Grandma’s Secret Family Recipe

**The Family Recipe**

“Are you truly set on marrying someone you met on the internet?” Edith Preston eyed her future daughter-in-law with the same suspicion one might reserve for a counterfeit banknote. Her heavy gaze swept over Amelias simple hairstyle, her modest dress, lingering as if searching for hidden flaws. “You hardly know each other properly!”

Amelia felt goosebumps prickle along her arms. They sat in the cramped but spotless kitchen of the council flat where Edward had grown up. The scent of vanilla and old floorboards filled the air.

“Mum, thats enough,” Edward interjected, sliding an arm around Amelias shoulders. “We didnt meet onlineit was the book club. We just talked there first. For six months! And Amelia is wonderful.”

Their story had begun when Amelia, who kept a quiet blog about forgotten novels, posted her thoughts on *Wuthering Heights*. Edward, a reserved software engineer with a love for classics, had stumbled upon it. Their discussion spilled into private messages, then into long phone calls. They discovered they laughed at the same dry humour, cherished the same thingssilence, honesty, the musty scent of old pages. Their first meeting by the Bronte statue in Haworth wasnt a date, merely a continuation of their conversation. With her, Edward felt at ease as if hed always known her. She, in turn, saw past his quiet demeanour to the thoughtful man beneath.

“Wonderful,” Edith sniffed, clinking her spoon pointedly against her teacup. “And yet shes from another town, with no work here, and heaven knows what shes really after. I raised my boy, taught him right, and now along comes some stranger”

Amelia clenched her jaw but held her tongue.

Shed already grasped the truth: Edith didnt see *her*, only an intrudera girl stealing her son from under her wing. Since her husbands passing five years prior, Ediths world had narrowed to rigid rules and fierce protectiveness. Every attempt to bridge the gap had failed.

When Amelia baked an apple pie with cinnamon and nutmeg, just as her grandmother had, Edith took one small bite and muttered, “Too sweet. We dont make it like that here.”

When she offered to help clean, Edith replied tersely, “No need. I know where everything belongs. Id only spend months putting it right after.”

Alone with Edward in his room, surrounded by model trains and physics textbooks, he could only sigh. “Dont take it to heart. Shes always been like thisloving, but prickly as a hedgehog.”

“Im trying,” Amelia whispered, staring at the identical balconies outside. “But living in a silent war is exhausting. And moving out isnt an option yet.”

Still, she refused to surrender. If there was a way in, shed find it.

One Saturday, while dusting the shelves, Edith pulled out an old album. Amelia asked to join her and noticed how Edith lingered on a faded photoherself, young and smiling, beside a dark-haired man.

“Whos that?” Amelia ventured.

Edith stiffened as if caught in a secret. “My brother, Arthur,” she admitted, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “We fell out. Twenty years ago, over some foolish land dispute. He said cruel things; I said worse. And that was that.”

Amelia stayed quiet, but an idea took root. Later, she struck up a conversation with their chatty neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins.

“Oh, Edith and Arthur!” the woman exclaimed. “Thick as thieves, they were! Arthur lives over in the new estate now. Had heart surgery last yearhis children are up in Edinburgh, poor man, all alone.”

That evening, as Edward read and Edith knitted, Amelia said gently, “Did you know your brother had heart surgery last year?”

The needles stilled. Edith paled. “What? How do you know that?”

“Mrs. Wilkins mentioned it. Said hes been on his own, no one to look after him”

Edith left without another word. The next morning, she dressed in her best coat and muttered, “Visiting a friend.”

She returned at dusk, her eyes red but softer somehow. Seeing Amelia in the kitchen, she paused. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice thick, before retreating.

Later, Edward learned shed taken the bus to Arthurs flat, hesitated at his door, then knocked. Theyd stood frozen before crumbling into an embrace, weeping over wasted years and stubborn pride.

“You were right,” Edith admitted days later over tea, staring into her cup. “Sometimes you just have to take the first step. Twenty years lost over a patch of dirt How daft.”

After that, she treated Amelia differentlyno longer a threat, but family. One evening, while sorting through the pantry, she asked quietly, “Amelia that pie of yours, with the nutmeg. Would you show me? Edward seemed fond of it.”

Hands steady despite her racing heart, Amelia fetched the flour. They worked side by side in the tiny kitchen, Edith following instructions without a single correction. When Edward returned, he found them both at the table, the warm scent of baking filling the flat.

“Looks like youve been busy,” he remarked, grinning.

Amelia leaned into him and nodded. She knew now: sometimes, to mend whats broken, you need only remind people of the love that existed long before you came along. You just have to find the right thread to pull.