But somehow, I can’t bring myself to say those words. Because if I do, maybe she’ll ask me why he isn’t my husband. And then I’ll have to explain Marina and the fact that I was a one-night-stand, nothing more.
“You okay, dear?” Margaret asks, looking at me with concern. “Are you cold?”
“Maybe a little.”
She sighs. “This English weather. It’s tough when you’re not used to it. Let me get you a sweater.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—”
But she’s already gone to get one. She walks down to the end of the kitchen and opens a coat closet next to the back door, then pulls out a gray knit cardigan.
“Here you go,” she says. “I knitted this myself about a decade ago.”
I take it from her. “Wow, it’s so soft.”
“It might be a little big for you, but it should do the trick against the damp.”
She helps me put the cardigan on and I sigh. “That feels good. Thank you.”
Margaret resumes her position beside me and we continue peeling potatoes. I glance at her from time to time, marveling at how content she seems to be in her life.
“Just for the record, you have a good one,” Margaret says after a long stretch of silence.
“A good what?” I ask stupidly.
She smiles. “A good man.”
“Oh,” I say, flushing with color. “Right.”
She gives me an amused little side-eye. “Ahh, the flush of new love. I recognize it well. You and your husband haven’t been together very long, have you?”
He’s not my husband. He’s someone else’s husband.
Still, I can’t say it.
“No, not very long at all.”
She nods. “See? When you know, you know. Tom and I were engaged three months after we first started dating. My parents thought it was too fast, but I always knew he was right for me.”
“And you were right.”
She laughs. “Forty-five years, two children, and five grandchildren later, here we are.”
“Did your parents come around in the end?”
“They did,” Margaret says. “It took nearly a decade, but they did.”
“Ten years?” I exclaim, gawking at her. “That long?”
“They had a hard time admitting they were wrong. But they did bequeath this place to me. Maybe that was their way of making amends.”
I smile. “Well, you’re doing the land proud.”
“Thank you, dear. That means more than you realize.”
A part of me wishes I could have this kind of conversation with my own mother. But I already know it’ll never happen. Our conversations have always been stilted and formal. Like two strangers fumbling around to find common ground but hitting a brick wall instead.
“What was it like becoming a mother for the first time?”