The phone’s shrill ringtone sliced through Matthew’s sleep. He rolled onto his side, burying one ear in the pillow, but the relentless chirping grew louder until it finally yanked him fully awake.
Groggy, he fumbled for his mobile on the bedside table. *Mum.* He swiped to answer.
“Matty, darling, did I wake you?” Her voice dripped with saccharine sweetness.
“You did,” he rasped. “What’s the emergency?”
“Oh, nothing terrible. Just a reminder—my birthday’s coming up!”
“Congratulations. Was this really worth a 7 AM call?”
“Sorry, love,” she said, guilt lacing her tone. “Could you take me shopping later? I need a new dress for the occasion.”
“Mum, it’s barely eight. The shops won’t open till ten,” Matthew grumbled.
“Exactly why I called early! So you wouldn’t make other plans.”
“My plan was *sleeping.*”
“So, you’ll drive me then?” she pressed.
“If that’s all, I’m going back to bed.” He tossed the phone aside and shut his eyes.
Sleep, however, had abandoned him. After a futile attempt to doze off, he gave up, showered, and brewed coffee, sipping it slowly. By half nine, he rang his mother. “Leaving now.”
“Lovely! I’m just putting my coat on,” she trilled.
“Mum, how many times? I’m not ‘Matty’ anymore. I’m thirty, not five.”
“Sorry, *Matthew*,” she corrected, chastened. “But I only say it when we’re alone.”
“You say it *everywhere*. You just don’t notice.”
“My mistake. So, you’re coming?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Two shops later, his mother had rejected every dress—too pricey, poor fit, unflattering colour. Matthew stood like a misplaced lamppost amid racks of frocks, enduring amused glances from bored shop assistants who alternated between pity and flirting.
“Where next, then?” he sighed as they trudged back to the car.
“Let’s pop into a café. I’ll think where else to try,” she suggested apologetically.
“I’ve had coffee. Seriously, are there *no* dress shops left in London?”
He surrendered. The day was a write-off anyway.
“There’s one last place. How could I forget? If they don’t have anything, I give up.” She named the boutique.
Parking outside the modest storefront, Matthew invented an urgent call. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Mum huffed but marched inside alone. Matthew had no intention of phoning anyone. Instead, he studied the mannequins in the display window—stoic, lifeless—until he spotted a willowy assistant in a navy blazer, name tag glinting. She was chatting with his mother before guiding her toward the dresses.
Now, only the assistant’s neat updo and his mother’s grey crown were visible bobbing between racks. It was like watching a silent film. Matthew imagined the dialogue:
“‘This one? I think it’d suit you. Or something more subdued? Ah, understood. How about this?’”
His mother’s irritation was palpable even through glass.
“‘Young lady, is there no senior staff here? Oh, *lunch*? It’s barely noon! Show me something *age-appropriate*…’”
They vanished—likely into a fitting room. Matthew turned away, watching traffic until they reappeared at the till. The assistant carried a dress on a hanger; Mum clutched her coat. Freedom was near.
Yet she emerged empty-handed. Matthew’s heart sank.
She flopped into the passenger seat, slamming the door.
“I thought you liked the dress. Too expensive? I’d have chipped in,” he offered weakly.
“Oh, it fitted perfectly. But that impertinent girl said I looked ‘barely sixty’ in it!”
“And? That’s a compliment,” Matthew said, baffled.
“A *dubious* one. They train them so poorly these days. No tact!”
“You’re upset over a compliment and didn’t buy the dress?”
“Exactly! ‘Fifty’ would’ve been flattery, but *barely sixty*? Rude.”
“Mum, you look fantastic for sixty-five. I don’t get it. Just go back and—”
“No.” Her lips pursed.
“Now what? Another shop?” he groaned.
“Home. My mood’s ruined.”
He drove her back, declining tea. The solution struck him as he pulled away. He circled back to the boutique.
“Hello!” The same assistant greeted him, even lovelier up close.
“We’ve got a sale on ahead of the new collection—”
“My mum was here earlier. Plump lady, beige coat?”
“Yes,” she said warily.
“No drama—I want to buy the dress she picked.”
“Of course!” Relief brightened her face. She returned with a sleek grey number.
“Card or cash?”
“Card. Gift-wrap it, please.” He handed over his card. “What *exactly* did you say to her?”
“Only that she couldn’t be a day over sixty. Was I wrong?”
“Mum’s sixty-five.” They both laughed.
“Apologise to her, yeah?” he said, paying.
“Oh! I nearly forgot.” She darted off, returning with a scarf. “A peace offering. Matches the dress. I *am* sorry.” She tucked it into the bag. “Return it if she refuses.”
“She won’t.” He couldn’t stop smiling at her—genuine, unfussy. “This scarf’s too nice. Doubt the shop covers ‘sorry gifts.’”
“Maybe not.” She grinned. “But happy customers are priceless.”
He left, memorising the shop hours.
Mum adored the dress *and* the scarf. Over lunch, Matthew couldn’t stop thinking about the assistant—Sophie, her tag had said. That evening, he loitered outside the boutique at closing.
“You’re back! Did she hate it?” Sophie asked, spotting him.
“Loved it. The scarf sent her over the moon.” He hesitated. “Fancy coffee? To make up for… everything.”
She agreed.
They dated. Matthew fell hard and proposed within months.
His mother had historically deemed every girlfriend “beneath him.” By thirty, her tune changed—”When will you settle down?”—so he announced the engagement eagerly.
Then she recognised Sophie.
“A *shopgirl*? Your father was a professor! You’re embarrassing us! You’re educated—she’s *trade*!” she shrieked after Sophie left.
“I love her. If you can’t accept that, I won’t visit again. But I *am* marrying her.” He stormed out.
Cooler heads prevailed. If comparison was the cure, he’d deploy it.
He phoned Mum later: “Meet my *new* fiancée. My boss’s daughter. Promotion inbound!”
His colleague Rita—no fan of her own mother-in-law—agreed to play the part.
“See? Plenty of suitable girls!” Mum chirped.
But when “Jeannette” arrived—fake ginger hair, nose ring, clattering bracelets, minty gum—Mum blanched.
“Matty, *this* is your boss’s daughter?” she whispered in the kitchen.
“Doubting me? Want to phone her ‘dad’? She studied at Oxford. Rich kids have *quirks*.”
Jeannette monopolised dinner, slurping wine, complaining about “provincial” British roads. Mum sat rigid, shell-shocked.
“We’re off,” Matthew said finally, kissing her cheek.
“Perfect! Next to *me*, Sophie’s an angel,” Rita cackled in the car, removing her wig.
“School drama club paid off. Did I overdo it?”
“Nailed it.” He dropped her home and returned.
“Son, you *can’t* marry that… person,” Mum gasped.
“But she’s perfect. A bit spoiled, is all.”
“What about Sophie?”
“You called her *common*.”
“Matty, *please*. Jeannette’s *not* for you.”
He pretended to ponder. “Fine. I’ll patch things up with Sophie.”
At the wedding, Mum beamed: “Aren’t they a gorgeous couple?”
Everyone was happy. Sophie’s “excellent taste” became Mum’s bragging point. She’d pop into the boutique, boasting about her future daughter-in-law’s fashion degree.
Never again did she claim Sophie was “beneath” him.
And that, dear reader, is how a son schooled his snobbish mother.