“You were always the spare part in this family,” whispered Margaret, her mother-in-law, watching her with a sharp gaze.
“Margaret, Ive made some fruit cordialwould you like to try it?” Emma ventured, peeking into the sitting room where the older woman was embroidering yet another doily.
Margaret didnt even glance up from her needlework.
“I dont want your cordial. Have you forgotten Ive got diabetes? Or do you simply not care?”
Emma sighed and stepped back. Diabetes? That was news to her. Just another dig, another way to remind her she didnt belong in a house shed lived in for seven years.
“Honestly, Mum, whats the problem now?” came her husband Jamess voice from the hallway. “Emmas only trying to help”
“Trying!” Margaret snorted. “She forgets the salt in the soup, your shirts come out yellow from her washing, and theres always dust somewhere.”
Emma perched on the kitchen stool, staring at the pot of cordial. Seven years of the same. Every day, something new to pick at. Too much salt, not enough. Floors too clean, floors not clean enough.
“James will be home soon,” she said, carrying a tray into the sitting room. “Perhaps we could all have dinner together?”
Margaret set aside her embroidery and fixed Emma with *that* lookthe one Emma had learned to read instantly. A mix of disdain and pity.
“Ill eat in my room. I cant bear to watch you poison my son with your cooking.”
The door slammed. Emma stood there, tray in hand, throat tight.
James came home late, exhausted, barely grunting a hello. He sat at the table, mechanically shovelling food into his mouth while glued to his phone.
“How was work?” Emma asked, sitting opposite him.
“Fine,” he muttered, eyes still on the screen.
“James, we need to talk.”
He looked up, irritation creasing his forehead.
“Not about Mum again, Em. How many times? Shes old, shes poorly, shes entitled to her opinions.”
“Poorly? Shes got slightly high blood pressure, thats all! And yet every single day”
“Every single day *what*?” James put his fork down. “Lives in her own home? Voices her opinions? Its *her* house, Emma!”
“And mine too! Im your wife, not the hired help!”
“Nobodys forcing you to cook and clean. Mum managed just fine on her own her whole life.”
Emma fell silent. Pointless. James would never understand what it was like to tiptoe around, biting her tongue, feeling like a stranger in her own home.
After dinner, she stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. Thirty-two but looking forty. Tired eyes, downturned mouth. When had she aged so much?
She remembered the girl shed been when she first met Jameslaughing, full of dreams. Shed thought she was marrying a prince. Tall, handsome, good job. And his mother? So refined, so cultured. A retired English teacher.
“Emma dear,” Margaret had said back then, “how lovely James found you. Hes such a homebodyhed be lost without a womans care.”
And Emma had tried. Oh, how shed tried. Learned to cook his childhood favourites. Ironed his shirts *just so*. Followed Margarets unspoken cleaning schedule.
The first year had been bearable. Gentle corrections, smiles masking criticism. *Youll learn, dear*. But the tone had sharpened. The bar kept rising.
“My friend Patricias daughter-in-law is *such* a homemaker,” Margaret would sigh over tea. “Everything gleams, her roast is divine, and most importantlyshe respects her elders.”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Emma had once dared to ask.
The older woman had blinked innocently. “Oh, nothing serious. Just a different upbringing, I suppose. Not your fault, of course. Your family mustve been more relaxed.”
Emma had nodded silently, then cried at home. Her family had been strict, in fact. *Respect your husband, keep a clean house, host properly.* But somehow, Margarets version was different.
James had defended her at first, argued with his mother. But over time, even he began agreeing. Especially when Margaret started complaining of ailments.
“James, love, my heart aches with worry,” shed whisper when she thought Emma couldnt hear. “I only wanted you happy, and look how things are.”
“Mum, how is that Emmas fault?”
“Because she resents me. I can *feel* it. And I wanted to be a second mother to her!”
Emma would listen, baffled. When had she ever shown resentment? She cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret through colds, raced to the chemist for prescriptions.
“James, I *am* trying!” shed pleaded.
“You are. But Mum senses its forced.”
“Forced?!”
“You go through the motions, no heart in it. Shes not daft, she notices.”
So Emma had tried to pour her heart into it. Asked after Margarets health, listened to her teaching stories, nodded enthusiastically. But that was wrong too.
“Youre smothering me,” Margaret had said. “All this fuss is exhausting.”
Emma had stepped back, focused on the house. And immediately heard:
“Youve withdrawn. Too good for us now, are you?”
A lose-lose game. No matter what she did, it was never right.
The worst part? James had slowly started siding with his mother. First nodding along, then outright agreeing.
“Mums right, Em. Youve gone all cold. You used to be different.”
“I used to not know what it felt like to be a guest in my own home,” shed snapped once.
“*Guest*? This is *our* house!”
“Is it? Then why cant I move a chair without your mothers permission?”
“Because shes the *matriarch*! She built this home!”
After that, things soured completely. James worked late, snapped when home. Margaret dropped all pretence of civility.
“See what youve done to my son?” shed say when James left. “He used to be so cheerful. Now hes miserable.”
“Maybe its not me,” Emma had dared once.
“Oh? Then who? *Me*? Am I not allowed peace in my own home?”
Friends just shrugged when she confided in them.
“Em, just *move*!” her mate Sarah had said. “Rent a flat, get a mortgage, anything!”
“James wont. Says why waste money when weve got a place. And whod look after his mum?”
“Well, *he* can! Shes not an invalid!”
“I know. But try telling him that.”
The cruel irony? Around others, Margaret transformed into the perfect mother-in-lawsweet, doting, bragging about her “wonderful” daughter-in-law.
“Our Emmas an absolute treasure!” shed gush to neighbours. “Cooks like a dream, keeps the house spotless, tends to me like Im her own mum.”
And the neighbours would tell Emma, “Youre so lucky with her! Cherish that.”
Making Emma feel even worse. If everyone saw a saint, the problem must be *her*.
Theyd never had children. At first, it didnt happen. Then she stopped wanting to. What kind of life would a child have in this house? She imagined Margaret micromanaging her parenting, and it terrified her.
“When are you giving me grandchildren?” Margaret would ask. “An old woman needs something to live for.”
“Its not happening yet,” Emma would reply.
“Seen a doctor? Or are you too busy with your *career*?”
Career? She worked part-time at a fabric shop, earning penniesbut at least there, she was *herself*. No criticism, just normal colleagues and grateful customers. The only place she felt valued.
“Maybe you should just stay home,” James had suggested once. “Mums on her own, and youre out all day.”
“And live on what? Your salary alone?”
“Wed manage. At least Mum wouldnt fret.”
“*Id* fret! I *need* that job, James!”
He didnt get it. To him, a wifes place was at home, tending to his mother, just as shed always done.
Then came an ordinary Tuesday. Emma returned from work, groceries in hand, and found a note from James: *Away on business. Back in a week. Look after Mum.*
Margaret was in the sitting room, TV on mute.
“James is gone,” she announced. “Just us now. Lets see how you behave without him here.”
Emma ignored her, started cooking. But Margaret wasnt done.
“You know, Ive wondered why you dislike me so. Analysed every word between us. And Ive realised.”
