“You took my son from me, and Ill take everything from you,” hissed the mother-in-law.
“Emily, why are you up so early?” asked Margaret, peering out from her bedroom. “Its half past six in the morning.”
“I have an early meeting today,” Emily replied, quickly stuffing documents into her bag. “An unexpected briefing.”
Margaret shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers and began clattering dishes. Emily tried to slip past unnoticed, but no such luck.
“What about breakfast? Will my boy go to work hungry?”
“Olivers a grown man; he can make his own breakfast,” Emily said, pulling on her jacket and searching for her keys.
“Oh, is that so?” Margaret turned to face her fully. “In my day, wives knew their duties. A woman looked after her husband.”
Emily took a deep breath. This same conversation played out every morning since Margaret had moved in after her illness six months ago. The constant scrutiny was unbearable.
“Margaret, Oliver and I decide these things together. We have an equal partnership.”
“Equal partnership!” Margaret scoffed. “My boy never missed a meal before. Now look at himskin and bones.”
Emily bit back the urge to point out that Oliver, at thirty-two, was hardly a boy. Arguing with Margaret was like shouting into the wind.
“Look, Im running late. Olivers still asleepwake him at eight, please.”
“Oh, Ill wake him, dont you worry. Unlike some, I know my responsibilities.”
At work, Emily struggled to focus. Her colleague Charlotte noticed her distraction by lunchtime.
“You alright? You look exhausted,” Charlotte said, settling beside her with a coffee.
“Same old. Mother-in-law drama. Every day its somethingmy cooking, my cleaning, how I talk to Oliver.”
“And he doesnt stick up for you?”
Emily gave a bitter smile.
“Not a chance. His mothers a saint to him. Shes been ill, he says. We have to be patient.”
“Right. How longs she staying, then?”
“No idea. The doctors say shes fine to live alone now, but Olivers terrified something will happen.”
Charlotte shook her head sympathetically.
“Tough break, Em. I cant stand mine, and we dont even live together.”
That evening, Emily returned home tired and hungry. The flat smelled of roast beef and potatoes. Oliver sat on the sofa with a plate, eyes glued to the telly.
“Hey, love,” he said without looking up. “How was work?”
“Fine. Whats for dinner?”
“Mum made roast beef. Bloody brilliant. Theres some left in the kitchen.”
Emily walked in to find Margaret washing dishes.
“Evening, Margaret.”
“Evening,” came the curt reply, her back still turned.
Emily lifted the lid of the pot. One slice of beef and a spoonful of potatoes remained.
“Is this it?”
“Problem?” Margaret finally faced her. “Thought you were watching your weight. Always moaning about your jeans being tight.”
“I wasnt moaningjust mentioning.”
“Well, there you go. Looking out for you.”
Emily took her plate to the living room. Oliver was engrossed in a nature documentary.
“Ollie, can we talk?”
“Sure. Whats up?”
“Go look at what your mother left me for dinner.”
With a sigh, Oliver trudged to the kitchen and returned moments later.
“So? Looks fine.”
“Fine for a sparrow, maybe. Ive been at work all dayIm starvingand this is whats left?”
“Mum!” Oliver called. “Whys there so little food?”
“Sorry, love, thought Emily wasnt that hungry. Shes always talking about slimming down.”
“See?” Oliver turned to Emily. “She was trying to help.”
Emily felt something boil inside her.
“Oliver, your mother *deliberately* leaves me scraps. Every. Single. Day.”
“Dont be daft. Mums kind-hearted.”
“Kind to *you*. To me, she treats me like a maid who doesnt measure up.”
A loud sniffle came from the kitchen. Oliver shot up.
“Now youve upset her! Shes not well!”
“And I am?”
But hed already gone to comfort Margaret. Emily sat alone, staring at her cold, half-eaten dinner.
Later, when the kitchen had quietened, Oliver returned, sheepish.
“Sorry, Em. Mums really struggling. Says she feels like a burden.”
“Good. She is.”
