The Second Mistress

Lauren, did you bolt the door again? called my husband from the hall, and even in those few words, there was something faintly apologetic.

I was standing at the stove, gently stirring the soup, and I didnt turn round at once.

Yes, I bolted it, I replied. We agreed, remember?

But Mum she only wanted to drop off a pie. She had to wait on the stairs.

How long did she wait?

Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

Now I turned. Andrew stood in the doorway, his coat still on, a plate in his hands covered with cling film. Apple pie, judging by the sweet smell.

Andrew, I said, very quietly and carefully, so much so that he immediately tensed. We talked about this on Sunday. You said youd speak to her. That she would phone first.

I did speak to her. She did call. You didnt pick up.

I was in the bath.

So what now, should she have turned back and gone home?

I took the plate from him and set it on the table. There was a short silence. Outside the window, it was already darkNovember, five in the evening, and the city night had settled heavy and black.

No, I said at last, she shouldnt have turned back. But she shouldnt come in when were not home, either.

Shes not a stranger.

I know shes not.

It always ended here. Not a stranger. That was the shield that broke every explanation, every but, every still. Not a stranger, and that was the end of it.

Lauren Thornley, née Simmons, had lived with Andrew for seven years. We met when I was twenty-eight and he was thirty-one. I worked as an accountant in a small construction firm, and he, an architect, dropped by for a project consultation and ended up staying. First for an hour, then for an evening, and thenso we thought in those daysfor good.

We lived together in a three-bedroom flat on Albion Road in Oxford, third floor, windows overlooking the courtyard. Wed bought it together, with a mortgage, five years before. That was important: *our* flat, shared debt and shared joy at the first sofa, which wed chosen together, arguing light-heartedly for three weekends.

Andrews mother, Margaret Thornley, lived two streets overa brisk fifteen-minute walk. Once, that distance had seemed convenient; now, at times, it felt a little too close.

Margaret was a widow. Her husband had died eight years before, and Andrew was her only son. Three years she had cared for her husband through his illness, and that left something in hera nervous tension, unwilling to let go of what was precious. I knew all this, understood it in my mind.

Margaret was given a key to our flat in our second year of marriage. It felt only practical then. Just in case, Andrew had said, and Id nodded. Anything might happen; what if we were both at work?

For a year, that key lay untouched. Then Margaret started to pop in, at first when we were delayed, to water the flowers for us. Then, when I was unwell, she brought broth and tidied up. Then, she simply came by because she was near, because she could.

I remember the moment when that stopped feeling like care, and became something else. Andrew and I had squabblednothing serious, I cant even recall why. I was in the kitchen, crying quietly, when the lock clicked. Margaret entered with a shopping bag, stopped in the doorway when she saw me.

Whats wrong? she asked.

And I realised I couldnt reply. Not because I didnt know what to say, but because it was my kitchen, my tears, and no one was invited to witness them.

I wiped my face, got to my feet, murmured that I was fine. Margaret didnt believe me; she stayed, made tea, gently prodding with questions. She meant nothing badshe only wanted to helpbut I sat there, feeling something nameless at the time. Later, I learned the words for it: personal boundaries. It was just a sense, back then, that there was someone extra in my home, right when I most needed solitude.

After that business with the pie, Andrew and I didnt have a real conversation. We ate in silence. The pie was good; I made a mental note of that, annoyed with myself. A good pie didnt make the situation any different.

That night, I lay awake listening to Andrews breathing. Hed fallen asleep within moments; he always could, just slip away into dreams. I couldnt. I lay turning the conversation in my head: the bolt, the phone call, the key, the pie. Pie and key, call and bolt. Each time, Andrew stood in the middle, guilty-faced, carrying something in his hands.

I realised the problem wasnt Margaret at all; she had always been like this, and wasnt about to change. The problem was that Andrew and I still hadnt set out what our home should be: what was allowed, and what was not. Who could come, and when. Simple things, but only at a glance. Behind them stood something heavierwho is the master here? Not in the sense of owning, but deciding. Who is responsible for this small world, these three rooms, this kitchen with its courtyard view?

