“You knew he was a pushover,” whispered the mother-in-law as he left the room.
“I dont see why we need so much meat,” grumbled Margaret Wilkins, peering into the fridge. “Half this would do for three grown adults.”
Emma quietly continued chopping onions for the salad. Tears rolled down her cheeksnot from the onions, but from the daily commentary on her housekeeping from her mother-in-law.
“And the potatoes are all soft,” the older woman went on. “Where do you even buy these? The first dodgy corner shop you see?”
“At the market, Margaret,” Emma replied softly. “The same one I always go to.”
“Oh, of course. And what good does that do? Money down the drain.”
Emma set the knife down on the cutting board and took a deep breath. Five years of marriage, and every day was the samecriticism, disapproval, endless nitpicking. And her husband, James, just sat there, pretending not to hear any of it.
“James, lunch is ready!” she called towards the living room, where he was sprawled on the sofa with his phone.
“Be there in a sec,” he replied, not looking up.
“What do you mean, ‘in a sec’?” Margaret huffed. “The foods getting cold, and hes fiddling with that blasted phone. James, come to the table now!”
Obediently, her son set his phone aside and shuffled into the kitchen, taking his usual seat next to his mother, opposite Emma.
“Whats for lunch?” he asked, unfolding his napkin.
“Beef stew and meatballs,” Emma said, ladling soup into bowls.
“Beef stew again,” Margaret grimaced. “Gives me heartburn. Emma, you know I cant handle anything acidic.”
“You could skip the sour cream,” Emma suggested. “I left out the vinegar this time.”
“What difference does that make? Still tastes sour. And why so much cabbage? You know it gives James gas.”
Emma glanced at her husband, waiting for him to say somethinganything. But James just slurped his soup silently, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.
“Next time, Ill just make plain broth,” Emma conceded.
“About time. No need for all these fancy recipes. Back in my day, people were happy with a simple soup, and look how sturdy we turned out.”
Lunch passed in the usual silenceMargaret dissecting every dish, James nodding along, and Emma counting the minutes until the ordeal was over.
Afterwards, Margaret retreated to her room to binge her soaps, while Emma cleared the table. James made a beeline for the sofa, but she stopped him.
“James, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He paused in the doorway, annoyed.
“Your mother. I cant live like this anymore.”
“Whats the problem? Mums not doing anything wrong.”
Emma nearly dropped the plate in her hands at his naivety.
“Nothing wrong? James, she criticises everything I dothe food, the cleaning, the shopping! I feel like a servant in my own home.”
“Well, Mums just used to being in charge. Shes been running things her whole life.”
“Running things? And what am I? A temporary lodger?”
James rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Em, dont be dramatic. Shes set in her ways. Just give it time.”
“Ive given it five years! Five years waiting for her to adjust, and she only gets worse.”
“What do you want me to do? Kick my own mother out?”
“I want you to stand up to her. Tell her this is my home, and Im your wife.”
James shook his head.
“I cant talk to her like that. She raised me.”
“And what am I, a stranger? Were supposed to be a family!”
“Of course we are. But I only have one mother.”
Emma felt something twist inside her. The same old storyhis mother always came first.
“Right,” she said, fighting back tears. “Got it.”
“Em, dont be like that. Youve got to make allowances for older people.”
He reached out to pat her shoulder, but she moved away.
“Go on, then. Your mothers probably missing you.”
James hovered for a moment, then shrugged and left. Emma stayed behind, staring at the mountain of dirty dishes and her own heavy thoughts.
Shed met James at university. Hed seemed so steady, so calmunlike her exes, whod been all bluster and bravado. James never raised his voice, always polite, always considerate. Maybe a bit too soft, but after a childhood full of shouting matches, shed thought that was a good thing.
Shed only met Margaret at the wedding. Shed seemed pleasanta bit stern, but kind. Said shed always wanted a daughter-in-law, that shed love Emma like her own.
The trouble started when theyd rented a flat near Margarets. Suddenly, she was popping round every dayfor salt, for sugar, for any excuse to cast a critical eye over their home.
“Emma, whys the floor so dull? Youre using the wrong cleaner.”
“Something smells musty in the bedroom. You should air it out more.”
Emma had tried to ignore it at first, telling herself Margaret was just looking out for her son. But the comments only got sharper.
Then James lost his job. Money got tight, and Margaret graciously offered them her spare roomjust until he got back on his feet.
