For twenty years, I endured my mother-in-laws jabsbut her final words chilled me to the bone.
“You shouldnt have shouted at her like that, Emma,” James muttered, setting his teacup down with a guilty glance. “Shes old now.”
“Old? Was she old when she spent the last two decades making my life miserable?” Emma spun away from the window, arms crossed. “Twenty years, James! Twenty years of her snide remarks!”
“But shes ill now”
“Ill? Oh, please.” Emma scoffed. “Ill when it suits her. Perfectly spry when shes berating poor Mrs. Thompson next door or nitpicking my every move.”
James sighed into his tea. He was exhausted by the never-ending war between his wife and his mother. The same script, every day: a barb from Mum, an explosion from Emma, slamming doors, and bitter words hanging in the air like fog.
“What did she say this time?” he asked, though he already regretted it.
Emma shut her eyes, bracing herself. “That Im a dreadful homemaker. That my soup tastes like dishwater, the house is a pigsty, and the children are spoiled rotten. Oh, and that I should take lessons from Sophieyour brothers *perfect* wife, who apparently juggles gourmet meals and spotless floors without breaking a sweat.”
“Mums just… used to being in charge.”
“Used to it?” Emmas voice cracked. “And Im not? Im not used to cooking after a ten-hour shift at the shop, scrubbing floors, folding laundry? Im not used to hearing daily that Im useless?”
James reached for her, but she flinched away.
“Do you know what she left me with today?” Emma swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “That when youre gone, Ill *still* be alone. Because no one would want someone like me.”
James froze, arms still outstretched. “She didnt”
“She did. Word for word. Then slammed the door so hard I thought the plaster would crack.”
Footsteps pattered down the hall. The kitchen door creaked open, and ten-year-old Lily peeked in. “Mum… is Granny gone? She didnt say anything to me.” She wrapped her arms around Emmas waist.
“Gone, love. Back to her flat.” Emma stroked her daughters hair.
“Why do you always argue? It scares me when you shout.”
Emma knelt, cupping Lilys face. “Im sorry, sweetheart. Grown-ups forget how to talk nicely sometimes. But it doesnt mean we dont love each other.”
“Granny doesnt love you,” Lily blurted. “Shes always cross with you. And its not fair.”
Emma pulled her close, tears spilling again. “Go finish your homework, darling. Dad and I need to chat.”
When Lily left, James sat beside his wife. “Em, Ill talk to Mum. Make her see”
“See *what*?” Emma rubbed her temples. “Youve been talking to her for twenty years. Its like reasoning with a brick wall.”
“Then what do we do?”
Emma studied her handshands that had scrubbed pans, folded school uniforms, typed invoices at the shop till. Hands that worked until they ached. And still, her mother-in-law called her lazy.
“Remember how we met?” she asked suddenly.
James blinked. “Of course. At the village hall dance. You wore that blue dress.”
“*Cornflower* blue,” Emma corrected with a sad smile. “I thought you were the handsomest bloke alive. Your mother hated me on sight.”
“She was just protective”
“Stop making excuses!” Emma snapped. “She hated me because my dad was a mechanic, not some posh architect like yours. Because we lived in a council flat, not a bloody manor.”
“That was ages ago”
“Ages? Remember our wedding? She sulked through the entire reception. And when we moved in with her, her first words were, *My* house, *my* rules.”
Emma stood, flicking the kettle on. “Twenty years, James. Twenty years of bending over backwards. Cooking her favourites, cleaning to her standards, raising the kids by her handbook. And what do I get?”
“Mum *does* appreciate you”
“Appreciate?” Emma laughed bitterly. “She *tolerates* me. Theres a difference.”
The kettle whistled. She poured the tea, slumping back into her chair.
“Know what I dream about?” she whispered. “Waking up and not wondering if my toast is too burnt for her. Coming home without dreading a dust inspection. Buying the kids ice cream without a lecture on rotting their teeth.”
“Em”
“No, let me finish. I dream of *our* house. Where no one critiques my every breath. Where the kids dont grow up hearing us snipe like alley cats.”
James squeezed her hand. “But Mums on her own. Wholl look after her?”
“And wholl look after *me*?” Emmas voice trembled. “When I had pneumonia, she never brought me so much as a biscuit. Just complained her soup was too bland. When I broke my wrist? Same. Always my fault for failing.”
A knock interrupted them. James returned with neighbour Mrs. Wilkins, who settled at the table, declining tea. “Heard Margery storming back to hers. Thought Id pop in.”
“Stormings the word,” Emma muttered.
“Dont take it to heart, love. Shes just a lonely old thing. Gets sharper with age.”
“Mrs. Wilkinsdo you know what she told me today?” Emma repeated the cruelty.
The neighbour tutted. “Oh, duck. She didnt mean it. Margery *knows* shed be lost without you.”
“Knows? Then why the constant digs?”
“Shes proud, thats all. Brags about you to me all the timeEmma keeps the house so lovely, Emmas raising the children right. Just cant say it to your face.”
Emma gaped. “*Brags*?”
“Like youre the Crown Jewels! But after her Harold passed, she clung to James like a life raft. Then you came along, young, pretty, stealing his attention…”
“So Im supposed to pity her?”
Mrs. Wilkins stood, patting Emmas shoulder. “All Im saying isits easier to wreck a family than mend one.”
After she left, silence settled. Outside, twilight dimmed the cul-de-sac; a dog barked, car engines hummed.
“James… what if we rented somewhere?” Emma ventured.
“We cant afford”
“I could take weekends at the corner shop. They need cover.”
“And Mum?”
“She stays here. Its *her* place. Well find a little flatjust ours.”
James exhaled. “…Maybe we should try. Temporarily.”
“*Temporarily?*” Emma turned to him. “I cant do this anymore. Im forty years old and still flinch when she walks in. Im *tired*.”
“Alright,” he murmured. “Well view some places.”
Emma hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. For the first time in years, hope flickeredbright and fragile as a candle.
“What if she forbids it?”
“Mum forbids *everything*. But were not kids.”
—
The next evening, Emma found Margery at the stove, stirring stew with deliberate indifference.
“Hello,” Emma said.
“Hello,” Margery clipped. “Children were hungry. Had to step in.”
Emma bit back a retort. *Soon*, she reminded herself.
“Thanks for cooking. Ill change and help.”
Margerys ladle paused. No argument? No tears? “…Dont bother.”
“Suit yourself.” Emma walked away, ignoring the clatter of pansthe soundtrack of a woman expecting a fight that never came.
At dinner, the children fidgeted under the tension.
“Dad, whys Granny being nice?” little Oliver whispered. “She gave me extra pudding.”
Emma smiled. “Maybe shes turning over a new leaf.”
Later, Margery lingered, rearranging salt shakers with trembling hands.
“Margery,” Emma said gently. “We need to talk.”
The older woman stiffened. “About?”
“James and I are renting a flat. Found one near the park.”
Margerys teacup clattered. “Because of yesterday? Because of what I?”
“Not just that. We need our own space.”
“And the children?”
“Theyre *our* children.”
Margery sank into a chair, suddenly frail. “So Ill be alone after all.”
Emmas chest achedbut not enough to stay. “Youll see them every weekend. But were leaving.”
“…I did this to myself,” Marg
