“Think you’re the lady of the house now?” scoffed my mother-in-law, eyeing the new curtains.
“Where’s my grandson?” were the first words Emma heard upon opening the flat door. Margaret stood on the threshold with a bulging shopping bag and a pinched expression.
“Hello, Margaret,” Emma said politely. “Olivers nappingI only just put him down an hour ago.”
“Napping? At two in the afternoon?” Margaret huffed as she stepped inside. “My Peter was running about all day at his age.”
Emma swallowed the familiar sting of criticism and helped her mother-in-law with her coat. Every visit from Margaret turned into an ordeal. The woman found fault in everythingfrom how Emma raised her son to the way she loaded the dishwasher.
“Would you like tea?” Emma offered, heading to the kitchen.
“Of course. And put out those biscuitsthe oat ones I brought last time.”
Margaret marched into the sitting room and paused by the window. Yesterday, Emma had finally hung the new curtainssoft beige with a gold sheenwhich shed spent a month choosing. Shed set aside money from her wages to make the flat feel more like home.
“Think you’re the lady of the house now?” Margaret smirked, eyeing them. “Whats all this extravagance?”
Emmas chest tightened. Again. Again, shed done something wrong in Margarets eyes.
“The old ones were worn through,” she said quietly. “Peter said it was time for new ones.”
“Peter said that?” Margaret turned sharply. “And how much did these cost? Half his wages, Ill bet.”
“I used my own money,” Emma replied, forcing calm into her voice.
“Your own?” Margaret sank into an armchair, studying her. “Since when do married couples keep separate finances? Or are you calling all the shots now?”
Emma set the tea down and sat across from her. The conversation was veering into familiar, unpleasant territory.
“Peter and I discuss everything,” she said.
“Discuss?” Margaret sipped her tea and grimaced. “Weak. Ive told you how to brew it properly. And these curtainsthey dont suit the room at all.”
Emma glanced at the windows. To her, they brightened the space, made it cosier.
“I like them,” she murmured.
“You like them,” Margaret echoed. “And does your husbands opinion matter? Or his grandmothers?”
“Peter approved them.”
“Peters too soft,” Margaret sighed. “Hates confrontation. And you take advantage.”
A whimper came from the nursery. Oliver was awake. Emma stood, but Margaret was already moving.
“Ill get him. At least I can spend proper time with my grandson.”
Margaret disappeared, leaving Emma at the kitchen table, staring at the curtains. Were they really so awful? Should she have consulted Margaret first?
From the nursery came cooingMargaret speaking sweetly to Oliver. With him, she was different: gentle, patient, doting. With Emma, she was a relentless critic.
“Emma!” Margaret called sharply. “Come here! Look at your child!”
Emmas heart lurched. She rushed in to find Margaret holding Oliver, lips pursed.
“Whats wrong?”
“Whats wrong? Hes got nappy rash! Dont you check him?”
Emma leaned in. A faint redness, nothing alarming.
“Its just a reaction to the new nappies. Ive been using cream.”
“Cream?” Margaret shook her head. “In my day, we raised children without all these lotions. And they turned out fine.”
“But nowadays there are better”
“Nowadays theres too much nonsense,” Margaret cut in. “All these remedies. The boys suffering while his mother splurges on curtains instead of tending to him.”
Emmas throat burned. Every visit ended this wayher feeling like a failure of a mother and wife.
“I do tend to him,” she whispered.
“Do you?” Margaret passed Oliver over. “Then whys he so small? Peter was twice his size at this age.”
“The GP says his weights perfect.”
“Oh, the GP,” Margaret muttered. “Wheres a mothers instinct? I can see hes not eating enough.”
Emma cradled Oliver, who was healthy by every measure. But to Margaret, she could never do right.
They returned to the sitting room. Margaret settled back into her chair, scrutinising the flat.
“When did you even find time to hang these? Neglecting housework while the baby slept?”
“I did it last evening, when Peter got home.”
“With him helping, I suppose?”
“Yes, he helped.”