Seven years we lived well, honestly well, not just for friends to admire. We had something real, something warm. We talked, laughed, argued about films and bathroom wallpaper. But all thisthis issueI deferred endlessly, like people defer a GP visit for a pain that nags but doesnt cripple. Such family troubles dont resolve themselves. I knew it. But knowing and doing are different lengths of road.

The next day, I rang my friend Monica. Wed been close since university; she lived in London. We saw each other once a year but spoke often.

Go on, she said the moment she heard my voiceshe always knew.

I told her everything: the key, the bolt, the pie, the Sunday talk that changed nothing.

And Andrew? asked Monica.

He wants everyone happy. Me not upset, his mother not cross. He cant see that its just not possibleits not about hurt feelings at all.

Then what is it about?

I paused.

I want my home to be my home. That when I return from work and shut the door, its really closed.

Have you said that to her?

To Margaret? No. Andrew and I spoke about it. He spoke to her. She promised to call, and does, but if nobody answers, she lets herself in all the same.

Lauren, Monica said gently, you need that key back.

I know.

So why not?

Because Andrew will say its an insult. That we dont trust her. That shell be hurt.

But youre hurt. So what?

That was a good question. I didnt answer straightaway.

Im not really hurt, I replied. Just tired.

Afterwards, I sat for ages holding my phone. Then I left the house, just to get a breath of air, walking down the November streets where the trees were stripped of leaves, not yet dusted with snowjust naked branches against a flat grey sky, which calmed me rather than weighted me down.

I thought about how this looked from the outside. An elderly woman, alone, brings a pie to her son. Waters plants. Cleans up. Whats wrong with that? Nothing. Which made it all the harder to explain. It was impossible to pinpoint the exact moment when it became not right. Everything, separately, was fine, yet together it was not.

I remembered coming home once to find that Margaret had rearranged the books on my office shelf. Beautifully, by height, spines perfectly aligned. The books were minesome Id read back in university. I had my own order, which made sense only to me: next to Dickens, the tax code, because Id read them during the same life chapter. Now Dickens was with Dickens, the manuals together, neat, logicaland not mine anymore.

Margaret meant well. That made it harder.

Three days later, Andrew came home and said, Lauren, Mum phoned. Shes worried youre cross with her.

Im not, I replied.

She says she feels unwelcome.

I put down my phone.

Andrew, I want to talk. Not nowIm tired and hungry. After supper. Can we, properly, without anyone being upset? Just talk.

He gave me that guarded look I knew so welllike a man picking his way across ice, unsure whether itd take his weight.

All right, he said.

After supper we sat together on the sofano phones, no telly. Just side by side. I started. I was careful, deliberate. Not blaming, just explaining. How I felt when I discovered someone had been in our home without us knowing. Not as if anything bad had happenedjust that sense that your space was slightly changed. That it was no longer entirely yours.

Do you get what I mean? I asked.

Honestly? said Andrew. Not really. Mum always tidied up and cooked when I was growing up. For me, its just normal.

I know. You grew up with that. I grew up differently. In our house, anyoneeven familyrang first. Always.

He thought a moment.

Thats not better or worse, Andrew. Its just different. And I need you to accept itnot necessarily agree, but accept it as fact.

So what do you want to do? he asked.

I want to ask Margaret to give back her key.

Silence. Not angry. Just heavy.

Shell be upset, he said quietly.

Maybe so. But it still needs to be done.

Lauren, you know its not out of ill will.

Andrew, I said, meeting his eye, I know. Im not saying shes done wrong. Im saying we need rules. As every healthy relationship does. Not because of trust, but because rules are respect. For us and for her.

He regarded me, wrestling with himself and the old habits that declared, Mum can never be the problemmum is safe, mum is right.

Let me think, he said.

All right.

I didnt press. That was importantI kept reminding myself over the next days not to rush. Whenever I wanted to ask, Well, have you decided? I replayed the conversation instead, finding new arguments and discarding old ones.

Margaret phoned herself on Friday evening; Id just got in from work.

Its me, Lauren. Hope Im not interrupting?

No, Margaret, Ive only just come in.

I hear youre cross with me.

Im not.

Andrew said you spoke. That you want my key back.

