Sophie accidentally showed my motherinlaw the messages on my phone.
Did you tell my mother that Im a bad husband? Tom stood in the middle of the kitchen, phone clenched, his face flushed with indignation.
Emma turned from the hob where she was frying shepherds pies. A droplet of oil splattered onto the linoleum with a sizzle.
What? What are you talking about?
My mum just called. She says she knows everything about us, that I dont appreciate you, that I act like a child, that shes seen right through it all.
Emma, I never said anything to your mum. We havent spoken in a week.
Then how does she know about our fight over the fishing trip? I only told you about that yesterday!
Emma turned the stove off and wiped her hands on a tea towel, her heart pounding. She hadnt mentioned the fishing trip to anyone. Except
I wrote to Claire, she said slowly. Only to Claire. In a private chat.
And now Claire is reporting all that to my mother?
No way. Claires my best friend; shed never
The phone rang. It was the motherinlaw. Emma glanced at Tom, who gave a silent nod.
Hello, Mrs. Wilson.
Emma, I need to speak to you seriously. Can you come over this evening?
Whats happened?
Ill tell you in person. Its important. Very important.
Emma agreed, hung up, and felt her hands tremble. How could Mrs. Wilson have found out what Emma had written to Claire?
Ill drive over, she told Tom. We need to sort this out.
Tom nodded, his expression weary. They had been together five years, their relationship steady, rarely stormy. Yet the motherinlaw had always been a rock in the way, domineering, convinced no one was worthy of her son. Emma tried to keep the peace, to be polite, but sometimes she snapped, and those outbursts were vented to Claire, her university mate.
Claire was the only person Emma could confide in about her motherinlaw, about Tom, about life itself. Theyd been friends for fifteen years, sharing first loves, acting as each others bridesmaids, knowing every secret. And now somehow all that information had landed on Mrs. Wilsons desk.
Emma dressed and drove to the neighbourhood where Mrs. Wilson lived in a cramped flat of three rooms, the very place where Tom had grown up. A widow for ten years, shed devoted herself to her son and felt entitled to monitor his every move.
Mrs. Wilson opened the door, her face stern and unapproachable.
Come in. Would you like a cup of tea?
No, thank you. Mrs. Wilson, whats happened?
She moved to the lounge, settled into her favourite armchair. Emma lingered by the doorway.
Sit down, dont just stand there like a statue.
Mrs. Wilson perched on the edge of the sofa, her gaze heavy.
Ive always felt you were never completely honest with me. You smile, you nod, but behind my back you say things I never hear.
I dont understand what you mean.
Here, have a look, she handed Emma her phone.
On the screen was the full chat with Claire. Emma recognised her own words, scrolling deeper and deeper. Complaints about the motherinlaws interference, irritation at the tentimesaday calls, annoyance at the criticism of her cooking.
How did you get this? Emma whispered.
Claire was here yesterday, Mrs. Wilson said. She came over to say hello. We had tea, we chatted, and then she accidentally showed me some pictures, and I saw your messages. She said she wanted me to know the truth about how you really feel about me.
Emma felt the colour drain from her cheeks. Claire. Her best friend. Why?
Mrs. Wilson, this is private. Everyone has the right to vent, to unburden themselves. It doesnt mean I dont respect you.
You dont respect me, thats clear. Look at what you wrote! Im an old fool, a meddling controlfreak. Youd rather I move to my sisters cottage in the country and stop ruining your life. Tom is your mothers boy, scared to contradict her.
I was angry when I wrote those things. Everyone has moments of weakness.
Moments of weakness? These are hundreds of messages over years! Youve hated me all this time, pretending to be a sweet girl.
Emma stood.
I never hated you. I just got tired of your pressure sometimes, and I needed someone to share it with.
Then share it with the whole neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson rose as well. Ive shown these messages to all my acquaintances. Let them see who you really are.
What?
You insulted me behind my back, now youll feel what thats like.
Emma snatched her bag and fled the flat, stumbling down the stairs, tears blurring her vision. She tried to start the car, but the engine refused, the key slipping from her shaking fingers.
Claire. How could she? Why?
She dialled Claires number. The line rang endlessly before Claire finally answered.
Hey, Emma! Hows it going?
How could you?
What do you mean? What are you talking about?
Dont play dumb! You showed the motherinlaw our private chat!
Claire was silent for a beat.
Ah, that. Yeah, I showed it. It sort of happened by accident.
Accident? You deliberately visited her!
I wanted to meet Toms mother, is that a crime? We chatted, I showed her some photos from my phone, and she saw the messages. I didnt mean to.
Dont lie to me! Why did you do it?
Claire sighed.
Emma, Im tired of being your crying blanket. Fifteen years youve complained about everyoneparents, classmates, bosses, now my motherinlaw and Tom. Im fed up.
If you were fed up, you could have just said so! Why resort to this underhandedness?
Underhandedness? I was just showing the truth. Mrs. Wilson has a right to know what you think of her.
Claire, weve been friends for fifteen years!
We were. We were. But Im not interested in keeping company with someone who only whines and never changes.
Claire hung up. Emma sat in the car, the phone screen dark, her world collapsing. Her friend had betrayed her, her motherinlaw now openly hostile, Tom looking upset.
She finally managed to start the car and drove home. Tom met her in the hallway.