“Of course,” Margaret scoffed. “Bothering a working man with domestic trifles. My Peter never lifted a finger at home.”
Emma bit back the retort that Peter happily helpedit was pointless arguing.
“How much were they?” Margaret pressed.
“Two hundred pounds,” Emma admitted.
“Two hundred? For curtains? Have you lost your mind? That couldve clothed Oliver for months!”
“He has clothes. We havent changed the curtains in years.”
“And why change them? The old ones were fine. Not garish like these.”
Garish? Emma studied the muted beige drapes. What was garish about them?
Keys jingled in the hallway. Peter was home. Emma exhaledperhaps Margaret would turn her attention to him.
“Mum!” Peter grinned, entering. “How long have you been here?”
“Just arrived,” Margaret said, embracing him. “Ive missed you.”
“Missed you too. Everything alright at home?”
“Oh, just visiting my grandson. Found him covered in rashes, poor thing. And so thin.”
Peter frowned at Emma, then back at his mother.
“Mum, hes perfectly healthy. No rashes.”
“I saw them,” Margaret insisted. “Youre just too busy to notice.”
“Mum, hes fine. Emma takes brilliant care of him.”
Margaret pursed her lips.
“If you say so. But youd better watch the spending. Two hundred pounds on curtains! Can you imagine?”
Peter glanced around, finally noticing the change.
“Oh, you put them up! Looks great. I love them.”
“You love them,” Margaret repeated, as if humouring a child. “Peter, two hundred pounds. On curtains.”
“So? Fair price. We saved up.”
“Saved up?”
“Yeah, Emma set aside a bit each month. Wanted it to be a surprise.”
Margaret eyed Emma anewnot with approval, but deeper suspicion.
“Saved up secretly, did you? How interesting.”
“Mum, it wasnt secret,” Peter said, irritated. “We talked about redecorating. Emma took charge.”
“Took charge,” Margaret echoed. “Deciding for the whole family now.”
Peters patience frayed.
“Mum, whats the issue? Emmas done a lovely job. The flats cosier.”
“Cosier for whom? Herself?”
“For all of us,” Peter said firmly.
Margaret fell silent, displeasure simmering. Oliver began fussinghungry.
“Ill feed him,” Emma said, turning toward the bedroom.
“No, wait,” Margaret stopped her. “Give me a bottle. Ill feed him.”
“Hes breastfed,” Emma said.
“What?” Margaret gasped. “Still? At eight months?”
“The health visitor recommends it until at least a year.”
“The health visitor,” Margaret muttered. “Dont you think its time to wean him? Hell never learn independence.”
“Mum, enough,” Peter cut in. “Breastfeedings good for him.”
“Good, good,” Margaret waved dismissively. “Children grew up perfectly fine without all this fuss in my day.”
Emma left to nurse Oliver while Peter stayed with his mother. Muffled voices carried from the sitting roomno doubt Margaret airing grievances.
When Emma returned, Peter sat quiet while Margaret gathered her things.
“Leaving so soon?” Emma asked.
“Yes, things to do,” Margaret said curtly.
She kissed Olivers head and marched out. Peter walked her to the door.
“Mum, dont fret over nothing,” he said. “Emmas a wonderful wife and mother.”
“If you say so,” Margaret said coolly. “But mark my wordswhen a woman starts acting independently, it never ends well.”
The door shut. Peter returned, weary.
“What did she say?” Emma asked.
“Nothing worth repeating,” he sighed.
But Emma saw his unease. Every visit left tension lingering.
“Maybe talk to her?” she ventured.
“About what? She raised me alonecontrols all she knows. We just have to bear it.”
“And I should bear her criticisms too?”
Peter hugged her.
“Im sorry. I know its hard. But she doesnt mean harm. Shes just afraid of losing me.”
“So this is forever?”
“I dont know,” he admitted. “Lets just live our lives and ignore her.”
Emma nodded, though she knew ignoring Margaret was impossible. Every remark cut deep.
That evening, they sat together
