The GadgetShe pressed the sleek, silver button, and a gentle hum blossomed into a cascade of glowing possibilities, forever changing her world.

The familys final verdict fell from the eldest daughter, Mabel. With a temper as sharp as a thistle and expectations larger than a London doubledecker, she never did marry; by the time she reached her thirtieth year she had hardened into a bilefilled, husbandhating spectrea corrosive ulcer, a mans nightmare made flesh.

Earlina, she snapped, as if stamping a seal. The younger sister, Gwen, a rotund girl with a perpetual grin, chuckled approvingly. Their mother, Mrs. Hawthorne, said nothing, but the sour line of her mouth told the same story: the new bridetobe did not please her either. What could possibly? Their only son, Tom, the familys rock and hope, had gone off to the Army and returned with a wife. This wife, now christened Vera Whitaker, came without a father, without a mother, without a penny. Nothing at all. Perhaps shed grown up in a workhouse, perhaps shed been shuffled from one relative to anotherno one knew. Tom kept quiet, joking, Dont worry, Mother, well make our own fortune. So they talked to him, the foolhardy lad who had brought this mystery woman into the house. Could she be a thief, a swindler? Who knows how many of those have sprouted these days!

From the moment Vera set foot under the Hawthorne roof, she slept not a single night. She dozed in halflight, ever waiting for some trick from the freshlyarrived relativeperhaps a sudden rummaging through the closets. The daughters, too, pressed her, Mother, you should hide the valuables with the kin. Who knows what could be takencoats, gold, the lotso that one bright morning we dont wake to find the pantry empty!

And Tom, oh Tom, they whispered that his plaster was gone within a month: Who did you bring into this house? Where were your eyes? No skin, no face!

But there was no choice; life had to go on. So they learned to place Vera in her proper spot.

The Hawthorne homestead was a modest estate: a garden of thirty acres, three piglets snuffling in the sowpen, a flock of birds that were hardly counted. Work never ceased; even a full days toil could not finish it all. Yet Vera never complained. She tended the garden, fed the piglets, cooked, swept the rooms. She tried to please the motherinlaw. Still, if the mothers heart lay heavy, no amount of goldleaf could smooth the cracks; everything would feel wrong, everything would be a disaster. The unwanted daughterinlaw, trembling with resentment, declared on her very first day:

Call me by name and patronymic. That will be better. I already have daughters of my own; no matter how hard you try, you will never be more dear to me than my own girls.

From then on, Vera Whitaker was how Mrs. Hawthorne addressed her. The mother herself never used the word daughterinlaw at all. Something must be done, something must be said, she muttered, and that was all. No more pampering. Yet the sisters, unwilling to grant any leeway to the unwelcome relative, placed every line in its proper column. At times the mother was forced to keep the wayward daughters in check, not out of pity for Vera but because order must reign in the house, not scandal. Moreover, the girl proved industrious, grabbing at every task, never a lazy soul. Slowly, without admitting it, the mothers ice began to melt.

Perhaps life would have settled, if only Tom had not wandered off.

What man could stand the constant twovoiced droning from morning till night: Who did you marry? Who did you marry? And then, Mabel introduced him to some girl, and the whole thing spiralled. The sisters celebrated a victory: at last the despised Vera would be cleared away. Mother fell silent, Vera pretended nothing had happened, as if she had shrunk, leaving only hollow eyessad, distant. Then, like thunder in a clear sky, two newsitems burst forth: Vera was expecting a child, and Tom was divorcing her.

That shall not be, the mother told Tom. I never set her up as a wife for you.

But once married, you must endure! No point in bellowing. Youll soon be a father. If you ruin the family, Ill throw you out and never speak to you again. And Sarah will stay here.

For the first time ever, the mother called Vera by her first name. The sisters fell mute. Tom flared, Im a man; its my decision. Yet the mother planted her hands on her hips and laughed:

What kind of man are you? Youre still just trousers. When you bring a child into the world, raise him, teach him, turn him into a proper gentlemanthen you may call yourself a man!

Mrs. Hawthorne never hid behind a pocket word. Yet Tom clung to his mothers voice!

If he thought of anything, he fled. And SarahToms first wiferemained. In due course she gave birth to a girl, whom they named Lily. When the mother learned of Lily, she said nothing, but her eyes glittered with a secret joy.

Outwardly, nothing changed in the house, only Tom lost his way home, feeling slighted. Mother, of course, worried, though she showed no sign. Yet she fell in love with the granddaughter, doted on her, bought gifts, sweets. As for Sarah, she could never forgive that Tom had been taken from her through this girl, though she never uttered a word of reproach.

Ten years slipped by. The sisters married, and the large house was left to three: Mother, Sarah, and Lily. Tom enlisted again and travelled north with his new wife. An elderly retired soldier, a serious man older than Sarah, began to bring her firewood. Hed divorced his own wife, left the flat to Sarah, and lived himself in a hostel.

He drew a pension, was a respectable suitorsteady, decent. He liked Sarah, but where would he take her? To the motherinlaws house?

He explained everything, begged forgiveness, and stepped forward. Not a fool, he went to pay his respects to the mother. Vera Whitaker, he said, I love Sarah; I cannot live without her.

Not a muscle in the mothers face twitched.

Do you love her? she asked. Very well, marry and live together.

She fell silent, then added:

I will not let you drag Lily around the apartments. Live here, in my house.

And so they all lived together. Neighbours whispered until their tongues were calloused, gossiping about the mad Whitaker who had driven a son out of the house and taken in a newcomer with a grin. No one dared to criticize Vera, except the lazy few who kept poking at her. She paid them no heed, avoiding idle chatter, keeping her stories about the young men to herself, standing proud and aloof. Sarah bore a second child, Kat. The mother could not rejoice over her beloved granddaughters. What kind of granddaughter is Kat? she muttered, She is nothing to me.

Then disaster struck, as it often does, unannounced. Sarah fell gravely ill.

Her husband broke down, drank away his days. Mother, without a word, emptied every penny from the savings book and whisked Sarah off to London. She prescribed every medicine, consulted every doctor. Nothing helped.

One morning Sarah felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. The delighted mother slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, boiled it. When she brought the broth, Sarah could not swallow it; for the first time she wept, and the motherwho had never been seen cryingshed tears alongside her:

What, my dear, do you abandon me now that I have loved you? What are you doing?

She then steadied herself, wiped the tears, and said:

Do not worry about the children; they will be fine.

From that moment she never wept again; she sat by Sarahs side, held her hand, gently stroked it, as if asking forgiveness for all that had passed between them.

Another ten years drifted by. Lily was to be wed. Mabel and Gwen, now grey and crinkled, arrived, both childless. A modest gathering of kin assembled, and Tom returned. By then he had split from his wife, drank heavily, and, upon seeing Lilynow a radiant beautyrejoiced, I never imagined Id have such a splendid daughter. Yet when he heard that his daughter called her fatherfigure a stranger, his face darkened, and he turned on his mother, accusing her, Youre to blame for bringing this foreign man into the house. He should clean up, not stay. I am the father here.

The mother answered:

No, son. You are not a father. Youve never grown out of your breeches.

She said it as she had stamped it before. Tom, stung by the humiliation, packed his few belongings and set off again, roaming the world. Lily married, bore a son, and named him Alexander in honour of his stepfather. Last year, they laid Vera to rest beside Sarah.

Thus they lie in a row: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw. Between them, this spring, a birch sapling sprouted from nowhereno one planted it. It seemed to have appeared out of thin air, perhaps a parting salute from Sarah, perhaps a final pardon from the mother.