So hed already discussed it. Without me. I felt a twingea little misgivingbut then decided it was for the best.

Margaret, can we meet? Not on the phone. In person.

Pause.

When?

Sunday, if you like. Here, if that suits you.

All right, she said, and there was something in her voicenot quite hurt, not acceptance. Something in between. Caution, maybe. Or readiness.

Sunday was quiet and grey. Margaret arrived at noon, having rung first as agreed. Andrew opened the door and they hugged, familiar, warmly.

Margaret, a sturdy woman with short grey hair and lively eyes, was sixty-four. She looked her age but wore it with a solid dignity. Even when things were hard, she kept her back straightand I had always admired that, even when I was angry with her.

We sat in the kitchen. I made tea and sliced a shop-bought pienot apple this time. Margaret noticed, but said nothing.

Margaret, I began when the pause between us stretched too long, I want to speak honestly. Not to hurt, but because I think weve been skirting this for too long, and its no good for any of us.

Go on, she said, brisk and businesslike.

I need our home to feel like ours. For Andrew and me. For us to know exactly who comes and when. It doesnt mean youre not wanted. You are. But it should happen with our knowledge.

Margaret cradled her cup, staring into it.

Im in the way, she saidnot a question, but a statement.

No, I replied, youre not in the way. But sometimes you come when were just not expecting anyone. And its hard for me to explain how important that is, since you never do anything wrong. You clean, you cook. But its our home. Do you see?

She met my gaze.

Seven years Ive visited, and it was always fine. Now, suddenly, its not.

Its not sudden, I replied, we just never discussed it before.

Why not?

A fair question. I took a moment.

Because it felt awkward. Because I didnt want to offend you. I always thoughtnext time Ill say it. And then next time came.

Andrew was silent. I could feel his discomfort, his urge to say something and not knowing what.

Mum, he said eventually, Laurens right. We should have spoken to you sooner. Thats on us too.

Margaret looked long at him.

You want my key back too?

He didnt look away. Yes.

Something shifted in her facea resignation perhaps, or a quiet letting gobut not anger.

All right, said Margaret. She paused. I know youre grown up. Youve got your own life. She took a sip of tea. But try to see it my way, Andrew: when I come round, Im not just popping into a flatIm coming to see *you*. Understand the difference?

I do, Mum.

No, you dont. She held her tone, calm but hard. When you were small, off youd go out the door, and Id stand at the window. Not because I didnt trust you, just because thats how it is. Love means waiting at the window. Then you grew, marriedmy window changed. Now I walk two streets and bring a pie just to see if youve eaten. Daft, I know.

Its not daft, said Andrew.

I dont want to interfere. Now, she faced us both. I just dont know any different. I was brought up that wayno one ever told me it might not be right.

Its not wrong, I said. Its just different. Every family has its own rules. We just need to agree on ours.

Margaret put down her cup.

What rules?

In that moment, the conversation turned. Not defence, not explanationsomething more real.

Please always ring first, I said. Even if youre sure were home. Even if youre bringing a pie. Just ring and ask if its all right to come in.

And if its not?

It means its not. Not that we dont love youjust maybe we need time alone, or Im not well, or somethings happened and we need to sort it out.

Margaret stayed silent. I went on.

Well visit you more too, and call more oftenthis isnt a one-way street.

The key, she said. Just that.

Yes, the key, please. If theres a real emergency, ring us or the neighbourshes got a spare, too.

Margaret was silent a long time. Then she reached into her bag and put the key on the table. Quietly, without words. Andrew stared at it, awkwardnot because I was wrong, but because it hurt to watch your mum lay down the key to your door.

Thank you, I said.

Nothing to thank for, she replied, in that tone where you werent sure if she meant it or something else entirely.

We sat a little longer, finished our tea and pie. The conversation drifted to more minor things: Andrews current project at work, Margarets neighbours ill-timed redecorating. Calm, almost as beforeexcept for the key, now in my pocket.

When Margaret left, Andrew walked her to the lift. I cleared the table and heard their low voices in the hall, indistinct but calm. The lift doors clanged and Andrew returned.

Well? I asked.

Its all right, he said, then after a pause, She says she understands. But shes hurt.

I know she is.

