Mum At just twenty-four, Cyril married Tatiana, who was twenty-two—the only and much-loved daughter of a retired schoolteacher and university professor. Almost immediately, they welcomed two sons, one after the other, and later a daughter. Tatiana’s mother, Mrs. Natalie Anthony, retired and devoted herself to her grandchildren. Cyril called her only by her full name—Natalie Anthony—while she maintained a formal distance, always addressing him as “Cyril” and never on first-name terms. There were no rows, but Cyril always felt a chill in the air around her. Still, credit where it’s due—she never interfered in their marriage, always spoke with measured respect, and stayed strictly neutral about any issues between him and Tatiana. A month ago, the company where Cyril worked went bust and he was made redundant. Over dinner, Tatiana remarked, “We can’t live off mum’s pension and my salary for long, Cyril. You need to find a job.” Easier said than done; thirty days of job hunting and no luck. Irritated, Cyril kicked an empty beer can out of his way. Thankfully, his mother-in-law kept her silence, though her glances were pointed. Before they married, Cyril had once overheard a conversation between Tatiana and her mum: “Tanya, are you sure this is the man you want to spend your life with?” “Yes, mum, of course!” “I don’t think you understand the responsibility… If only your father were still here…” “Mum, stop! We love each other; it’ll be fine!” “But when children come? Will he provide?” “He will, mum!” “It’s not too late to change your mind, Tanya, to really think—his family…” “Mum, I love him!” “Just don’t come to regret it, that’s all!” Now, it seemed, regret was exactly what was in store, Cyril thought wryly—his mother-in-law had foretold it. He dreaded going home. He imagined his wife’s encouragement as insincere, his mother-in-law’s sighs heavy with unspoken criticism, and his children asking with a smirk, “Dad, did you find a job yet?” He couldn’t face it. He wandered along the Thames Embankment, sat quietly in a park, and finally, near midnight, decided to visit the country cottage where his family stayed from May until autumn. A single light shone from Mrs. Natalie Anthony’s bedroom window. Quietly, Cyril crept along the garden path. The curtain twitched and, startled, he sat abruptly on a stump. His mother-in-law peered out. “Tatiana, have you called Cyril? He’s been gone a while.” “Yes, Mum, his phone’s off again. Probably sulking somewhere because he can’t find work.” Her mother’s voice turned icy: “Don’t use that tone about your children’s father!” “Oh come on, mum—he’s doing nothing but moping, I’m carrying the load while he sits at home!” For the first time in six years, Cyril heard his mother-in-law bang the table and raise her voice: “Don’t you ever talk about your husband like that! What did you promise at the altar? In sickness and in hardship—you’re meant to stand by him!” Tatiana muttered an apology, and her mother, weary, told her to get some sleep. Alone in the dark room, Mrs. Natalie Anthony paced, drew back the curtain, peered into the night—and lifting her gaze heavenward, made the sign of the cross: “Lord, most merciful and compassionate, protect the father of my grandchildren, my daughter’s husband. Don’t let him lose faith in himself. Please, Lord, help my son.” She crossed herself again and again, whispering prayers, tears streaming silently down her face. A heat welled up in Cyril’s chest. No one had ever prayed for him before—not his strict, work-focused mother nor his absent father, gone since he was five. He’d grown up in nurseries, after-school clubs, school, and was expected to provide for himself from the moment he went to university. No sympathy, just expectations. He remembered how his mother-in-law woke before anyone else, baking his favourite pies, brewing delicious soups, making dumplings and jams, tending the garden, and always looking after the house and the kids—yet he’d taken it all for granted. He recalled an evening watching a travel programme about Australia; Mrs. Natalie Anthony had mentioned it was her dream to visit, but Cyril had joked she’d never get past airport security in her icy armour. He sat beneath her window for a long time, head in his hands. In the morning, he went down with his wife to breakfast on the porch—pies, jam, tea, milk on the table, the kids beaming with joy. Looking up, Cyril softly said, “Good morning, Mum.” Mrs. Natalie Anthony started, then, after a pause, replied, “Good morning, Cyril.” Two weeks later, Cyril found work. And within the year, despite her protests, he sent Mrs. Natalie Anthony on a holiday to her beloved Australia.

Mum

William married at twenty-four. His wife, Emily, was twenty-two. She was the only and much-awaited child of a retired Oxford professor and a grammar school teacher. The boystheir two sonscame in quick succession, followed by a daughter not long after.

Emilys mother, Margaret Cooper, had recently retired and dedicated herself to helping with the grandchildren.

