“You were always the outsider in this family,” whispered her mother-in-law, watching her with cold eyes.
“Margaret, I’ve made some stewed appleswould you care for any?” ventured Mary softly, peering into the parlour where the older woman sat embroidering yet another handkerchief.
The woman did not even glance up from her needlework.
“I dont want your stewed apples. Have you forgotten Ive got the sugar? Or do you just not care?”
Mary sighed and withdrew. She knew perfectly well Margaret had no such conditionit was just another little jab, another way to remind her that, even after seven years in this house, she still didnt belong.
“Mum, must you always be like this?” came her husbands voice from the hall. “Mary does her bestcooks, cleans…”
“Her best!” Margaret scoffed. “Forgets the salt in the soup, turns your shirts yellow with her washing, and lets the dust gather everywhere.”
Mary sank onto the stool by the stove, staring at the pot of stewed apples. Seven years of the same. Every day, something new to criticisetoo much salt, too little, floors not scrubbed properly, sheets not folded right.
“Edward will be home soon,” she said, carrying a tray into the parlour. “Might we at least have supper together?”
Margaret set her embroidery aside and looked at her with that expression Mary had learned to read too wellscorn laced with pity.
“Ill take mine in my room. I wont sit and watch you poison my son with your cooking.”
The door snapped shut. Mary stood alone, tray in hand, throat tight.
Edward returned late, weary, barely greeting her. He sat at the table and ate mechanically, eyes fixed on his newspaper.
“How was work?” Mary asked, settling across from him.
“Fine,” he muttered without looking up.
“Edward, we need to talk.”
He lifted his eyes, brow furrowed in irritation.
“About Mum again? Mary, for heavens sakeshes old, shes unwell, shes entitled to her opinions.”
“Unwell? Shes got a touch of high blood pressure, nothing more! And yet every single day”
“Every day what?” Edward set down his fork. “Lives in her own home? Voices displeasure? Its her house, Mary!”
“And mine too! Im your wife, not the hired help!”
“No one makes you cook or clean. Mum always managed on her own.”
Mary fell silent. It was useless. Edward would never understand what it was like to walk on eggshells, to fear saying the wrong thing, to feel like a stranger under his own roof.
After supper, she stood before the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. Thirty-two, but she looked nearer fortytired eyes, downturned mouth. When had she aged so much?
She remembered the girl she had been when she first met Edwardbright, quick to laugh, full of dreams. She had thought she was marrying a princetall, handsome, with a good position. And his mother, so refined, so cultureda retired schoolmistress.
“Mary dear,” Margaret had said back then, “how lovely that Edward found you. Hes such a homebodyhed be lost without a womans care.”
And Mary had tried. She had learned to cook Edwards childhood favourites, ironed his shirts just as Margaret showed her, kept the house to an unspoken schedule.
The first year had passed well enough. The criticisms came gently, wrapped in smilesjust little lessons for the new bride. But slowly, the tone changed. The remarks grew sharper, the expectations higher.
“My friend Agness daughter-in-law is such a capable thing,” Margaret would sigh over tea. “Her home gleams, her cooking is divineand she shows such respect for her elders.”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Mary had dared to ask once.
The older woman had raised her brows in feigned surprise.
“Nothing in particular. Its just clear you were raised differently. Not your fault, of course. Your family must have been more… relaxed.”
Mary had said nothing, merely nodded. Later, she wept. Her own mother had been strictguests treated with honour, the home kept spotless, a husband respected. Yet somehow, Margaret made it all seem lacking.
At first, Edward had defended her, argued with his mother. But as time passed, it became harder. Especially when Margaret began complaining of her health.
“Son, my heart aches with worry,” she would whisper when she thought Mary couldnt hear. “I only ever wanted your happiness, and now look.”
“Mum, whats Mary got to do with that?”
“She doesnt accept me. I feel how she dislikes me. And I wanted to be a mother to her.”
Mary heard these words and wonderedwhen had she shown dislike? She cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret through colds, fetched her medicines.
“Edward, I try!” she pleaded.
“You do. But Mum senses insincerity.”
“What insincerity?”
“You do things out of duty, not care. Shes no foolshe knows.”
So Mary tried to do everything with feelinginquired after Margarets health, listened to her tales of teaching, praised her wisdom. But that, too, was wrong.
“Youre too forward,” Margaret remarked. “I weary of your attentions.”
Mary withdrew, focused on the house. Then came the next complaint:
“Now you avoid us. Do you think yourself above us?”
A circle with no escape. No matter what she did, it was never right.
The worst was Edwards slow shift toward his mothers side. First hesitant nods, then open agreement.
“Mums right, Mary. Youve grown cold. You werent like this before.”
“Before, I didnt know what it was to live as a guest in my own home,” she had once retorted.
“Guest? This is our home!”
“Ours? Then why cant I move a chair without your mothers permission?”
“Because its her house! She built this home, lived here all her life!”
After that, things soured completely. Edward stayed late at work, spoke little, snapped when he did. Margaret no longer hid her disdain.
“See what youve done to my son?” she would say when he left. “Once so cheerful, now so grim.”
“Perhaps its not me,” Mary dared once.
“Then who? Tell me, who? Am I to blame for having no peace in my own home?”
Mary sought comfort from friends, but they only shrugged.
“Mary, why not move?” urged Jane. “Rent a place, take a mortgageanything!”
“Edward wont hear of it. Says theres no sense spending when weve a home already. And whod look after his mother?”
“Let her look after herself! Shes no invalid!”
“Ive thought the same. But Edward wont listen.”
What stung most was how Margaret transformed before otherssweet, doting, full of praise for her wonderful daughter-in-law.
“Our Mary is an absolute treasure!” she would gush to the neighbours. “Cooks like an angel, keeps the house shining, tends to me as if I were her own mother.”
And the neighbours would tell Mary,
“What a blessing your mother-in-law is! Not every woman is so lucky.”
It made it all worse. If everyone saw a saint, the fault must lie with her.
They had no children. At first, it simply didnt happen. Then, she no longer wished it. What sort of life would a child have in this house? Mary imagined Margarets interference, the constant corrections, and shuddered.
“When might we expect grandchildren?” Margaret would ask. “An old woman longs for joy in her twilight years.”
“It hasnt happened yet,” Mary would reply.
“Seen a physician? Or do you not wish it? Too busy with your career?”
What career? Mary worked in a haberdashery, earning pennies, but those hours were her only escape. There, no one criticised. Colleagues were kind, customers thanked her. It was the one place she felt valued.
“Perhaps you ought to stay home,” Edward suggested once. “Mums alone, and youre out all day.”
“And how should we live? On your wages alone?”
“Wed manage. At least Mum wouldnt fret.”
“But I would! I need my work, Edwarddo you understand?”
He didnt. To him, it was naturala wife at home, tending his mother, keeping house. Just as his own mother had done.
Everything changed on an ordinary Tuesday. Mary returned from work, set down her shopping, and found a note on the table: “Gone to Leeds on business. Back in a week. Look after Mum.”
Margaret sat in the parlour, the wireless murmuring. When she saw Mary, she turned it off.
“Edwards gone,” she said. “Now its just us. I wonder how youll behave without him here.”
Mary said nothing, began preparing supper. But Margaret continued.
“Ive
