“You were always the outsider in this family,” murmured my mother-in-law, watching me with cold eyes.
“Margaret, I made some custard. Would you like to try it?” Emma offered cautiously, peering into the sitting room where her mother-in-law was embroidering yet another doily.
The woman didnt even lift her head from her needlework.
“I dont want your custard. Have you forgotten I have diabetes? Or do you just not care?”
Emma sighed and stepped back. She knew perfectly well Margaret didnt have diabetesit was just another jab, another way to remind her she didnt belong in this house, even after seven years.
“Mum, not again,” came her husbands voice from the hallway. “Emma does her best”
“Her best!” Margaret scoffed. “She forgets the salt in the stew, ruins your shirts in the wash, and the house is always dusty.”
Emma sank onto a stool by the cooker, staring at the pot of custard. Seven years of the same routine. Every day, something was wrongthe soup too salty or too bland, the floors not mopped properly, the bed not made the right way.
“James is coming over soon,” she said, carrying a tray into the sitting room. “Maybe we could have supper together?”
Margaret set aside her embroidery, fixing Emma with that familiar lookthe one that needed no translation. Contempt, mixed with pity.
“Ill have supper in my room. I cant stand watching you poison my son with your cooking.”
The door slammed. Emma was left standing alone, tray in hand, throat tight.
James came home late, exhausted, barely greeting her. He sat at the table, mechanically eating while staring at his phone.
“How was work?” Emma asked, sitting across from him.
“Fine,” he grunted, not looking up.
“James, we need to talk.”
He lifted his eyes, irritation creasing his brow.
“About Mum again? Emma, for heavens sake, how many times? Shes old, shes poorly, shes allowed her opinions.”
“Poorly? Shes got slightly high blood pressure, thats all! And yet every single day”
“Every day what?” James put down his fork. “She lives in her own house? Voices her complaints? Its her home, Emma!”
“And mine too! Im your wife, not the maid!”
“No ones forcing you to cook and clean. Mum managed everything herself for years.”
Emma fell silent. It was useless. James would never understand what it meant to walk on eggshells every day, to fear saying the wrong thing, to feel like a stranger in her own home.
After supper, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Thirty-two, but she looked fortytired eyes, downturned mouth. When had she aged so much?
She remembered the girl shed been when she first met James. Bright, laughing, full of plans. Shed thought she was marrying a princetall, handsome, with a good job. And his mother, so refined, so cultureda retired English teacher.
“Emma dear,” Margaret had said back then, “Im so glad James found you. Hes always needed a womans care.”
So Emma had tried. Shed learned to cook his childhood favourites, ironed his shirts just as Margaret showed her, cleaned on the unspoken schedule his mother set.
The first year had been bearable. Margarets criticisms were gentle, almost playful. “Youll learn, dear.” But gradually, the tone shifted. The remarks grew sharper, the expectations higher.
“My friend Barbaras daughter-in-law is so capable!” Margaret would sigh over tea. “Her home sparkles, her cookings divineand she respects her elders.”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Emma finally dared to ask once.
Margaret arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, nothing terribly wrong. Its just clear you were raised differently. Not your fault, of course. Your family must have been more… relaxed.”
Emma had nodded silently, then cried at home. Her family had been stricther own mother had drilled into her the importance of hospitality, cleanliness, respect. But somehow, Margaret made it sound like failure.
At first, James had defended her. But over time, it grew harderespecially when Margaret began complaining of poor health.
“Darling, youre breaking my heart,” shed whisper when she thought Emma couldnt hear. “I only wanted you happy, and look whats happened.”
“Mum, whats Emma got to do with it?”
“She doesnt accept me. I can feel it. And I only ever wanted to be a mother to her.”
Emma would listen, baffled. When had she ever rejected Margaret? She cooked, cleaned, nursed her through colds, ran to the chemist for her medicines.
“James, Im trying!” she pleaded once.
“You are. But Mum senses its forced.”
“Forced? How?”
“You do things out of duty, not love. Shes not stupidshe knows.”
So Emma tried to put love into it. She asked after Margarets health, listened to stories of her teaching days, admired her embroidery. But that was wrong too.
“Youre suffocating me,” Margaret snapped. “I need space.”
Emma stepped back, focused on the housework insteadonly to hear:
“Now youre ignoring us. Too good for us, are you?”
A losing game. Whatever she did, it was never right.
Worst of all, James slowly began agreeing with his mother. First silent nods, then open support.
“Mums right, Em. Youve gone cold. You werent like this before.”
“Before, I didnt know what it was to live as a guest in my own home,” she finally snapped one day.
“Guest? This is our home!”
“Is it? Why cant I move a chair without your mothers permission?”
“Because its her house! She built this home!”
After that, things deteriorated. James worked late, spoke little. Margaret dropped all pretence of politeness.
“See what youve done to my son?” shed say when James left. “He was cheerful once. Now hes miserable.”
“Maybe its not me,” Emma dared to say.
“Oh? Who then? Am I to blame for having no peace in my own home?”
Emma sought advice from friends, but they just shrugged.
“Move out!” urged her friend Sarah. “Rent somewhere, get a mortgageanything!”
“James wont. He says why waste money when weve got a house? And wholl look after his mum?”
“Let him look after her! Shes not helpless!”
“I know. But try telling James that.”
The cruelest part? Around others, Margaret became the perfect mother-in-lawsweet, doting, praising Emma to the skies.
“Our Emmas an angel!” shed gush to neighbours. “Cooks like a dream, keeps the house shining, cares for me like her own mother.”
And the neighbours would say to Emma, “Youre so lucky! Not everyone gets a mother-in-law like that.”
It only made things worse. If everyone saw a saint, the problem must be her.
Theyd never had children. At first, it didnt happen. Then, in this atmosphere, Emma didnt want it to. She imagined Margaret hovering over her parenting, criticising every choice, and shuddered.
“When will you give me grandchildren?” Margaret would sigh. “A little joy in my old age.”
“Were trying,” Emma would say.
“Seen a doctor? Or is your career more important?”
What career? Emma worked part-time at a fabric shop, earning penniesbut it was the only place she felt like herself. No criticism, just normal colleagues and grateful customers.
“Maybe you should stay home,” James suggested once. “Mums alone all day.”
“And how would we manage? On your salary?”
“Wed manage. At least Mum wouldnt worry.”
“But I would! I need to work, James!”
He didnt understand. To him, a wifes place was at homejust like his mother.
Everything changed on an ordinary Tuesday. Emma came home, set down the groceries, and found a note from James: “Gone to Manchester for work. Back in a week. Look after Mum.”
Margaret was in the sitting room, watching TV. She muted it when Emma entered.
“James is gone,” she said. “Just us now. Lets see how you behave without him here.”
Emma stayed silent, started cooking. But Margaret continued.
“You know, Ive wondered why you resent me. And Ive realisedyoure jealous.”
The knife slipped. Emma nicked her finger. Blood dripped onto the potatoes.
“Jealous that James loves me more,” Margaret went on. “Im his mother. I raised him. And you? Just some woman who latched onto him.”
Emma wrapped her finger, kept cooking. Silent.
“You think I dont see how you look at me? Full of hate. Waiting for me to die