William and Margaret had an odd relationship. He always addressed her formally as Mrs. Cooper, and she would respond with a curt Mr. Barton,” never deviating from full names. There was no open conflict, but whenever she entered the room, a chill seemed to sweep in with her. Still, to be fair, Margaret never confronted William or meddled in their marriage. She remained unwaveringly polite and chose a strict neutrality between husband and wife.

A month ago, the small London company William worked for went under and he was let go. That evening, as they sat at dinner, Emily admitted quietly:

We wont last long on just Mums pension and my salary, Will. You need to find something.

Easier said than donehed traipsed around, CV in hand, for thirty days, and got nowhere.

In a moment of frustration, William kicked an empty can of ale down the road. Thank goodness Margaret hadnt said anything, though her glances were loaded with meaning.

He remembered, just before the wedding, overhearing a conversation between Emily and her mother:

Em, are you sure hes the one you want to spend your life with?

Yes, Mum, of course.

Im not sure you realise the responsibility. If only your father were still here

Mum, enough! We love each other, well be fine.

And if children come? Will he be able to provide?

He will, Mum.

Its not too late, Emily, to pause and reconsider. His family

Mum, I love him!

Just be sure you wont regret this!

Seems that times come around, William thought with a rueful smile. Margaret had warned her.

He didnt want to go home. It felt like Emily consoled him only out of duty, murmuring, Its alright, love, something will come up tomorrow. Margaret sighed accusingly in silence, and the children, with mischief in their voices, would ask, Dad, any luck finding work? He couldnt face it another night.

He wandered along the Thames, sat in a quiet park, and as night drew in, caught a train out to the countryside, where the family had a little cottage for spring and summer. As he crept up the path, he saw one light onMargarets bedroom window. Cautiously, William paused, crouching on a stump in the shadows.

He heard voices through the open window:

Wills been a long time, Emily. Did you try to ring him?

I did, Mum. Hes out of range again. Probably still job-hunting, who knows where.

Then Margarets voice, colder than a November morning: Emily, dont you dare speak like that about the father of your children!

Oh, Mum, really? I just feel Wills not even trying. Hes been home for a month, living off my wages!

For the first time in six years, William heard Margaret slam her fist down on the table and snap:

Dont you dare! Dont ever talk about your husband like that! What did you promise in church for better or worse, in sickness and sadness? Youre meant to support him!

Emily mumbled, Sorry, Mum. Please dont worry, Im just tired, really. Sorry, love.

Alright, off to bed with you, Margaret dismissed her with a weary wave.

The house grew quiet. Margaret paced the room for a while, then pushed back the curtain, squinting into the darkness. Suddenly, she gazed up at the sky, and made the sign of the cross, barely whispering:

Dear Lord, merciful and loving, protect the father of my grandchildren, keep my daughters husband safe. Please dont let him lose faith in himselfhelp him, Lord, help my dear boy.

A string of tearful prayers followed, her hands trembling.

A wave of warmth, laden with sorrow and gratitude, flooded William. No one had ever prayed for him before. Not his own mothera stern, iron-willed woman who spent her days in the local Labour Party office, expecting William to fend for himself from the moment he could walk. His father, a fuzzy memory, had disappeared when William was five. His childhood was shuffled off to nurseries, after-school clubs, then straight into college and a part-time job. Hed always had to cope alone.

But now, choking back unexpected tears, William recalled the mornings when Margaret woke early to bake his favourite scones, cook hearty stews, and prepare Sunday roasts he devoured with relish. She tended the children, kept the house immaculate, grew strawberries and runner beans in the garden, made pots of jam and perfect pickled onions for winter. Shed done it all, quietly and without complaint.

Why had he never truly noticed? Never once offered her his thanks? He and Emily worked and raised kids, assuming it was all simply as it should be. Or was that just him, blind to kindness? He remembered the night they all watched a documentary on Australia and Margaret had quietly confessed shed dreamt of going there her whole life. William had simply joked, saying shed melt in that heat and the Aussies would send her back, frozen and English as ever

He sat hunched beneath the window a long time, his head in his hands.

In the morning, William joined Emily for breakfast on the veranda. The table was full: scones, marmalade, hot tea, fresh milk. The childrens faces glowed with delight. William looked up and softly said:

Good morning, Mum.

Margaret startled, and after a pause, replied, equally softly, Good morning, Will.

Two weeks later, William landed a new job, and a year on, sent Margaret on a holiday to Australiadespite her teary protests.