In the dim glow of the lamplight, Emily clenched her fists, the words hanging in the air like smoke: “If your mother thinks Im the enemy, then let her live as she pleases. I wont lift a finger for her again!”
Emily had always bitten her tongue when it came to Margaret Whitmore. Her mother-in-law descended upon their London flat two or three times a week, each visit a fresh ordeal. As September days grew shorter, Emilys patience wore thinner.
Margaret adored hosting. Shed arrive with bulging shopping bags, commandeer the kitchen, and cook enough to feed a battalionthen invite neighbours, acquaintances, even strangers off the street. “Now this is proper hospitality!” shed declare, slamming down plates. “Not like some people who cant even brew a decent cuppa.” Emily would grind her teeth and keep slicing bread. Margaret never named names, but everyone knew.
At the table, Margaret morphed into a theatrical raconteur. Eyes gleaming, voice swelling, shed launch into her performance. “My nephews wife, Charlotteabsolute gold! Knits, bakes, keeps a garden fit for a magazine! And so respectfulnever a cross word. Thats what I call proper upbringing!” Guests would nod while Emilys cheeks burned. Her husband, James, stared at his phone like none of it concerned him.
One evening, a neighbour turned to Emily. “And what do you do, dear?” Before she could answer, Margaret cut in. “Oh, dont bother asking! Our Emilys a modern girloffice job, computer screens. No time for homemaking. Spoiled rotten, if you ask me.”
The final straw came when Margaret demanded Emily skip a client meeting to fetch a specialty cream from a pharmacy across town. “Its urgent!” Margaret whined. “My skins unbearable!” Emily cavedand got reprimanded by her boss for arriving late.
That night, Margaret hosted another dinner. “Charlottes mother-in-law is so loved! They holiday together, exchange gifts. A real daughter!” Her gaze slid to Emily. “Some wives forget their duties. No respect for elders.”
Emily snapped. “If you have an issue, say it plainly.”
Margaret feigned innocence. “Goodness, Im just making conversation!” Later, as Emily scrubbed dishes, Margaret sidled up. “Tell me, dearare you actually good for anything?”
The plate shattered. “Pack your things,” Emily said coldly to James. “Youre leaving. Both of you.”
Margaret wailed. “This is our sons home too!”
“No. Its mine. Inherited from my gran. Youre guestsand unwelcome ones.” When they refused to go, Emily called the police. The officers examined the deed. “The owners word is final,” one said. James, red-faced, hauled their suitcases out.
Silence fellblissful, unbroken.
Weeks later, Emily bumped into Margaret at Waitrose. The woman looked frail, her haughtiness wilted. “Emily” she began.
“Goodbye, Margaret.” Emily walked on.
James phoned months later, voice ragged. “Mums ill. She… misses you.”
Emily felt nothing but a dull ache for wasted years. “Hire a carer, James. Thats your job now.” She hung up.
Alone in her flat, sipping wine, Emily finally understood: self-respect wasnt negotiable. And solitude, she decided, tasted far sweeter than surrender.
