“If I’m the enemy in your mum’s eyes, then let her live however she wants. I won’t lift a finger for her again!”
Layla had always tried to keep her cool when it came to Margaret. Her mother-in-law dropped by their London flat two or three times a week, and each visit was a fresh ordeal. The September days were getting shorter, and Laylas patience was wearing thinner.
Margaret adored hosting impromptu dinner parties. Shed arrive with bags full of groceries, take over the kitchen, and cook enough to feed a small army. Then shed insist on inviting neighbours, acquaintances, or even total strangers.
“Now *this* is proper hospitality!” Margaret would announce loudly, arranging plates. “Not like some people who cant even brew a decent cuppa.”
Layla would clench her jaw and keep slicing bread. Margaret never named names, but everyone knew exactly who she meant.
At the table, Margaret transformed into a full-blown storyteller. Her eyes would light up, her voice would take on a dramatic flourish, and the performance would begin.
“My nephews wife, Emilyabsolute gold! You should see the cross-stitch she does! Proper works of art! And she knits, sews, keeps their garden immaculate. Jams, chutneyshouse like a proper home!”
The guests would nod approvingly, while Layla felt her cheeks burn. Her husband, James, sat glued to his phone, pretending nothing was happening.
“And Rebecca, my cousins wifelovely girl. So obedient, never a cross word. Her mother-in-law feels like shes behind a fortress wall with her! Helps with everything, asks advice on every little thing. *Thats* good upbringing!”
One of the neighbours turned to Layla. “What about you, dear? What do you do?”
Layla opened her mouth, but Margaret swooped in.
“Oh, why bother asking!” Her voice dripped with barely concealed mockery. “Our Laylas a modern woman. Office job, glued to a computer. No time for homemaking. Used to having everything done for her.”
“Im a sales manager,” Layla tried to explain.
“Oh yes, a *manager*,” Margaret nodded knowingly. “But who does everything at home? Poor James has to cook *and* clean after work. Spoiled rotten, our daughter-in-law.”
Layla gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. James still hadnt looked up from his screen.
After one such dinner, when the guests had left and the dishes were done, Margaret cornered Layla with a saccharine smile.
“Layla, darling, could you pop down to the clinic with me tomorrow? Ive got test results to collect, and its a bit daunting alone.”
“Of course, Margaret,” Layla said, even though she had a crucial client meeting.
“Bless you, pet! James is ever so busy at work, wouldnt want to bother him. But youve got one of those *flexible* schedules, dont you?”
Layla bit back the retort that her schedule wasnt that flexible. Better not to start a row.
The following week, another request.
“Layla, love, could you nip to Boots for me? Doctors prescribed new pills, and I cant make head nor tail of the names. Might get the wrong ones.”
“Fine,” Layla nodded.
“And while youre out, could you grab some groceries? Pasta, washing-up liquidtoo heavy for me to carry these days, bad back and all.”
Layla spent half the day traipsing between three pharmacies for the right prescription, then queued at Tesco. She came home exhausted.
“Howd it go?” James asked, eyes fixed on the telly.
“Peachy,” Layla muttered.
A few days later, Margaret arrived with a gaggle of relatives in tow.
“This is my daughter-in-law, Layla,” she introduced. “And this is my sister-in-law, Patricia, and her daughter, Gemma.”
Gemma, around Laylas age, carried herself like she was twice as wise.
“Heard youve got an office job?” Gemma asked, eyeing the flat like a property developer.
“Yeah, sales.”
“How *interesting*!” Gemma gushed with faux enthusiasm. “Im a stay-at-home mum myself. Three little ones, all angels. My eldests already in violin lessonsGrade 2!”
Margaret beamed. “Now *thats* a proper woman! Home, children, supporting her husband. Not gallivanting about in offices.”
Patricia chimed in. “Gemmas ever so domestic! Cooks, sews, knits. I always sayany mand be lucky to have her!”
“And I do the garden too,” Gemma added modestly. “Grow my own veg, make preserves. My husband says its like heaven at home.”
Margaret turned to Layla. “Hear that, pet? Maybe take a leaf out of Gemmas book! Might keep James home evenings instead of him always *working late*.”
Layla froze. Only she knew James had been staying out more. How did Margaret?
Patricia leaned in. “James isnt home much?”
“Oh, just busy,” Layla hedged.
“*Too* busy!” Margaret huffed. “Any mand leg it with a home like this. Empty fridge, wife always working. No wonder hes off finding comfort elsewhere!”
Gemma tutted sympathetically. “Men need *tending to*. Cosy home, home-cooked meals, little treats. My husband wont even go on business tripssays nothing beats home!”
The conversation ploughed on for another excruciating hour. Layla sat silent, fury simmering. The digs, the comparisonsworse than a full-blown shouting match.
When they finally left, Layla snapped.
“James, did you *hear* your mother?”
“What? Just womens chatter.”
“*Chatter*? She humiliated me!”
“Dont be dramatic. Mum just gave examples of how others live.”
“She called me useless and spoiled!”
“She *hinted*. Maybe listen to your elders sometimes?”
Layla stared. “So you agree Im a terrible wife?”
“Didnt say that. But maybe prioritise home a bit more.”
“Who cooks, cleans, washes? The *brownies*?”
“We take turns”
“*Turns*? When did you last cook? Heating *fish fingers* doesnt count!”
James winced. “No need to shout. Im being civil.”
“Because Im *done*! Done with your mums jabs, and you just sitting there!”
“Mum doesnt jab. She *advises*.”
Layla stormed off. Pointless.
Next day, another call. A special cream, only stocked in one pharmacy across town.
“Layla, darling, you *must* help! So hard for me to get there, but youve got the car”
Layla checked the clock. Three hours till her big meeting.
“Margaret, maybe another day? Ive got”
“Oh, whats *so* important? A tiny delay! Im *itching* without this cream!”
Layla caved. Got stuck in traffic, missed the meeting, got a bollocking from her boss.
That evening, James shrugged. “One late day wont kill you. Mum *needed* help.”
“And if I get *sacked* over this?”
“You wont. And if you do, get another job.”
Layla was speechless.
A week later, another dinner. More comparisons.
“My nephews wife, Emilyher mother-in-laws *thrilled*! Holidays together, gifts. Emily *listens*, takes advice. Like a real daughter!”
Then, pointedly at Layla:
“Some think marriage means ignoring in-laws. No advice, no respect.”
“Margaret, if youve something to say, *say it*,” Layla snapped.
Margaret gasped. “Darling, Im just *musing*! Merely observing how some treat their elders.”
After dinner, as Layla washed up, Margaret sidled over.
“Layla, dearare you actually *good* for anything?”
A plate slipped from Laylas hands, smashing on the tiles.
“*What* did you say?”
“Oh, nothing!” Margaret blinked innocently. “Just wondering if youve any *useful* skills beyond typing.”
Laylas hands shook as she picked up shards.
“If Im the enemy in your eyes, then live how you like. Im done waiting on you.”
Dead silence. Margaret gaped. James finally looked up.
“Layla, what? Mum didnt *mean*”
“Didnt she? She just asked if Im *good for anything*!”
Margaret recovered fast. “Oh, darling, you *misheard*! Id never