That “temporary” arrangement had stretched into three years. James found a low-paying gig at a small firm, but moving out never happened. And Margaret had stopped pretending she thought Emma was good enough for her son.
“My friend Barbaras daughter-in-law is completely different,” shed say. “Thrifty, organised. Her home looks like a magazine spread. And most importantlyshe respects her husband.”
The message was clear: Emma didnt.
Now, after washing up, Emma caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Thirty years old but looking forty. Stress and sleepless nights had taken their toll.
From the living room came the murmur of the telly and Margarets voice:
“Honestly, James, that neighbour of ours parked crookedly again. Someone ought to have a word.”
“Just leave it, Mum. Not worth the hassle.”
“Quite right. No point reasoning with idiots.”
Emma knew that wasnt just about the neighbour. Margaret often implied Emma fell into the same categoryonly James had gone and married one, so now he had to put up with it.
That evening, she tried again. Waited till Margaret was in bed, then sat beside James on the sofa.
“James, Im serious. Im miserable here.”
“Em, not this again.”
“What am I supposed to do? Suffer in silence forever?”
“Its not forever. Mums not getting any younger.”
Emma went cold.
“So youre saying I should wait for your mother to die?”
“No! I just mean… maybe well move out soon.”
“Move where? On your salary, we cant even afford a bedsit.”
“Ill find something better.”
“Youve been saying that for three years.”
James sighed irritably.
“Why do you keep nagging me? Ive got enough on my plate.”
“And I dont?”
“Em, just drop it. Lets watch something.”
He grabbed the remote. Conversation over. Emma sat a while longer, then got up and left.
In the bedroom, she dug out an old notebook from their first year of marriagefilled with thoughts, plans, dreams. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she paused at one:
“I want our own place. Just us. Where I decide what to cook, how to clean. Where kids can run around someday.”
Kids. Shed wanted them. James always said “not yet”get stable first, get their own place. But with Margaret in the picture, “someday” had never come.
“James is so patient, so kind. Never shouts. Hell be a wonderful father.”
A wonderful father to children theyd never havenot while Margaret ruled the roost.
Emma closed the notebook. James came to bed an hour later, careful not to wake her. She pretended to be asleep.
Breakfast brought another round.
“Barbaras visiting today,” Margaret announced. “Emma, do a proper clean. I wont have her thinking we live like pigs.”
“I clean every day, Margaret.”
“Not well enough. The shelves are dusty.”
Emma checked. They werent. But she wiped them down again anyway.
Barbara arrived at noona loud, brash woman in a floral dress.
“Margie, love! Hows things?” she boomed, eyeing Emma. “So youre the famous daughter-in-law! Margies told me all about you.”
Emma forced a smile and put the kettle on.
Over tea, Barbara held court:
“My Lindas on her third husband. Says the last one was too wishy-washy. No backbone.”
“Men arent what they used to be,” Margaret agreed. “No grit these days.”
Emma, washing dishes, strained to listen.
“And hows your James? Still at that little firm?”
“Oh, hes managing. Sweet boy, but too soft. Lets his wife walk all over him.”
Emma nearly dropped a cup.
“Really?” Barbara feigned surprise. “He seems so steady.”
“Steady, yes. But no spine. She snaps, he just takes it. Ive told himJames, youre the man of the house! But he says, ‘Mum, stay out of it.'”
“Ah. And shes… strict, then?”
Margaret lowered her voice, but not enough.
“Not strict. Just… difficult. Doesnt respect him. No kids yettoo busy with her ‘career.’ Though heaven knows what that is.”
Emmas face burned. So this was how Margaret discussed thempainting her as some domineering harpy.
James came home exhausted that evening.
“Dinner ready?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.
“Ill heat it up,” Emma said.
Over shepherds pie, Margaret gushed about Barbaras visitconveniently leaving out the gossip.
“Such a shame we dont see more of her,” she sighed.
James nodded absently. Emma wondered how many people would hear Barbaras version of their marriage by tomorrow.
Later, she cornered him.
“James, your mother discussed us with Barbara. Our marriage. Our lack of kids. Called you spineless.”
He frowned.
“She wouldnt say that.”
“She did. I heard her.”
“Maybe you misunderstood. Mums not cruel.”
“She called you spineless, James! To a stranger!”
“Em, who cares what Barbara thinks?”
“I do! Thats my life shes gossiping about!”