Lauren, could you maybe be a bit softer?

I turned to him.

Softer how, Andrew? I tried my best. I didnt blame or shout or

I know. Its just shes old. Its hard for her to change.

It was hard for me too. I kept quiet for seven years.

He opened his mouth and closed it, then finally said, I know.

And that mattered. A little I know, but honest.

The next two weeks were strange. Margaret phoned first every time, just as agreed. Her voice was polite, a little formal; even her Lauren, do you mind if I pop in Saturday? sounded almost like a reproach, though perhaps I imagined it.

I rang Monica.

How is it? she asked.

She gave the key back. Now she always calls first.

Thats good.

It is. But its heavy. I hoped itd feel lighter. But it doesnt.

Why?

Because shes offendedshe doesnt say so, but its obvious. And I feel odd about it.

Lauren, said Monica. You did right. People get used to things the way they are, and complain when it changes. Doesnt mean youve done anything wrong.

I know. Just doesnt feel nice.

No, but its honest. Better than another seven years of silence.

In December, Margaret invited us round for her birthday. Not a big one, just sixty-foura modest affair: she, Andrew, me, and Andrews cousin Tanya with her husband. Margaret cooked all day, as she always did, and the food was abundant and delicious.

For a while, it was just Margaret and me in the kitchen, Tanya helping Andrew. Margaret washed up, I dried.

How are you? I asked.

Im fine, she replied, before adding, after a pause, Getting used to it.

To what?

To having to ask. For forty years, I never had to. Id just come in, do what had to be done, leave. It was always fine. No one complained.

Maybe they did, just not to you.

Margaret stopped. Then nodded slowly. Maybe.

We were both silent, the quiet sound of running water between us.

I never meant to hurt you, I said. That really matters to me.

I know you didnt mean to, she replied. But that doesnt always make it easier.

No, I agreed, it doesnt.

I thought about what you saidabout space. When I was young, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Cross, used to come by uninvited. I never liked it. I was afraid of her, if anything.

I listened quietly.

I used to thinkwhen my Andrew marries, Ill be different. Turns out Im the same. Just in another way.

Youre not Mrs. Cross, I said. You arent scary. You just care too much.

Too much, maybe, she acknowledged. But well have to learn a new waya way that fits us both.

She dried her hands, looked at me in a curious, studying sort of way.

Youre strong, she said. I was angry at firstthought, shes trying to come between me and Andrew. But I seethats not it. Youre just different.

Different, I nodded.

That can be good, I suppose, said Margaret, as though trying to reassure both of us.

After her birthday, something shifted between us. Not instantly, not overnight. But ice doesnt always breakit melts. Margaret continued ringing before visiting, but her tone softened. She stopped tidying or cleaning unasked. Once she even asked: Lauren, your shelves are a bit dustyshall I dust while youre out? I thought a moment and said, No thank you, Ill do it at the weekend. But thank you. And Margaret accepted that. Simply accepted.

Andrew noticed.

You see Mums making an effort? he asked me one evening.

I do.

And you?

Im fine. Really fine.

He took my hand, without reason, just because.

Sorry it took me so long. For not sorting this sooner.

Its all right.

No, it isnt. I should have done it, not left it to you.

I looked at him. That mattered. More than the key, more than the phone calls. The understanding that protecting our home was not just my jobthat he shared it, too. That we were both owners of this life, not guests.

You know now, I said.

I do.

January brought snow. Margaret rang midway through the month and invited us both for a Sunday, saying she wanted to teach me to make her special pastry. For no reason, just because.

Do you want to go? Andrew asked me.

I thought about it. A year earlier, Id have been wary: whats behind it? Now I thoughtwhy not? Just pastry. Just Sunday.

I do, I said.

We arrived at noon. Margaret opened the door; the flat smelled of warmth and vanilla. In the kitchen, flour, butter, and eggs were neatly laid out.

My mother taught me this, Margaret said, tying her apron. She was from Bristol, everybody made pastry this way. Ill teach you, then you can make it for Andrew.

Let him learn too, I said.

Margaret laugheda sudden, genuine sound. Let him, then.

Andrew appeared in the doorway.

Should I leave you two to it?

