“So, you fancy yourself a proper homemaker now?” scoffed my mother-in-law, eyeing my new curtains. “Wheres my grandson?” were the first words Emma heard upon opening the flat door. Margaret stood on the threshold with a massive bag and a sour expression.
“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Emma greeted politely. “Olivers nappingI only just put him down an hour ago.”
“Napping? At two in the afternoon?” Margaret huffed, barging in. “My Daniel was up half the day at his age.”
Emma swallowed the jab and helped her mother-in-law with her coat. Every visit from Margaret felt like an interrogation. The woman found fault in everythingfrom how Emma raised Oliver to the way she rinsed dishes.
“Would you like some tea?” Emma offered, heading to the kitchen.
“Obviously. And put out those biscuitsthe oat ones I brought last time.”
Margaret marched into the sitting room and froze by the window. Yesterday, Emma had finally hung the new curtainssoft beige with a gold sheen, chosen after a month of deliberation. Shed saved from her wages to buy them, wanting to make the flat feel cosier.
“Decided to play housewife, have we?” Margaret smirked, eyeing the drapes. “What lavish extravagance.”
Emmas chest tightened. Again. Once more, shed done something wrong in Margarets eyes.
“The old ones were fraying,” she murmured. “Daniel agreed it was time for new ones.”
“Daniel agreed?” Margaret turned sharply. “How much did these cost? Half my sons monthly wages, Ill bet.”
“I paid with my own money,” Emma replied, forcing calm.
“Your own?” Margaret sank into the armchair, scrutinising her. “Shouldnt household funds be shared? Or are you too independent now to consult your husband?”
Emma set down the teacup and sat opposite. The conversation was veering into familiar, unpleasant territory.
“Daniel and I discuss everything,” she said.
“Discuss?” Margaret sipped her tea and grimaced. “Weak. Ive told you how to brew it properly. And these curtains They clash with everything.”
Emma glanced at the windows. To her, the drapes brightened the room, made it feel warmer.
“I like them,” she ventured.
“You like them,” Margaret echoed. “And your husbands opinion? Or his sons grandmothers?”
“Daniel approved them.”
“Daniels too soft,” Margaret sighed. “Hates confrontation. You take advantage.”
A cry sounded from the nursery. Oliver was awake. Emma stood, but Margaret cut in.
“Ill go. At least Ill spend proper time with my grandson.”
Margaret vanished into the nursery, leaving Emma at the kitchen table, staring at the curtains. Were they truly awful? Should she have consulted Margaret first?
From the nursery, Margaret cooed lovingly at Olivergentle, patient, nothing like the stern critic she became with Emma.
“Emma!” Margaret called. “Come here! Look at your child!”
Emmas pulse spiked. She rushed in to find Margaret cradling Oliver.
“Whats wrong?”
“Hes got nappy rash!” Margaret snapped. “Are you blind? Cant even care for your own son?”
Emma inspected him. A slight redness, nothing alarming.
“Its from the new nappiesmild irritation. Ive been using cream.”
“Cream?” Margaret scoffed. “In my day, we raised children without such nonsense. And they turned out fine.”
“But modern treatments help”
“Modern rubbish,” Margaret cut in. “Child suffers while his mother wastes money on curtains.”
Emmas throat burned. Every visit ended this wayher reduced to a failing mother and incompetent wife.
“I take care of Oliver,” she whispered.
“Do you?” Margaret thrust him into her arms. “Then whys he so thin? Daniel was twice his size at this age.”
“The GP says his weights normal.”
“GPs, GPs,” Margaret muttered. “Wheres your mothers instinct? I can see hes underfed.”
Emma held Oliver close. He was healthy, thriving. Yet to Margaret, she could never do anything right.
They returned to the sitting room. Margaret reclaimed her chair, scanning the space with disdain.
“When did you even hang these? While the baby slept? Neglecting your duties?”
“Last evening, when Daniel got home,” Emma said, rocking Oliver.
“In front of your husband? He helped?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” Margaret sneered. “Burdens a man with housework. My Daniel never lifted a finger.”
