Are you seriously dressing Charlie in that thin jumper? Its cold outside!
Mum, its only fifteen degrees. He wont freeze.
He wont freeze! You lot have no idea what a proper kids wardrobe looks like. He needs to be bundled up!
Emma stood in the hallway, watching her motherinlaw Ethel Margaret pull the light sweater off Charlie and toss a warm cardigan over him. The boy squirmed and whined, but Ethel was unmoved.
Mum, hell get hot, Emma tried to protest.
Better hot than a cold! Ethel snapped the cardigan into place, gave a approving nod. Thats how it should be. Off you go for a walk.
Emma bit her lip, keeping quiet. She took Charlies hand and slipped out of the flat. They lived one floor above Ethels, who liked to keep a tight leash on her daughterinlaw.
Emma had married James four years ago. At first they rented a small flat of their own. When Charlie arrived, James suggested moving into his parents house more space and a handy granny to lean on.
Emma agreed, and immediately regretted it.
Ethel stuck her nose into everything: feeding the child, dressing him, putting him to bed. Emmas opinions were brushed aside as if she hadnt a voice.
Youre young, inexperienced. Ive raised three children, I know best, the motherinlaw would say.
James usually stayed quiet, saying his mum was only being caring. But Emma felt more like a servant than a partner.
The kitchen was the worst battlefield. Ethel fancied herself a culinary goddess and dismissed any other method.
A stew must have smoked ribs! What did you put in it?
Meatballs need a dash of bacon! Yours are as dry as the Sahara!
The pie dough should rest three hours, not one! shed snap.
Emma tried to argue at first, to prove her ways werent wrong. Ethel never listened. So Emma stopped cooking altogether. Why bother if shed just be criticised?
Then the day of Jamess father Arthurs birthday arrived. Emma wanted to show she could cook too. She rose early while everyone slept and got to work.
She made a shrimp salad Arthurs favourite, baked chicken with veg, and a classic apple cake from her own mums recipe. The kitchen filled with a mouthwatering aroma.
Arthur drifted out, sniffed the air.
Ah, smells divine! Did you make this, Ellie?
Yes, sir, happy birthday!
Cheers, love! Arthur was a kind man, unlike his wife. He always defended Emma when Ethel started to harp on her.
Ethel emerged from the bedroom, a frown already set.
Whats that smell?
Mum, its Emmas cooking for my birthday, Arthur beamed.
Ethel stalked to the kitchen. Emma was plating the chicken. The motherinlaw lifted the lid off the salad bowl, sniffed, and made a face.
Whats this?
Shrimp salad, Emma turned. Arthur loves it.
Shrimp? Ethel grimaced. He gets heartburn from that!
But he said he liked them
He never said! Ethel slammed the bowl down. And whats this?
Chicken and veg.
She opened the oven, poked the chicken with a fork.
Dry. Overcooked.
Mum, it just came out of the oven, James interjected, stepping in. Let us try it.
No need to taste, I can see it, Ethel snapped the oven shut. And that horrendous cake?
Its an apple cake, Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. I used my mothers recipe.
Your mothers, huh? Ethel snorted. Your mum cant cook. The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.
Emma clenched her fists. My mums great at cooking! she thought, but Ethel wasnt having it.
Ill throw it away, Ethel declared, picking up the salad bowl and marching it to the bin.
What are you doing? Emma lunged.
Tossing it. No ones going to eat it anyway.
In front of everyone, Ethel emptied the shrimp salad into the trash. Emma stood frozen. Shed spent time buying fresh, pricey shrimp, plating it beautifully, only to watch it disappear.
Mum, what are you doing?! James stepped forward. Why did you throw it away?
Because Arthur gets heartburn from shrimp! I know whats best for him!
James, Id love a bite, Arthur interjected. No need to waste it.
Dont argue with me! Ethel turned to her son. Ive looked after you for thirty years, I know whats harmful!
Emma stared at the trash, tears threatening, but she swallowed them. She wouldnt cry in front of that woman.
She slipped out of the kitchen, locked herself in the bedroom, and let the sobs flow.
Why am I letting this happen? she wondered. She just dumped my salad in front of everyone, humiliated me.
The door creaked open. James entered.
Emma, dont cry. Mum just got a bit worked up.
Worked up? Emma sniffed. She threw my food away, in front of everyone!
Well shes really worried about Arthurs heartburn. He does get it sometimes.
He told me he loves shrimp!
Maybe he liked them before, but not now.
James sat beside her.
Im sorry, love. I always side with my mum, dont I? I never stand up for you.