Go watch telly, his mother said. Well manage.

We made pastry togetherMargaret explaining, me copying her, imperfectly as first attempts always are. She corrected me kindly, guiding but never scolding.

Like this, she said, folding the dough, dont press, just fold. Pastry doesnt like forceit likes patience.

I thought you could say the same about people, but didnt say it aloud. Not every thought needs voicing.

The pie turned out wellnot a masterpiece, but properly made, with a gorgeous crust and golden gleam. We all shared it, talk drifting gentlyfrom the neighbours redecorating finally finished, to Andrews colleague moving jobs, to the cold February forecast.

On the drive home, Andrew said, That went well.

It did.

You all right?

Genuinely, yes.

He nodded.

February brought a different call. Margaret rang one eveningnot to fix a visit. Her voice was quiet, unfamiliar.

Lauren, can I have a word?

Of course, Margaret.

Ive been thinking Pause. I wanted to sayIm sorry. For all those years. I never realised I was making things awkward. I thought I was helping. But I see now those are two different things.

I stood by the window, looking out into a still February night.

Margaret

No, let me finish. Ive never been any good at apologies. Never managed it. But I want you to knowIm trying. And Im glad Andrew married you. I wasnt, not at first. But now I am.

It took me a moment to reply, because I wanted to be honest, not just polite.

Im glad Andrew has a mother like you, I said at last. He wouldnt be the person he is, otherwise.

There was a pause.

Thank you, said Margaret, just a fraction softer. So, were all right?

We are.

Glad to hear it. Goodnight, Lauren.

Goodnight, Margaret.

I put down the phone and lingered at the window before going to find Andrew. He was reading in an armchair.

Was that Mum? he asked.

Yes.

What did she say?

She apologised.

He looked up.

Really?

Really.

He was quiet, and something in his face shifted; I wouldnt have given it a name, just a subtle easing.

Shes never apologised to anyone before, he said softly.

I know.

He dropped his gaze to his book. Then, without looking up, Youre wonderful.

We all are, I replied. And that was true.

By spring, Margaret visited about once a fortnight. She phoned a day or two before, asking if it was convenient. If not, Id say, Not such a good week, perhaps next? and Margaret would reply, Yes, next is fine. Just thatno sighs, no delays. Or, if a pause, a small one. I never dwelled on it.

Sometimes I thoughthow odd, seven years I kept silent, dreading the talk, only to find the talk was a beginning, not an end. Not a film ending, where everyone hugs and all is perfect. A slower, bumpier beginning, but real.

In April, I visited my parents in BristolAndrew couldnt come, busy with work. Three days: my mother, my father, their old house, the familiar smells of stew and dust. Mum asked about work, marriage, and Andrew, and I answered openly.

Hows your mother-in-law? she asked, as if in passing.

All right. Better.

Better than what?

I hesitated, then told her the truth.

Mum listened silently. When I finished, she said, You did well to talk. I never spoke up with my own mother-in-lawput up with things for twenty years.

And?

And nothing. She died, and I never said anything important to her, nor she to me. That was a mistake.

On the train back, I thought about that: silence seems safer until it turns into loss; unaddressed problems dont vanish, but sit quietly, taking up the space of something better.

I looked from the window at muddy April fields, patched with old snow, and realised Id done rightnot perfectly, not without fault, but right. And right doesnt always feel pleasant. Thats part of it.

Andrew met me at the station, took my bag, embraced me.

How were your parents?

Good. Mum sends her love.

And your dad?

He grumbled and watched rugby. As always.

Andrew laughed.

Shall we go home?

Home.

We drove through a city brightening with spring. I watched the streets and thought how good it was to have somewhere to return to. A home where you know whats behind the door.

Your door. Your home.

In May, Margaret rang on a Saturday morning.

Lauren, may I come by Sunday? Want to show you how to make jam. You said youd never learnt.

I did say so.

Well, Ill teach youunless youre busy?

Not busy. Come any time.

Tenish, all right?

Perfect.

See you then.

She hung up, and I stood looking at the shaft of sunlight across the kitchen floor, where our ginger tomcat, Marmalade, had already curled up and wasnt inclined to move. Hed joined our household that autumn, adopted from a shelter. Andrew had wanted a cat for years, and I had always put it offuntil one day, I stopped putting it off.