“Emily!”
“What? Were a young couplewere supposed to have our own life. Instead, were under constant surveillance.”
“Shes not spying, shes caring.”
“Caring? She critiques *everything*how I wash clothes, cook, even my tone with you!”
Oliver sat beside her on the sofa.
“Look, just hang in there a bit longer. Shell adjust. Then well find her a nice flat nearby.”
“When?”
“I dont know. But we will. Promise.”
The next day, Emily left work early to cook dinner herself. She bought ingredients, hoping for a peaceful evening.
But as she opened the front door, Margarets voice carried from the kitchen:
“Yes, Oliver, I understand your wife. Young, inexperienced. But my patience isnt infinite.”
Emily froze. Oliver replied quietly, but she caught:
“Mum, dont say that. Emilys wonderful.”
“Wonderful? Look how thin youve got! And that temper of hersnever satisfied, always complaining.”
“Shes just stressed at work.”
“Work, work! What about home? Her priorities are all wrong. Maybe you rushed into marriage.”
A chill ran down Emilys spine. She quietly took off her shoes and walked into the kitchen, pretending shed heard nothing.
“Evening,” she said calmly.
“Oh, Emily! Didnt hear you come in,” Margaret said, not even feigning guilt. “How was work?”
“Fine. I thought Id cook tonight.”
“No need, Ive made shepherds pieOlivers favourite.”
“Thanks, Mum. That alright, Em?”
“Perfect,” Emily lied.
Dinner was strained. Oliver chatted about work, Margaret cooed over him, and Emily silently ate the (admittedly delicious) pie.
“Emily, any weekend plans?” Margaret asked suddenly.
“Not really. Why?”
“I need Oliver to take me to the GP. Some tests.”
“Course, Mum. No problem.”
“Good. Was worried youd already claimed him for something.”
The barely hidden jab made Emily glance up. Margarets eyes gleamed with triumph.
After dinner, Emily retreated to the bedroom with a headache. She lay there, thinking. Margaret had declared war. And Oliver was blind to it.
He came in late, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hows the head?”
“Better.”
“Em has Mum seemed off to you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Just saying odd things. One minute she complains about living here, the next she refuses to leave.”
Emily propped herself up.
“Like what?”
“All sorts. Today she said shes scared we made a mistake marrying.”
“And you said?”
“That we love each other and can handle anything.”
“Oliver, your mother *hates* me. Shes trying to split us up.”
“Dont be ridiculous. Mum just worries.”
“She wants me gone.”
“Emily, youre overreacting. Mum says things she doesnt meanshes not *evil*.”
“If you believe that, watch her tomorrow. *Properly*.”
The next day, Oliver worked from home. Emily asked him to observe Margaret closely.
That evening, his expression told her everything.
“Well?” she asked once they were alone.
Oliver sighed.
“You were right. Mums been strange.”
“What happened?”
“All day, it was nonstop about you. How youre messy, disrespectful. Then she outright said I shouldnt have married you.”
“And you said?”
“That I love you and wont let anyone interfere.”
“And she?”
A pause.
“She cried. Said Id chosen a wife over my own mother.”
“Classic emotional blackmail.”
“Emily, shes unwell. The surgery, her nerves”
“Oliver, how long will you excuse her behaviour? Shes *actively* trying to ruin us!”
“Alright, Ill talk to her. Make it clear shes wrong.”
The next morning, Emily woke to raised voices in the kitchen.
“Son, you dont see what shes *really* like!”
“Mum, *stop*! Emilys my wifeyou *will* respect her.”
“Respect? For *what*? For turning you against me?”
Emily walked in. Margaret stood red-faced. Oliver had his head in his hands.
“You took my son from me, and Ill take everything from you,” Margaret spat, spotting Emily.
“Mum!” Oliver cried.
“Everything?” Emily asked coolly.
“Youll see. Think I dont know how to deal with your sort? Ive lived long enough to spot a schemer.”
“Are you *threatening* me?”
