The Mash Family Saga

28December2025

Dear Diary,

Today I finally managed to put some sense into the chaos that has become my familys life. It all started when my son, Michael, returned from his stint in the Army. He was full of bravado, fresh from the front, and in his haste he fell for a clever girl hed barely known. She was small and sturdy, shortlegged, with a broad face and tiny, narrow eyes. In my opinion, the name Jean that the girls suggested for my future daughterinlaw didnt suit her at all, and my friends agreed.

Shes halfbaked, a real threestar disappointment, they laughed. Teaching college and Oxford? She cant be his match. Michael, a handsome athlete and top of his class, had just gone back to university after demob. He met this girl, and before I knew it, she was pregnant.

Youre setting yourself up for trouble, they warned. Jean isnt right for him. Michael decided to marry. At my reunions with old schoolmates I poured my heart out, but at home I kept my thoughts to myself, speaking to Michael only in brief, measured sentences.

His eyes shone so brightly that I feared the night owl might outsing the morning birdperhaps I simply didnt want to hurt Michael. I recalled my own teenage pregnancy at nineteen, before Id even turned twenty, giving birth a month before my birthday.

Our son had been a frail child, often ill, but he grew strong, took up sports and surprised us with his determination. I wasnt thrilled, but I tried not to show it. A child is never to blame for his parents mistakes.

I was determined that Michael would behave honourably, that he would give his child a proper name and be a good father. I swore I wouldnt become the harsh motherinlaw I once knew the woman who never said a kind word to her daughterinlaw from the day they married until she divorced Michaels father, even though they lived in the same town.

After my own divorce, my motherinlaw took me and my baby in, registered us before she passed, and made sure the flat would stay in the family. Though I never believed in God, I kept ordering funeral rites for my devout grandmother because I knew how much it mattered to her. I kept her photographs, album after album, and even framed a portrait of my grandfather, a war veteran, hanging it above the kitchen table. My grandmother, in her youth, reminded me of the actress Love Orlov.

I, Mary, turned out to be quite different from her, but Michael grew into a handsome young man. In autumn Michael asked if he could stay with his mother for a while, or whether he should apply for a family room in the university halls. He promised to cook borscht and behave if his mother refused.

I gave my verdict, surprised at my own firmness: Take your Jean and well swap rooms. Ill give you the larger one for the three of us. He leapt up, kissed me, and whispered, Mum, youre the best in the world! Dont worry, Ill get a parttime job. We wont be a burden on you.

He was full of confidence, though he barely understood what it meant to raise a child with two students under one roof.

Our joint life in my flat did not go exactly as Id predicted. I worked in the central library of Manchester, heading a department on a modest salary that I thought would stretch, if only cautiously. Then the 1990s rolled in, promising freedom and bright changes, but they turned into hardship. My friends fell one after another, clinging to each other while their husbands either drank away their woes or left for work far away. Nighttime gunshots echoed in the street, blood stained the pavement, and factory wages evaporated. My library pay seemed a pittance against soaring prices.

Michael kept his head down, studying hard, escaping on weekends with friends to the countryside to help elderly folk in their gardens. Jane, with her round belly, kept smiling, even as she climbed the fourth floor of our flat without a lift. After a rough delivery, the very next morning she showed the newborn to Michael, pointing at the tiny boy and asking, What shall we call him? A little light seemed to ignite inside her.

Soon she struck a deal with the pensioners on the ground floor, Ivan and Elena, to look after a vegetable patch shed cleared right under the windows. She planted potatoes and carrots; the next spring almost everyone in the block did the same. When I felt lost, my daughterinlaw scratched her head, thought things over, and acted. She never said everything was ruined; there was no time for endless philosophy. She enrolled in parttime studies while raising the child, exclaiming, Brilliant! Absolutely wonderful! The garden was right outside her windowno need to travel far, and no one could steal her spuds. All the difficulties seemed like characterbuilding exercises.

The baby grew strong, babbled at nine months, spoke his first words at one year. I walked with him, delighted, and he never wailed for no reason; if he fussed, we searched for the cause. He turned out just like his mothersunny and cheerfuland, of course, handsome like his father.

