A Friend’s Heartache: Her Son Wants to Marry a Girl from the Wrong Side of Town—But I’m Reminded of …

An acquaintance of mine was beside herself: her son had decided to marry a girl from outside our social circle. I felt for heras a father, if my own children made such a choice, Id be anxious too.

But then I remembered one Mrs. Evans.

Her son didnt ask, simply turned up and announced, This is Emily. Were married.

Mrs. Evans boasted a family full of academics and professionalsa professor, two lecturers, a choreographer, a chief engineer, a literary critic, a leading cardiologist, and so on. Then along came this girl of dubious origin and undeniably poor mannersher father nowhere to be seen, her mother a cowherd (a cowherd, honestly!), trained as a painter and decoratorreally, no looks to speak of, no grace. It was as if fate had squinted, spat carelessly, and she was the result.

But the decorator girl behaved with dignitykept herself to herself, barely a whisper about the flat.

Just wait, Mrs. Evans friend Judith would say, Once shes settled in, youll be tearing your hair out.

That autumn, Mrs. Evans son left for a work placement in America.

Just the thought of that creature creeping around the flat was enough to make you wish you didnt have to go home, Mrs. Evans would confide in Judith.

By New Years, her son was back, but come March, he announced: firstly, the Americans had offered him a contract; secondly, hed met Nicole there; thirdly, he and the decorator girl would be divorced by Thursday and hed be flying off on FridayDont worry, Mum, Ill ring, he said.

There were tears, farewells, a wave goodbye.

The decorator girl packed her meager thingsa small suitcase and a Tesco carrier bag, all she had. She looked like a kicked mongrel.

Mrs. Evans swallowed her pride and asked,
Have you got anywhere to go?

The girl murmured,
In a month a bed will free up at the hostel. Till then, the other girls said I could kip on a camp bed in their room.

Mrs. Evans looked her up and down and said,
You can move on in a month. For now, unpack.

Then immediately called herself an idiot, which Judith soon confirmed.

Each morning, the girl would rush off to paint and plaster, returning late, grey with exhaustion. She insisted on paying rent, quite proud of her wage.

Three weeks passed; then Mrs. Evans was suddenly struck down with illness, spent six weeks in hospital, barely pulling through.

Her son rang a couple of times, saying,
Chin up, Mum! Ive sent you a snap of me, Nicole, and Niagara Falls.

Nicole was nothing much, honestlynot worth all the fuss.

Judith visited but not often; with her own family and work, getting away was difficult.

The decorator girl brewed chicken broths and fruit drinks, made steamed chicken cutlets, coaxed her to try another spoonfulLooks like shes after something, Judith would mutter, Are you sure shes not after your address? Hasnt lifted half the flat on her way out? Do you want a cutlet? No? Sure? Only Im starving from work.

On her release from hospital, the decorator fetched Mrs. Evans, helped her to the door, then dashed off to workno time to dally.

The place was spotless, not a speck of dust. In the kitchen, a note awaited:

Mrs. Evans, thank you. Lunch is in the fridge. Get well soon. E.

All her valuables were still there, nothing missing.

She peeped into her sons roomno trace of the decorator at all.

A week later, Mrs. Evans walked the long echoing corridor, knocked on a doorthere were three beds inside, and a folding camp bed stashed underneath a table.

She said,
When you get your own flat, you can leave. For now, get your things together. Taxis waiting, meters running.

By September, they were out buying an autumn coatcouldnt let the girl keep walking round in ragsand some decent boots. At the shopping centre, they bumped into Judith.

Good helps impossible to find these days, and youve landed it for free! Clever, Mrs. Evans, very clever! Judith said.

Thats your maid; this is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Evans replied. Come on, Emmie, we need to find a handbag, and lets look for some trousers while were at itI want a new scarf too.

Mrs. Evans would explain, She saved up the deposit herself, didnt take a penny from me. The flats nearly ready, just looking for nice wallpapershes no time for shopping, works from morning till night. Lately, shes so worn out shes nearly falling asleep standing. I turn away to make tea, and shes dozed off sitting up.

Shed say, I worry constantlyshes young, pretty, resourceful, and now shes got a flat. Emmies a smart girl, but even intelligent people can get led astray. You wouldnt believe it, but I lose sleep over it, terrified shell fall for some good-for-nothing or a real scoundrel, someone from outside our circleSo Mrs. Evans kept vigilant: she left little notes on the fridge, made cocoa on cold nights, and fussed over Emmies battered hands. She told Judith less and less, and Emmie more and more.

One day, Emmie showed her a set of finished sketcheswarmth and order, comfort pulled out of chaos. Mrs. Evans frowned at first, then set the best one by the mantelpiece.

By Christmas, Emmies walls were up, paint shining, life humming. As guests gatheredJudith grumbling over brandy, neighbors squeezing inMrs. Evans lifted her glass and saw Emmie in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair loose, laughing.

And in that momentwith laughter echoing into the hallMrs. Evans realized Emmie was never the outsider.

Shed simply come home.