Why do you always defend her?
Im not defending her, I just understand. Mum likes to control everything.
And my feelings? Do they matter?
Of course they do, James said, gently. But try not to take it to heart. She treats everyone like this.
She doesnt respect me at all. Im nothing to her.
Thats not true.
It is! She calls me foolish, incompetent. Everything I do is wrong!
James fell silent.
Lets not argue today. Its a birthday. Lets sit down together.
Emma shook her head.
I dont want to.
Emma
Ill just stay in bed and pretend Im sick.
James sighed, got up, and left. Emma lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, feeling a fire burning inside.
Enough was enough. She needed to act.
That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Emma entered the kitchen. The chicken and cake were still untouched. Ethel was busy making her own dinner fried potatoes and meatballs. Everyone ate her food; nobody even sampled Emmas dishes, except for Arthur, who sneaked a bite of the cake and winked.
Delicious, thank you, love. he said.
Emma cleared the table, washed the dishes. Ethel lounged in the sitting room, watching TV, never offering a hand. When Emma finished, James appeared.
Emma, Mum wants a word.
About what?
I dont know. Shes in the living room.
Emma wiped her hands and walked in. Ethel switched off the television and faced her.
Sit down.
Emma perched on the edge of the sofa. Ethel gave her a scrutinising look.
I need you to understand something. This is my house, my rules. If you want to live here, youll do as I say.
Emma stayed silent.
The kitchen is my domain. Got that? No more of your shrimp nonsense.
I was just trying to make Arthurs birthday special.
Special means obeying your motherinlaw, not playing chef.
Ethel, Im also a member of this family. I have a right to cook.
Ethel smirked.
Member? Youre living off my hospitality. I feed you, clean up after you. What do you do? Sit at home with the baby.
I look after him!
Look after him. I did the same, and I also worked. All you do is whine.
Emma sprang to her feet.
Im not whining! I just want respect!
Respect must be earned, Ethel replied, standing too. What have you done to deserve it? Nothing. Just complain.
Emma turned and left the room. She couldnt stand any more. She slipped into the bedroom where James lay awake.
James, we need to move out.
He blinked, surprised.
Move where?
Find a flat. I cant stay here any longer.
Weve talked about this. We dont have the money for a new place.
Well manage. Ill get a job.
What about Charlie?
Hell go to nursery.
Emma, be realistic. My salary barely covers our bills. Adding rent would leave us with nothing.
So you expect me to keep living under your mothers thumb?
Shes not that bad
Mum! Emma raised her voice. She threw my salad away today! In front of everyone! Humiliated me!
Maybe you overreact, but its not worth a fullblown fight.
James stared at his phone, oblivious to Emmas hurt.
You always take her side.
Im not on her side. I just dont see the point in fighting.
My opinion doesnt matter?
It matters, but lets be adults. Hang in there a bit longer. Ill get a bonus in six months, well save, and move.
Six months. Another six months of Ethels tyranny. Emma didnt know if she could endure that, but there was no money for a new flat, and Charlie was still a toddler who needed care.
The next morning, Ethel acted as if nothing had happened, bossing everyone around the breakfast table. Emma ate silently, trying not to look at her.
Her mother called later that day.
Emma, love, how did the birthday go?
Emma stepped onto the balcony, hoping no one could hear.
Mum, it was a disaster.
What happened?
She recounted the salad incident and the argument. Her mum listened.
Darling, why do you put up with this? Move out.
We cant, love. Theres no cash.
Maybe we could help? Your dad and I could
No, Mum, youre barely scraping by yourselves.
But shes humiliating you!
I know. James promised wed move in six months.
Her mum was silent.
Have you thought about getting a parttime job? You could earn some money and get a break from her.
Emma considered it. Why didnt I think of that before?
And Charlie?
Theres a nursery nearby. Or a babysitter.
James says nursery is bad for kids; they catch colds.
All kids catch colds. Hell make friends and learn.
Mum will protest.
Let Mum be silent! This is our child, our decision!
James frowned.
Im not sure. My mum thinks nurseries are unhealthy.
Kids get sick everywhere. At least hell be socialising.
Shell be against it.
Then she wont. We decide.
James fell quiet.
Fine. Well try. Just keep it from Mum for now.
Why?
Shell talk us out of it.
Emma agreed. The next day she signed Charlie up for nursery. The waiting list was long, but they promised a place in a month.
A month later, Emma secured a spot, started looking for work, and landed a parttime admin job at a small firm, nine to three. She could pick Charlie up after.
When everything was set, she told Ethel.
