Stanley Andrews, or simply Stan, had recently been appointed head of department at a prominent firm in Manchester. The promotion hadn’t come easily—years of quiet, diligent work, without flashy ambitions or sudden career leaps. He wasn’t the loudest leader, but he was reliable, and his colleagues valued that. At work, congratulations were measured; at home, it was a proper celebration.
No one was prouder than his mother—Margaret Elizabeth. Once, she had raised him alone, shuttling him between doctors, paying for tutors, scrimping on herself so Stan could go to university. And now—head of department. Her pride. She insisted he treat his colleagues to homemade pies and salads. Not shop-bought—straight from her hands.
On the day of the celebration, Stan stopped by his mother’s to collect the food. She’d already left for a doctor’s appointment but had everything prepared—neatly packed containers waiting in the fridge. Knowing he’d struggle alone, he asked Emily, a new colleague, to come along. She agreed gladly.
Emily was the sort of woman who drew eyes effortlessly. Fair-haired, with hazel eyes and long legs—men noticed her, and Stan was no exception. Colleagues whispered that she didn’t just happen to seek him out, never missing a chance to chat or slip something personal into work talk.
When they stepped into his mother’s flat, Emily remarked first:
“Your mum’s place is so cosy. Neat, homely.”
Then a little black dog came darting out, barking.
“Who’s this?” Emily recoiled, as if fearing for her tights.
“That’s Pip,” Stan said calmly, scooping up the terrier. “Don’t worry, she’s gentle.”
“Pip? Cute. Just keep her away—might scratch.”
Stan’s expression darkened, but before he could reply, a plump black cat sauntered into the kitchen, rubbing against his legs with a soft meow.
“And this is Wellington,” Stan said warmly, fetching a bit of cooked fish from the fridge. “There you go, old chap.”
He set the pieces in the cat’s bowl and crouched to watch him eat.
“Bit of a menagerie,” Emily muttered. “Your mum’s not allergic, I hope? Keeping this many pets in a one-bed flat isn’t exactly normal.”
“Are *you* allergic?” Stan asked flatly.
“Dunno. We never had pets. They’re dirty—hair everywhere. Unhygienic.”
Stan silently packed the containers into his bag, his face hardening. Emily, oblivious, lingered by the door, eyeing the animals warily.
“I’ll come by tonight, take them for a walk,” Stan said, smiling—not at her, but at Pip and Wellington. “Mum’ll scold me for overfeeding them again, but what can you do?”
“And you put up with all that? So much hassle! Walks, feeding, grooming…”
“Same as kids. Only they’re loyal. Love you for no reason.”
Emily wasn’t listening. She was already at the door, urging him:
“Come on. Lunch break’s nearly over. I’ll get the door.”
On the way back, she prattled about the new canteen menu, someone’s new outfit, office gossip. Stan nodded but barely heard. One thought echoed inside him: *What did I ever see in her?*
At the office, his colleagues waited: they gifted him a stainless steel flask—practical for work and travel. They toasted him, hugged him, praised him. After hours, they shared a glass of bubbly and sampled his mother’s food.
Emily stayed close, but Stan felt nothing. No spark, no warmth. Just emptiness.
“Could you drop me home?” she asked at the end of the evening.
“Sorry, can’t. I’ve got an important meeting.”
That “meeting” was his mother.
“Well? How’d it go?” she greeted him brightly.
“Brilliant. They loved your pies and salads. Nearly forgot about me,” he chuckled, kissing her cheek.
“And that girl you brought round? Do you like her?”
“Emily? No. I lied when I said I was seeing someone. Just wanted to put your mind at ease. Sorry.”
“Right. So if someone *does* come along—what should she be like?”
Stan thought for a moment.
“Respects you, for one. And loves our animals. They’re family.”
His mother hugged him.
“The most important thing is that she loves *you*. Then she’ll take me, Pip, and Wellington without a second thought.”
He nodded, grabbed the lead, opened the door. The dog and cat bounded ahead, and he followed, strolling with them through the evening-lit square.
Margaret Elizabeth watched from the window as her grown son ran about, tossing a stick for Pip and chatting to Wellington like an old friend. Into the gathering dark, she whispered:
“Lord, let the right one find him. Let her love him. Let us all be hers.”