During Janes exam period, little Davy shuffled between his best friend Lenora, the veteran Smirnov couple, and me. He ate well, slept plenty, and behaved like the textbook example of a content infant. I often fretted that the doctors ideal of a calm child was a myth, but reality proved otherwise: babies who dont scream all day, who sleep a lot and smile readily, do exist.

As New Year approached I felt embarrassed that I still hadnt met Janes parents. Theyd married quietly a year and a half ago, visited each other but never invited us to a proper celebration. Determined to fix this, I took my oneyearold grandson onto the coach and promised Michael Id be back for the weekend, giving them a few days alone.

At the small bus station of the nearby villagemore hamlet than towna crowd of ten waved at us, holding a banner that read Welcome! (we didnt bring it). Theyd decorated the guest room for us, hanging a bright sign on the door that said, For Davy and Zinas children, the new family of Jane. When I realised I was the guest, I was stunned for half a day. They even lifted my grandson from my arms near the bus, not wanting to give him back.

Later, back at home, I found a lovely teacup on the nightstand, a sweet bun with a note written in three different hands, all in different inks. It read, Dear Mary, hugs! Sweet dreams in your new place! May a fiancé visit in your dreams! I guessed it was from Uncle Fred.

The next morning, the neighbours grandchildren teased, Did a dreamknight visit you, Mrs. Thompson? Their grandmother, spry as ever, replied, Whats there to be surprised about? She looks like a little girl, lips like a bow, a pure bride! Thats why the kids think she should be married off. The youngest grandson was soon sent off to school.

A few weeks later, Michaels colleague, a strikingly young lecturers daughter, caught his eye. He told his wife he was filing for divorce. Jane went pale, almost fainted. I pulled her into my arms, tried to soothe Michael, who muttered, You promised a thousand times youd never be like your father, that youd never abandon the family. He packed his things and left, filing for dissolution.

Months later he returned, asking about the house. What about the flat? I snapped. Ill ask Jane to move out. I dont want her to be upset. In that instant I felt my son clutch his cheek, and I clenched my fists, coughing, Get out of my house! It was a bitter, messy ending; the judge turned out to be an old friend of mine, and the other sides lawyer was a woman whose own husband had abandoned her in London.

My former motherinlaw tried to mediate, but Jane and I wouldnt let her in. Davy, now a teenager, walked around the house with me, listening. Hed seen the old lady before, but his politeness saved the day.

In the end, we kept the flat. I received a modest settlement to buy out Michaels share. The relatives rallied, bringing over jam, pickles, knitted socks, and coats for Davy, Jane, and Michael. They urged us to visit more often, saying it had become the fashion.

Those 1990s, once feared, have become a rough but honest school of lifepunches and nudges mixed with unexpected joy, warm knitted gifts, notes from Grandma Nasty, dancing, and hearty songs. I now smile more, frown less, and feel content.

A few years later, a young doctor, Igor, who had come to study medicine, asked to stay with me. I welcomed him, and he bowed respectfully. He said Grandmother Nasty never doubted me, and if things went wrong she wouldnt have held a grudge.

Life settled. Davy now attends a local academy, Michael teaches history at a secondary school, and Jane works for a construction firm, earning a proper salary. Were all older, but the house still hums with laughter.

Grandma Nasty passed away not long ago. At her funeral we sang her favourite songs three days in a row, as if trying to outsing a bad joke. She had raised wonderful children and grandchildren, and before she died she promised me I would never be alone.

Now, at sixtyseven, I feel spry, joking that her prayers keep me looking ten years younger. My late husbands former boss, a widower, once suggested I might marry again. Hes younger, not yet sixty, and says, If youve found happiness, grab it with both hands and hold on tight! Thats what my grandmother taught me.

So here I am, writing this entry, grateful for the tangled, glorious mess that is my family. The past two decades have taught me that even the toughest decades can give way to a brighter tomorrow.

Yours,
Mary ThompsonI now look forward to each sunrise, knowing that love, resilience, and a welltended garden will always carry us forward.