I start work on Monday.
Ethel looked up from her stew pot.
Work? And Charlie?
In nursery.
Nursery? Who decided that?
James and I.
And you didnt ask me?
Its our decision.
Ethel hurled her wooden spoon into the sink.
Your decision! Sending the child to nursery and you going off to work! What kind of mother are you?
A normal mother. Many people work and send their kids to nursery.
Many! Ethel stepped closer. I never did that! I stayed home, raised them! And you think a career is more important?
I want to earn.
Earn? Does James not provide enough?
Maybe, but I want my own independence.
Independence? Do you even care about the child?
Of course! I just think nursery wont hurt him.
It will! Youll bring home infections! Hell fall ill!
Thats my decision, Emma said firmly. Im working, period.
Ethels face turned beetred.
James! Come here!
James entered the kitchen.
Whats wrong?
Your wife is planning to abandon the child and go to work!
Mum, weve talked about this. Emma wants to work, thats fine.
Fine? Ethel stared at James. You let her send Charlie to nursery without asking me?
Yes.
Without consulting me?
Mum, its our business.
Ethel stared at James, then slammed the kitchen door and fled to the bedroom, slamming it behind her.
James hugged Emma.
Shell calm down.
But Ethel stayed silent for a week, only cooking for herself and Arthur. James and Emma had to fend for themselves.
Emma didnt mind; finally she could cook what she liked without criticism.
On Monday, Emma began her new job. Charlie trotted happily to nursery. Ethel warned that hed cry and catch colds, but nothing happened. He loved his new friends and his teacher.
At work, colleagues were friendly, the boss fair. Emma earned a modest wage and saved every penny.
Three months later, they had enough for the first months rent on a modest twobed flat in a leafy suburb. They signed the lease.
Now they had to tell the parents.
James hesitated, fearing his mothers reaction, but there was no time theyd move in a week.
That evening, after dinner, he gathered everyone in the living room.
Mum, Dad, we need to talk.
Ethel glanced up, wary.
About what?
Emma and I are moving out. Weve rented a flat.
A heavy silence fell. Ethel slowly set her teacup down.
Moving out?
Yes. We need our own space.
Your own space? Ethel repeated, as if hearing an echo. So youre unhappy here?
No, just
Youre ungrateful! Ive fed you, cleaned for you, looked after Charlie! And youre leaving!
Mum, were grateful. But were adults; we need our own place.
Its all you, Emma! Shes the one who pushed you! Shes the cause of this!
Mum, its my decision.
No, her! Shes been trying to control us from day one! Those shrimp salads
Arthur rose from his chair.
Ethel, calm down. Theyre right. They need their own life.
Dont interfere! Ethel snapped at him. You dont care!
She stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door.
Arthur sighed.
Dont hold a grudge against her. Shes simply used to running the show. Youll still see each other on weekends.
Well visit, James said. On holidays, at least.
Of course, Arthur clapped James on the shoulder. Just be happy.
Emma smiled, relieved that someone understood.
A week later they moved into the snug flat. Ethel never came to say goodbye, staying holed up in her bedroom. Arthur helped with the boxes and offered a few kind words, though his pride kept him from calling.
The new place was tiny but cosy. Emma delighted in arranging it, finally feeling like a proper homeowner.
She cooked what she liked, cleaned how she saw fit, and faced no snide remarks.
James relaxed too. Without his mothers watchful eye, he was calmer, happier. Their relationship blossomed again, like at the start.
Charlie thrilled with his own room and toys.
Ethel didnt call for weeks, still nursing her hurt. Arthur phoned now and then, asking how they were getting on. He mentioned his wife missed Emmas cake, but his pride kept him from reaching out directly.
Six months later, Emma was comfortably settled in her independent life, hardly remembering how shed endured Ethels tyranny.
One weekend James suggested a visit to his parents.
Emma, lets see Mum, he said. Its still her mother.
Alright, Emma agreed. Well go.
They arrived midday. Arthur welcomed them warmly.
Come in, come in! Charlie, look how youve grown!
Ethel appeared from the kitchen, froze, then managed a stiff smile.
Hello, she said, taking a bouquet Emma offered.
She took the flowers without a word.
They all sat down to a meal. Ethel cooked, as always, everything was delicious. She was still a brilliant cook, after all.
Conversation was strained. Ethel answered briefly, avoiding eye contact with Emma.
AfterAs Emma raised her glass and toasted, she finally felt the peace of a life lived on her own terms, while the lingering tension in the room softened into a tentative, hopeful truce.
