Extraordinary? I raised an eyebrow. What makes her extraordinary?
He thought a beat, then his face softened.
You see, Mum, with her it feels like being with an old friend. No tension, no games. We just chatted about nonsense how she cant stand clementines with seeds, and I cant bear pulp in my juice.
He laughed, recalling, At one point I realized Id been talking for half an hour about our old cottage and how, as a kid, I feared the frogs in the pond. She didnt yawn, didnt stare at her phone she really listened.
I couldnt help but smile. Thats a rarity these days.
The strangest thing, he 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 paced the kitchen, gesturing animatedly. Then we left the café and you wont believe it! She suggested we walk home even though it was dusk and drizzle was starting. She said, I love the smell of wet pavement.
I glanced at his damp trainers by the door. So thats why your shoes are soggy? Thought youd slipped in a puddle.
We walked for two hours! he spread his arms. We talked, we laughed
He fell quiet, watching the rain streak down the window. And you know what the most surprising part was? When I saw her off at her flat, she just said, Thanks for a wonderful evening and left. No maybe someday, no games.
I poured another cup of tea for him. Well, it sounds like youve finally met a woman worth your time. Just remember, if you catch a cold walking in that rain, Ill be the one nursing you back to health, not her. Understood?
He beamed, reaching for a biscuit, but I gave his hand a light tap. First change into dry clothes! And wash your hands!
He made a pouting face, then obediently headed for the bathroom. A minute later he returned, wrapped in a dry sweater, drying his hands on a towel.
Mum, could I invite her over on Sunday? he asked, hopeful.
I pretended to frown. If youre so determined Just tell her Im not planning a formal reception. Let her come as if she were coming to my home.
Thank you! he nearly jumped for joy. She says she loves simple home cooking.
Good, so youve already covered the culinary preferences, I mused, smiling. Ill bake your favourite apple crumble then.
Youre the best! he shouted, pulling me into a quick hug.
He reached for another biscuit, and this time I let him have it.
Watching him chew contentedly, I realised I hadnt seen him look so genuinely alive in ages.
By the way, I asked unexpectedly, whats her name, your therapist?
He froze midbite, eyes widening. Mum, you wont believe it Her name is Eleanor. She insists I call her Ellie.
I stared, cup still in hand, my eyebrows climbing. Eleanor? As in me?
Seems fate has a sense of humour, he said, grinning.
I set the cup in the sink and turned to him. When is she arriving? Sunday afternoon?
Yes, if thats alright He bounced on his chair. Mum, you wont interrogate her about career prospects or bank balances like last time, will you?
I snorted. Oh, stop. If shes managed to put up with your wet socks and frog stories, Ill at least try to be civil.
I fetched the recipe notebook from the cupboard. Just tell her I havent cooked for guests in five years. If the crumble fails, the blames on you.
He smirked, Dont worry. She likes things imperfect. She says it makes people alive.
Sunday morning. By noon the kitchen held a perfect apple crumble golden crust, a whisper of cinnamon, apple slices laid in neat rows. I, in a crisp white apron and hair neatly pinned, set the table in the sitting room.
Relax, Mum, William said, arranging plates.
No relax, I replied. If youre doing it, do it properly.
The clock struck half past one and the doorbell rang.
Ellie stood in the doorway in a simple yet elegant dress, clutching a modest bouquet of chrysanthemums and a bottle of good red wine.
Good afternoon, MrsWhitaker. Thank you for having me, she said.
Please, come in, I nodded, noting her wellkept manicure, the lack of overpowering perfume, and how she slipped off her shoes without a fuss.
The conversation flowed easily, light but comfortable. Ellie didnt pepper us with intrusive questions, nor did she cling like a mouse. When I served the crumble, she lifted a fork, took a bite, and said, Marvelous the balance of tart and sweet is spot on.
Thank you, I replied, softening a little. Its an old family recipe.
It shows, she smiled, you can tell theres heart in it.
William glowed, but held back from hogging the limelight.
After tea, Ellie rose and began gathering the dishes.
No, no, you dont have to! I stepped forward.
Please, let me help with the kitchen, she said gently, insisting.
I raised an eyebrow, but didnt argue.
When she left, I wiped the already immaculate table and said briefly, Not bad.
William froze, cup in hand. Is that a compliment?
Its a fact, I placed the napkin back. Invite her again sometime.
Turning to the window, I caught myself smiling softly.
Well, its finally happened, I thought, feeling an odd warmth in my chest.
Not a pretentious artist, not a fleeting poetess, but a doctor steady hands, calm gaze. Someone who didnt pretend to be a guest but simply began clearing the plates as if shed been here countless times.
The crumble was judged fairly, I noted to myself with satisfaction.
I stole a glance at William. He clutched the same cup Ellie had used, his eyes alight with something new not the usual mischievous spark, but a quiet, deep contentment.
Youre lucky, love, I whispered in my mind. At long last.
And then it struck me: this luck was mine too. Looking at him now, I no longer saw the perpetual boy who would never find himself. I saw a grown man, genuinely happy. And that made me, too, remarkably happy.
