Six years ago, my husband William and I had scraped together every last penny to buy our own little home, denying ourselves nearly every luxury. At last, we had a modest two-bedroom flatcosy, bright, though plainly furnished. It was meant to be the start of a happy new chapter for our growing family. My wife, Beatrice, was heavily pregnant, with only days left before the birth. Everything was ready: the babys things neatly packed, the nursery corner arranged, and nothing stood between us and the joys of parenthood but time.
Beatrice had always dreamed of a place of her own, free from her parents oversightand most of all, from her mother-in-laws meddling. Her relationship with Margaret had always been strained. The woman had an opinion on everythinghow one ought to live, breathe, even wash the dishes. One day, Beatrice had finally snapped, telling her plainly that she didnt need constant advice. Margaret took offence and vanished from our livesfor a while.
When William drove Beatrice to the maternity ward, he never imagined the surprise awaiting him. The very next day, his mother phoned to announce she was coming to visit. He barely had time to object. Margaret arrived in full regalia, inspecting the flat with a critical eyethe hallway was passable, the curtains dreadful, the kitchen a shining nightmare that needed scrubbing daily! She rifled through the fridge, scoffing at the shop-bought dumplings and declaring shed make soup the next day. William tried to laugh it off, to steer the conversation elsewhere, but it was no use. His mother donned her workout clothes and marched through the rooms like a general surveying a battlefield.
That evening, he offered to walk her home. But she refused. Ill stay the night, she declared. You shouldnt be alone in case Beatrice comes home tomorrow. And so she stayed. One night became two. Then three.
While William was at work, she rearranged cupboards, sorted clothes, dictated where the changing table should go, and what else needed buying. He was growing weary of her help but dreaded disappointing her. Then came the announcement: she would stay for a few monthsto assist with the baby. After all, theyd never manage alone.
When Beatrice finally returned, the whole family awaited herher parents, William, and, of course, beaming Margaret. Beatrice knew at once something had changed. The curtains were different, the furniture moved, an unfamiliar scent lingered. Her parents left. Margaret did not. Under Beatrices silent stare, William murmured, Mums staying a while. To help us out
Exhausted from childbirth, Beatrice had no choice. And that very night, the torment began. Youre not holding the baby right, Youve swaddled him all wrong, Hes crying because you dont know how to rock him. Beatrice held her tongueuntil Margaret snatched the child from her arms. That was the last straw.
Thank you for your help, she said calmly, but you may go. This is my child. And Ill be the one to rock him. Just me.
Margaret rolled her eyes, deeply insulted. William fumbled out some feeble protest, but one sharp look from Beatrice silenced him. She was calm. She was strong. This was her home. Her family.
Margaret packed her bags. She never returned. William finally understoodhis wife needed support, not orders. And for the first time, Beatrice truly felt mistress of her own house. No matter how much time had passed since the birth, what mattered was that she hadnt given in.