“Women chat. Its harmless.”
Emma realised hed never get it. Or didnt want to.
“Fine,” she said. “Then Ill talk to her myself tomorrow.”
“Dont start a row.”
“Someone has to defend this family! Since you wont.”
James stood.
“Im knackered. Well talk tomorrow.”
But “tomorrow” never came. He left early, claiming a work emergency.
Emma waited till hed gone, then faced Margaret over coffee.
“We need to talk. About what you said to Barbara.”
Margaret set down her newspaper.
“What of it? Friends share things.”
“Share what? That your sons spineless?”
“Isnt he?” Margaret said calmly. “Look at him. Thirty-three and still mummys boy. Cant stand up to you.”
Emmas hands shook.
“Hes not weak. He trusts me.”
“Trusts one thing. A man should lead. Not hide behind his wife.”
“Lead where? What are you even talking about?”
Margaret studied her.
“He cant say no to you. Even when youre wrong. Thats not a husbandthats a doormat.”
“I dont boss him around!”
“You do. And he lets you. A real man wouldve put you in your place by now.”
Emma stood.
“In my place? For what?”
“For cheek. For disrespect. For forgetting who runs this house.”
“Runs it? I live here, work, clean, cookhow am I not running it?”
Margaret rose slowly.
“Because, dear, this is my house. James is my son. Youre just passing through.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Passing through? Weve been married five years!”
“And? A ring doesnt mean forever. If a wife doesnt suit, she goes.”
“You want me gone?”
“I want my son happy. With you, hes not.”
“Has he said that?”
“He doesnt have to. I see it. Hes not the cheerful boy he was.”
“Thats your fault! Your constant meddling!”
“Mine?” Margaret scoffed. “Im nothing but kind to him. Youre the one nagging him ragged.”
Emma gave up. Margaret would never see fault in herself.
“Fine,” she said. “James and I will discuss this.”
“Do,” Margaret smiled. “Though I doubt hell tell you the whole truth. Too kind-hearted.”
Emma locked herself in the bedroom and criedproperly, for the first time in years.
James came home late, grim-faced.
“Bad day,” he muttered. “No bonus.”
“Im sorry. But we need to talk.”
“Not now, Em. Im shattered.”
He showered and slept. Emma lay awake, wonderingwas he really unhappy with her? Was he hiding it?
Next morning, she asked outright:
“James, honestlyare you happy with me?”
He blinked.
“What kind of question? Of course.”
“Your mother thinks otherwise.”
“Whatd she say?”
“That youre tired of me. That I nag. That youre miserable.”
James was quiet a long time.
“Mum worries. Thinks we argue too much.”
“We argue about her!”
“Em, its not just Mum. We cant agree on anythingkids, work, the future.”
Emma saw the evasion.
“James, tell me truthfully. Do you want me to leave?”
He didnt answer at first. Then:
“No. But I cant go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Stuck in the middle.”
“Then pick a side,” Emma said. “Wife or mother.”
James stood.
“Im late for work. Well talk tonight.”
But that night, he hid in the bathroom, then let Margaret monopolise him with talk of redecorating.
Emma understood. His silence was answer enough.
By morning, shed made her decision. While James was at work, she packed a suitcasejust essentials.
Margaret spotted it in the hallway.
“Going somewhere?”
“A friends. For a while.”
“How long?”
“Dont know yet.”
Margaret nodded.
“Probably for the best. James could use a break.”
Emma picked up her keys.
“Margaret, if he wants me back, he comes alone. Without you.”
“Well see if he wants to,” Margaret said.
Emma shut the door behind her. On the landing, she paused, listening. Silence.
Outside, the sun was shining. She took a deep breathand for the first time in years, it felt like one.
That evening, James called.
“Em, Mum said you left. When are you coming back?”
“Dont know. Maybe never.”
“What? Were married.”
“On paper. In reality?”
Silence.
“James, heres the deal. We live apart from your mother, or we divorce.”
“Dont make me choose.”
“Choose? Any real man picks his wife.”
“What if I cant?”
The question hung between them. Emma understood thenhed already chosen. Just lacked the guts to say it.
“Then Ill choose for us,” she said softly, and hung up.
She slipped the phone into her bag and walked away. Where to, she wasnt sure yet. But with every step, the weight liftednot because it was easy, but because, for once, she was choosing herself.
And no one could take that from her now.
