**December 12th**
I still remember the day I brought my Emily home to meet my parents. Dad, Arthur, barely said a word—sat quietly, as usual, like he wasn’t even there. Not that he had much say in things. Mum, Margaret, was the one who ran the house. Sharp as a tack, she was, with a stare that could cut glass. The moment she laid eyes on Emily, her lips pressed tight. I saw it—that flicker of disapproval.
“Short, plain, hair in braids like a schoolgirl,” I could almost hear her thinking. “What does he see in her? Take Rebecca’s Sarah—now there’s a proper girl. Tall, confident, parents with a proper business. But this one? Quiet, no family to speak of…”
Mum dismissed Emily straight off. Not good enough for her son. But I wasn’t having it. I loved Emily. So when Mum started yammering on about Sarah, I shut it down. “We’re getting married, Mum. Emily’s the one. End of.”
We kept the wedding simple—Emily’s idea. No fuss. Mum was fuming inside. “My only son, throwing himself away on some nobody,” she must’ve thought. But I stood by Emily. No backing down.
At first, we lived with my parents. Didn’t last long. Mum’s jabs wore thin—”Can’t cook, can’t clean, doesn’t look after you properly.” I found us a flat, even if money was tight. Said I’d do it, so I did.
Times were hard. I started building us a proper house while Emily studied at university. Took everything I had. But I kept telling myself, “I’m the man. I’ll manage.”
When Emily graduated top of her class, she ran to Mum, glowing. Wanted to share the joy—maybe bridge the gap. All she got was a scoff. “Run my son into the ground, you have. If he’d married Sarah, he’d be set for life.”
Emily walked out before the tears could fall. Never complained to me, though. Never had the habit.
Her own mother had been kind but weak—drank too much. Dad left when she was small, couldn’t take it. Tried taking Emily with him, but she cried for her mum. So back she went. Grew up on bits and scraps, her mother sober one week, gone the next.
She met me at a school reunion. I believed in her. Pushed her to study, stood by her. She followed me into this life.
Emily became a teacher, then deputy head. We had two boys—Oliver and George. Funny thing—Mum doted on the grandsons. Babysat, visited, loved them silly. But with Emily? Still ice. “Hello. Goodbye.” That was it.
The boys grew, went off to military academy, stayed on after. House felt empty. Then Dad passed. Mum was alone. Never once came to Emily.
Then came Emily’s forty-fifth. Big party, friends, lads with their girlfriends. Even Mum turned up—sat in the corner, apart from everyone. Then Emily went pale, dizzy. Next day, the doctor said—pregnant. At her age. First thing she told me? “I don’t know what to do.”
I was quiet a long time. Then, soft: “We’re too old for this, Em. People’ll laugh. Not the time.”
She didn’t argue, but something in her closed up.
She went to Mum. Her own mother long gone. Knew she’d get an earful. Maybe that’d make the decision easier—just end it.
But Mum didn’t shout. She cried. Told Emily how I was born early, sickly thing, how she stayed up night after night fearing I wouldn’t make it. Emily listened. Then—first time ever—she hugged her. Cried too. Told her about the hunger, the drunken nights, her mother collapsed on the floor. They sat there, two grown women, weeping like girls.
Emily left still unsure.
That evening—knock at the door. Mum. Uninvited. “Not here for you, William. Here for my Emily.”
“My Emily.” First time she’d ever called her that. Emily’s eyes welled up.
Mum sat, drank her tea. “Don’t you dare get rid of that baby, hear me? Have it. We’ll raise it. Together. It’s a blessing. The rest doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to William myself.”
So we did.
Little Alice came—dark curls, long lashes, proper beauty. From the hospital, it was me and Mum who fetched them. She moved closer after that. Spent every day doting on that baby, grinning like it was Christmas. Became Emily’s best friend, somehow. Chatting, laughing—like they’d always been close.
Funny thing. After all those years, Emily finally got a mother. Not by blood—but more hers than anyone.
**Lesson learned:** Love takes its own time. And sometimes, the family you find is the one you needed all along.