Marmalade gave me a look and then turned away, as only cats can.

All right, then, I said aloud to nobody in particular.

On Sunday, Margaret arrived dead on ten. Laden with jars, fruit, and a special kind of sugar, bought from her woman at the marketbecause, she insisted, that sugar behaved properly in jam. I didnt ask what precisely that meant. Some things, you just accept.

We made jam together, the three of us, because Andrew didnt disappear but hovered about, tasting from the spoon, getting in the way. Margaret tried to shoo him out, but finally surrendered and let him stir.

Just dont rush it, she admonished. Jam dislikes being hurried.

You said pastry disliked force, said Andrew.

Well, jam and pastry each have their own ways. Pastry dislikes force, jam dislikes haste. Different natures.

Even jam has a nature? Andrew grinned.

Everything does, said Margaret, so calmly and surely that both Andrew and I laughed aloud.

The jam was gloriousamber apricot, rich and scented of summer. Margaret dished it into jars, one for us, one for her, and a third for Tanya.

Thank you, I said as she was leaving. For the jam. For the pastry. For trying.

Margaret did up her bag and looked at me.

You keep trying too, she said. Andrews stubbornlike his father. He needs things said. Otherwise, he assumes its all fine.

I know.

Never stop talking to him. Always talk.

I do.

Good, then.

She left. I stood in the hall, listening to the lifts doors close. Then I returned to the kitchen to find Andrew covertly scooping jam straight from the jar.

Andrew!

What? Its ready, isnt it?

There were three jars, you know.

There still are. Im not eating, just tasting.

Thats your third taste.

Third times the charm.

I laughed and succumbed to a spoonful myself.

It *was* good jam.

Summer came quietly, as it always does in Oxfordhesitantly, then suddenly, all at once. Margaret visited every fortnight, sometimes less, if she was busy or simply wished not to intrude. That wish not to intrude grew graduallyit wasnt required, it just arrived.

One summer evening, Andrew said, Do you notice Mums changed?

In what way?

I dont know. Calmer, I suppose. She used to always do something herecook, tidy, rearrangenow she just sits, drinks tea, chats.

Thats a good thing?

I think so. He thought a moment. She never used to be able to just *be*. She had to always be useful, to feel needed. And now, maybe, she sees shes needed anyway.

I looked at him.

Nicely put.

Once in a while

I thought he was right. Margarets restlessness was driven by a fear of not being needed, of losing her place, of holding onto closeness through pies and polished shelves. At first, when we asked her to stop, she panickeddid it mean she was unwanted? In time, she understood; it meant something else. She *was* wanted, just differently. That love could look like sharing tea and unhurried time.

That, too, is about boundariesonly the other side. Margaret was finding her own. Perhaps for the first time, genuinely.

At the end of August, the three of us spent a weekend at Tanyas cottage in the country. Every year she invited us, and every year something got in the way. This year, nothing did.

We drove out in two cars. I rode with Andrew, and Margaret asked to come with usshe didnt like driving alone these days, said her blood-pressure played up. Of course we took her.

Margaret was quiet on the journey, watching the fields drift by. Eventually she said:

Its beautiful here.

It is, Andrew agreed.

I rarely travel in the summer now. Nowhere much to go. Then, after a pause, Glad you asked me along.

That was Tanya, Andrew replied.

Well, Im grateful to her then.

I smiled at the road ahead.

The country house was a cheerful chaosTanya bustling, kids everywhere, her husband Peter and their scruffy retriever. The children dragged Andrew outside to play badminton, Margaret wandered round the garden, Peter lit the barbecue, and Tanya tugged me away

Come see what Aunt Margaret brought in May! Blackcurrant cuttingstheyve taken well already.

She brought you those?

Yes! Dug them up herself and brought them round. Too many in my patch, lets have them in yours too. Tanya laughed. Shes a softie, your mother-in-law. A bit complicated sometimes, but kind.

She is, I agreed.

Did you two patch things up? Andrews been a bit cryptic.

We never fell out, I told her. We just came to an understanding.