“A warning. My son will live as *I* see fit. Cross me, and youll regret it.”
“Mum, what the *hell*?” Oliver stood. “How can you talk to my wife like that?”
“And how does *she* talk to *me*? Think I dont see her sneers? Her whinging about me?”
“Oliver, she”
“*Quiet*!” Margaret cut in. “Youre *blind*, son. Cant see what this girls doing to our family.”
Emily had heard enough.
“Margaret, I didnt *take* anyone. Oliver chose *me*. If you dont like it, move back to your own place.”
“Oh-ho!” Margaret drew herself up. “Throwing out a sick woman from her sons home?”
“Emilys right, Mum,” Oliver said quietly. “Maybe its time you moved out.”
Margaret looked as if hed stabbed her.
“So. You choose *her*.”
“I chose my wife when I married her. Youll always be my mother.”
“Fine. Lets see how you feel when she *leaves* you.”
“Mum, whats that supposed to”
But Margaret stormed out, slamming the door.
Oliver slumped at the table, rubbing his temples.
“Christ, Em. Didnt think itd come to this.”
“Oliver, your mother *hates* me. Im scared of what shell do next.”
“What *can* she do? Its just words.”
He hugged her. “She wont hurt you. I wont let her.”
But Emily knew better. Margaret had declared warand she wouldnt back down.
Over lunch the next day, her friend Jess called.
“Em, did you know your mother-in-law rang my mum?”
“What? Why?”
“Asked all sortswhat you were like in school, past boyfriends, if youd ever had problems with drink or drugs.”
Emilys skin prickled.
“What did your mum say?”
“Just that you were normal. Studious. Whys she asking?”
“No idea. Just being nosy, probably.”
But Emily understood. Margaret was digging for dirt.
That evening, the air at home was thick with tension. Margaret ignored Emily, doting on Oliver instead.
“Ollie, darling, I made your favouritesteak and ale pie,” she simpered.
“Cheers, Mum. Lovely.”
“And for *you*, Emily,” Margaret said sweetly, “steamed veggies. Watching that figure, arent you?”
Emily stared at the bland pile on her plate.
“Im not on a diet.”
“Course you are, love. At your age, all girls are.”
Over dinner, Margaret chattered about gossip from the neighbours. Then, casually:
“Linda next door says her daughter-in-law came home drunk again. *Hit* her husband. Can you imagine?”
“Awful,” Oliver mumbled.
“Thank God *my* son knows how to pick a lady.”
Emily met Margarets gazea silent threat: *I can make up anything about you.*
Later, as Emily washed up, Margaret sidled up behind her.
“Spoke to your old schoolmate today, Emily. Sarah Carter. Heard some *interesting* things.”
“Like what?”
“How you got *pissed* at prom. Snogging some boy behind the bike sheds.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Just Oliver thinks he married a good girl. Turns out youre just like the rest.”
“Margaret, I was *seventeen*. Whats your point?”
“No point. Just wondering if Oliver knows. Whether he *should*.”
“Are you *blackmailing* me?”
“Giving you a choice. Leave now, before I tell him what you *really* are.”
“And what am I?”
Margaret leaned in.
“A *slut* who seduced my boy. Think I didnt *know* you slept together before marriage? Think I cant *see* how youve bewitched him?”
Emily stepped back.
“Youre *sick*.”
“Sick? No. Ive *seen* your type. Pretty, cunning. Wrap men round your little finger, then bleed them dry.”
“I *work*. I pay my own way.”
“For *now*. Have kids, quit your jobthen youll *suck* him dry.”
Oliver walked in.
“Everything alright?”
“Just girl talk,” Margaret chirped, instantly sweet again. “Emily was telling me about work.”
That night, Emily lay awake. Margarets war had begunand shed fight dirty.
She needed to tell Oliver everything. But would he believe her? His mother was sacred; Emily hadnt yet earned that devotion.
Tomorrow would bring fresh attacks. And Emily feared shed already lostwithout ever raising a hand.