Emma bit back the retort that Daniel enjoyed helpingthat hed offered to hang the curtains. Arguing was pointless.
“How much were they?” Margaret pressed.
“Two hundred pounds,” Emma admitted.
“Two hundred?!” Margaret gasped. “For curtains? Have you lost your mind? Thats six months of clothes for Oliver!”
“He has plenty. We hadnt replaced these in three years.”
“And shouldnt have! The old ones were fine. Not gaudy like these.”
Gaudy? Emma studied the subtle beige fabric. What was gaudy about them?
Keys jingled in the hallway. Daniel was home. Emma exhaledperhaps Margaret would turn her scrutiny elsewhere.
“Mum!” Daniel brightened upon entering. “How long have you been here?”
“Just arrived,” Margaret hugged him. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. Everything alright at home?”
“Came to see my grandson, but hes covered in rashes. And so scrawny.”
Daniel frowned at Emma, then his mother.
“Mum, what? Olivers perfectly healthy. No rashes.”
“I saw them,” Margaret insisted. “Youre too busy working to notice.”
“Mum, hes fine. Emmas brilliant with him.”
Margaret pursed her lips.
“If you say so But you should monitor her spending. Two hundred pounds on curtains! Imagine.”
Daniel finally noticed the drapes.
“Oh, you hung them! They look smashing.”
“You like them,” Margaret said, as if humouring a child. “Two hundred pounds, Daniel. For curtains.”
“So?” Daniel shrugged. “Fair price. We saved up.”
“Saved?”
“Yeah. Emma set aside a bit each month. Wanted it to be a surprise.”
Margaret studied Emma anewnot with approval, but deeper suspicion.
“Saved without telling her husband? Interesting.”
“Mum, whats that supposed to mean?” Daniel said, irked. “We agreed the place needed freshening up. Emma took charge.”
“Took charge,” Margaret nodded. “Decides for the whole family now.”
Daniels patience frayed.
“Mum, enough. Emma did a great job. The flats homelier.”
“Homelier for whom? Herself?”
“For all of us,” Daniel said firmly.
Margaret fell silent, radiating displeasure. Oliver began to wailhungry.
“Ill feed him,” Emma said, heading to the bedroom.
“Wait,” Margaret stopped her. “Give me a bottleIll feed him.”
“Hes breastfed,” Emma said.
“What?” Margaret gaped. “Still? Hes eight months!”
“The GP recommends at least a year.”
“GPs again,” Margaret grumbled. “Dont you think its time to wean him? A child needs independence.”
“Mum, stop,” Daniel cut in. “Breastfeedings beneficial.”
“Beneficial,” Margaret waved dismissively. “Children thrived without such fuss in my day.”
Emma left to nurse Oliver while Daniel stayed with his mother. Muffled arguing drifted from the sitting roomMargarets complaints about her, no doubt.
Upon returning, Daniel sat quiet while Margaret gathered her things.
“Leaving so soon?” Emma asked.
“Yes, things to do,” Margaret said curtly.
She kissed Oliver and made for the door. Daniel followed.
“Mum, dont fret over nothing,” he said. “Emmas a wonderful wife and mother.”
“If you say so,” Margaret replied coolly. “But mark my wordsa wilful woman brings no good.”
The door slammed. Daniel returned, weary.
“What did she say?” Emma asked.
“Same old rubbish,” he sighed. “Ignore her.”
But Emma saw his unease. Margarets visits always left tension in their wake.
“Maybe talk to her?” Emma ventured.
“About what? She raised me alonecontrols all she knows. We just endure it.”
“And I endure her constant criticism?”
Daniel hugged her.
“Im sorry. I know its hard. But she means welljust fears losing me.”
“So this is forever?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Lets just live our lives and tune her out.”
Emma nodded, though she knew ignoring Margaret was impossible. Every barb struck deep.
That evening, they settled into domestic peace: Oliver playing on the rug, Daniel watching telly, Emma cooking. Yet Margarets words lingered.
“Dan Do you really like the curtains?” she asked.
“Course. Why?”
“Your mum said they don