About what?

About how to live alongside each other. I glanced at her blackcurrantssmall but alive. About boundaries.

Boundaries, Tanya mused. I envy you. My mother-in-law and I have none, and its not easier.

Talk to her.

Im scared.

I was scared too. But better frightened than regretful.

Tanya looked at me. Youve changed, Lauren.

In what way?

More sure of yourself. You used to be so quiet, always smiling and agreeing.

I still smile, dont I?

But not always agreeing anymore.

I thought about it, then nodded. Is that good? I asked.

I think its great.

That evening we sat under the apple tree, around a makeshift tablebarbecue pork, new potatoes, bright tomatoes. Kids snored indoors, dog sprawled gently underfoot, and all conversation ran easy and slow, not in any haste.

Margaret asked, Lauren, have you had some potatoes?

Yes, thank you.

Have anotherthis batch is just right.

I took another helpingnot out of duty, not to be polite, just because I fancied it.

Margaret noticed and noddedquietly, almost imperceptibly. As if, to herself, closing a circle.

Andrew caught my eye across the table and smiled. I smiled back.

Behind the apple tree, the sky was darkening, a deep summer blue scattered with the first stars. It was nearly autumn, and as always at summers end, the knowledge came with a tender sadness, regardless of how good the summer had been.

We drove back to town late that night. Margaret dozed in the rear seat. Andrew drove in silence, and I gazed out at the dark fields, thinking how a year before, I wouldnt have imagined a night like this. Not because things had been bad, but different. There used to be a small, constant pain, imperceptible by routine, until it faded at last.

Now it hurt less. Not gonenot for goodbut less. Still a fine line of tension, not bad, not goodjust life, living and complex.

Like pastry, I thought. It doesnt welcome force.

Margaret woke up when the city lights appeared.

Are we in Oxford already?

We are.

That went quickly. It was a good trip.

It was, I agreed.

Tanya laid on a feast. Margaret paused, then asked, Will you come next year, Andrew?

We will, Mumtogether.

Good.

She went quiet, and as we neared her flat, she said, Lauren.

Yes?

I wanted to ask. May I?

Of course.

I am I in the way now?

A simple question, but behind it lay everything Margaret couldnt say outright. The years of standing at a window for a son grown up, now with a wife who could say no. She was asking, was there a place for her?

I didnt answer immediately.

No, I said at last. Youre not in the way. Youre part of our lives. Just in a new way.

Margaret nodded. We stopped outside her block.

All right, she said. A new way, then.

She got out. Andrew followed her to the door, hugged her, then came back and took the wheel.

We sat quietly. I watched Margarets windowsthird floor, second from the left. Soon the light came on.

Home? asked Andrew.

Home.

We drove through silent streets, lamp-lit, warm August tarmac under the tyres. The car was peaceful, perfect.

How are you? Andrew asked.

Im fine. Tired, but a good tired.

Me too. He squeezed my hand. Thank you.

For what?

For speaking up. For not letting it drag on.

I was frightened too.

I know. Thats whythank you.

Marmalade greeted us at the door, winding round our legs and yowling demandingly.

Hes missed us, Andrew observed.

Or hes hungry.

Quite likely both.

I fed the cat while Andrew put the kettle on. The flat was full of gentle darkness and welcome quiet. I wandered from room to room, flicked on a lamp, opened a window. The August air was warm and carried a faint apple scent from the courtyard trees.

I stood there, thinking that tomorrow would be Monday: work, a new start to a week, nothing special. Maybe, the day after, Margaret would call to ask if Friday was all right for a visit, and we might say, Yes, thats fine, or No, lets make it Saturday. And that would be normal, for all of us.

Not perfect. Not without effort. But normal.

Lauren, Andrew called from the kitchen, fancy some tea?

Id love some.

I left the window and joined him. Hed already poured the mugs and put out the apricot jam.

Shall we try it? he asked, eyes alive.

Lets.

We sat, Marmalade curling up on the spare seat, paws tucked serenely.

You know, Andrew said, Mum asked your permission several times today. Did you notice?

I did.

Thats good, right?

Its good, I agreed.

So why the tiny bit of sadness?