“You stole my son from me, and Ill take everything from you,” hissed the mother-in-law.
“Emma, love, why are you up so early?” asked Margaret, poking her head out of her bedroom door. “Its half past six in the morning.”
“Ive got an early meeting at work,” replied Emma, shoving papers into her bag. “Boss called an impromptu briefing.”
Margaret shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers, clattering dishes loudly. Emma tried to slip past unnoticed, but no such luck.
“What about breakfast? Youre letting my boy go to work on an empty stomach?”
“Olivers a grown man. He can make his own toast,” Emma said, pulling on her jacket and hunting for her keys.
“Oh, is that so?” Margaret turned to face her fully. “In my day, wives knew their duties. A proper woman feeds her husband.”
Emma took a deep breath. This conversation had played out every morning since Margaret moved in six months ago after her “mild health scare.” The constant nitpicking still grated.
“Margaret, Oliver and I decide who cooks what. Were a modern household.”
“Modern!” Margaret scoffed. “My boy never missed a meal under my roof. Look at him nowskin and bones!”
Emma bit back the urge to point out that a thirty-year-old banker wasnt exactly wasting away. Arguing with Margaret was like wrestling fog.
“Right, Im late. Olivers still asleepwake him at eight, would you?”
“Oh, Ill wake him, dont you fret. *Some* of us know our responsibilities.”
At work, Emma couldnt focus. Her colleague Sophie noticed by lunch.
“Blimey, you look knackered,” Sophie said, plonking her coffee on Emmas desk. “Still playing happy families with the Wicked Witch of West Sussex?”
“Its the same every day. My cookings rubbish, the hooverings subpar, I speak to Oliver wrong”
“And he just lets her?”
Emma snorted. “Are you joking? Saint Margaret could throttle me with a tea towel, and hed say shes stressed after her surgery.”
“But the doctors cleared her months ago!”
“Try telling Oliver that. Hes convinced shell collapse without us.”
Sophie winced. “Rather you than me. My mother-in-laws bad enough at Christmas dinners.”
That evening, Emma returned to the smell of roast chicken. Oliver lounged on the sofa with a plate balanced on his stomach, engrossed in a football match.
“Hiya, love. How was work?” he asked, not looking up.
“Fine. Whats for dinner?”
“Mum did her famous roast. Theres some left in the kitchen.”
Emma found Margaret elbow-deep in suds.
“Evening, Margaret.”
“Evening,” came the clipped reply.
The roasting tray held one sad drumstick and a spoonful of potatoes.
“This is it?”
“Problem?” Margaret turned, dripping smugness. “Thought you were watching your figure. Always moaning about jeans not fitting.”
“I said *once* my jeans felt snug after Christmas!”
“Just looking out for you, dear.”
Emma carried her plate to the lounge. Oliver was now watching a documentary about meerkats.
“Ol, can we talk?”
“Course. Whats up?”
“Go look at what your mum left me for dinner.”
He returned shrugging. “Seems alright?”
“Alright for a *pigeon*! Ive been at work twelve hours!”
“Mum!” Oliver called toward the kitchen. “Whys there barely any food?”
“Darling, I thought Emma wasnt hungry! Shes always on about diets!”
Oliver turned back, exasperated. “See? She was trying to help.”
Emma felt something snap.
“Your mother leaves me scraps *every night*. Youre eating like a king while I”
A loud sniffle cut her off. Oliver shot up.
“Now youve upset her! Shes *fragile*!”
“And Im what, *indestructible*?”
But hed already vanished to comfort Margaret. Emma stabbed the drumstick.
Later, Oliver crept in sheepishly.
“Sorry, love. Mums just sensitive. Says she feels like a burden.”
“Good. She *is*.”
“Emma!”
“Were newlyweds! Were meant to be having *sex on the kitchen floor*, not tiptoeing around your mums fragility!”
Oliver sighed. “Just give it time. Well find her a nice flat nearby.”
“When? Next decade?”
The next evening, Emma hurried home with groceries, determined to cook. As she opened the door, Margarets voice carried from the kitchen:
“too young for you, Oliver. Selfish, thats her problem. Career, career, careerwhen does she *ever* put you first?”
Emma froze. Olivers murmured reply was too quiet.
Margaret continued, “Ive been thinking perhaps you married too hastily?”
Emmas stomach dropped. She walked in loudly.
“Evening!”
“Emma! We didnt hear you!” Margarets smile was razor-thin. “How was work?”
“Fine. Ill start dinner.”
“No need, darling. Ive made Olivers favoritebeef stew.”
Dinner was torture. Margaret cooed over Olivers work stories while Emma pushed carrots around her bowl.
“Emma, dear,” Margaret purred suddenly, “any weekend plans?”
“Not really. Why?”
“I need Oliver to drive me to the clinic Saturday. Tests.”
“Course, Mum,” said Oliver.
Margarets eyes glittered. “Lovely. Wouldnt want to *inconvenience* Emmas *busy schedule*.”
Later, Oliver found Emma pretending to sleep.
“Headache better?” he asked, sitting on the bed.
“Mm.”
“Love Mums been odd lately. One minute she wants to leave, the next shes terrified well abandon her.”
Emma sat up. “Define odd.”
“Today she said she worries our marriage was a mistake.”
“And you said?”
“That were happy. But Emma she *hates* you.”
“Finally! You noticed!”
Oliver rubbed his temples. “Ill talk to her.”
The next morning, shouting erupted from the kitchen.
“manipulative little *brat*!” Margaret screeched.
“Mum, *stop*! Emmas my *wife*!”
Emma walked in to find Margaret red-faced, Oliver slumped at the table.
“You stole my son,” Margaret spat, spotting Emma. “Now Ill take *everything* from you.”
Oliver gaped. “Mum, what the *hell*?”
“*What* everything?” Emma asked evenly.
Margarets smile curdled. “Wait and see, dear. I know *exactly* how to handle girls like you.”
Oliver stood. “Thats *enough*!”
But Margaret was already storming out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the teacups.
Later, Sophie called Emma at work.
“Youll *never* guess what your MIL just did. Rang my mum asking if youd ever done drugs!”
Emmas blood ran cold.
That night, Margaret served Oliver a heaping plate of shepherds pie while Emma got a dry salad.
“Watching your *figure*, dear,” Margaret simpered.
After dinner, as Emma washed up, Margaret cornered her.
“Had a *lovely* chat with your uni mate Sarah today. Heard all about those *wild* nights out and that *married* professor you fancied.”
Emmas hands stilled. “I was *nineteen*.”
“Oliver thinks he married an *angel*.” Margaret leaned in. “Leave now, or Ill *show* him the truth.”
Emma met her stare. “Try it.”
As Margaret flounced off, Oliver wandered in.
“Everything alright?”
“Peachy,” Emma lied.
That night, she lay awake, realizing with icy clarity: this wasnt a battle.
It was a siege. And Margaret had all the supplies.