So?
Claire showed her our chat. On purpose.
Why?
I dont know. She said she was tired of being my sob story.
Tom pulled her into his arms. Emma sobbed into his shoulder.
Itll be alright, he said. Well sort it out.
Your mother showed the messages to everyone she knows. Now everybody knows what I wrote.
What exactly did you write?
Emma stepped back, looking at him.
Various things. That your mother drives me mad. That you sometimes act like a child. That its hard for me.
Tom frowned.
So youve been complaining about me to a friend for years?
Not years, sometimes. When things get tough.
And what exactly did you say?
Tom, nows not the time.
It is. I want to know what youve been saying about me behind my back.
Emma went to the living room, sat on the sofa, her head pounding. Tom sat opposite her.
Well? Im waiting.
I wrote that youre too attached to your mother, that youre scared to argue with her. That when she visits you become a different person.
Different?
Yes. You start agreeing with her on everything, even when wed previously been on the same side. Remember the wallpaper in the bedroom? We chose it together, then she called it tasteless and you went along. We ended up with her choice.
Tom was silent.
Or when I wanted to go to my parents for my fathers birthday, and your mother said that day was her birthday and we had to be with her. You didnt even try to move the celebration.
You cant move a birthday, Tom said.
You could have celebrated another day! My fathers 60th, thats a big deal!
My mother is more important.
Emma stared at him.
See? You just said that. Then you get angry that I wrote about it to a friend.
To a former friend, apparently.
Yes, former.
They sat in silence as evening fell, the kitchens shepherds pies long gone cold and hard.
Emmas phone rang again. An unknown number.
Hello?
Is this Emma? a womans voice said.
Yes, whos this?
Im Tamara Ellis, a friend of Mrs. Wilson. She showed me your chat.
Emma closed her eyes. It began.
And?
I just wanted to tell you that youre right.
Right about what?
Mrs. Wilson is way too overbearing. Shes always meddling. Ive known her for thirty years; shes a well, you get the picture. So dont worry. Youre a normal person who just needed to vent. Theres nothing wrong with that.
Thank you, Emma managed.
And your friend Claire shes a piece of work. Showing private messages on purpose is cruel. Id cut her off if I were you.
I wont.
Good. Take care, dear.
Tamara hung up. Emma looked at Tom.
Your mothers friend called. Said I was right about her.
Tom raised an eyebrow.
Tamara Ellis? Strange. Shes always been on my mothers side.
Apparently even her friends see shes overstepping.
The phone rang several more times that night. Relatives of the motherinlaw, neighbours, distant cousins. Some condemned Emma, some defended her. One woman shouted that Emma was ungrateful; another said she understood the pain of dealing with a controlling motherinlaw.
Turn it off, Tom suggested. Well deal with it tomorrow.
Emma did. They ate dinner in silence, then went to bed, but sleep would not come. She lay staring at the ceiling, replaying the days absurd tableau.
Emmas mind drifted back to Claire, the friend of fifteen years. When Emma fell for Tom, Claire was the first to know. When they married, Claire helped plan the wedding. When Emma suffered a miscarriage, Claire held her hand in the hospital and wept with her. And now the same Claire had deliberately shown the messages to the motherinlaw. Why? Why?
Morning found Emma with swollen eyes and a throbbing head. Tom was already at the kitchen, sipping tea.
Morning. How did you sleep?
Badly.
Me too. Listen, maybe we should meet Claire and clear the air? Find out why she did it.
I have nothing to say to her.
But fifteen years of friendship dont just vanish.
She threw it away, not me.
Tom fell silent, finishing his tea.
I called my mum. Said shed acted wrongly, showing the messages to everyone.
What did she say?
She said shed been angry, hurt. But I explained that everyone has a right to privacy and personal feelings.
Thanks for understanding.
But I also said, maybe you should have thought before writing such things.
So Im to blame?
I didnt mean it like that.
Youre saying Im at fault for venting? My friend betrayed me, my motherinlaw exposed me, and now youre blaming me?
I just think we ought to be more careful.
Emma snapped a glance at him.
What did you just say?
Venting can bite you back. Sooner or later it surfaces.
So Im the guilty one?
Not exactly.
This is insane! My friend betrayed me, my motherinlaw made a public spectacle, and you think Im to blame?
I only meant we should have been wiser.
Emma rose, fled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, trying to steady herself. The motherinlaws side of the argument seemed to dominate, as always.
A knock sounded at the door. Emma peered through the peephole. It was Claire.
Dont open, Tom warned, moving toward the door.
Im not opening, Emma replied.
Emma, open! I need to talk! Claire pounded.
Go away. I have nothing to discuss with you.
Please! I need to explain!
Its too late.
I didnt intend for this to happen! I swear!
You went to my motherinlaw and showed her our private chat. How could that be accidental?
I thought it would help!
Help with what?
Claire fell silent, then whispered from the doorway:
I thought if Mrs. Wilson saw how you really felt about her, shed back off. I thought shed realise she was a nuisance and stop meddling.
Emma opened the door. Claire stood there, pale, eyes rimmed red.
You really believed that would work?
I wanted to help. Youve complained for years; I was tired of hearing it. I thought the truth would change things.
People like Mrs. Wilson dont change. They only get worse when confronted.
I didnt think it through. Im sorry.
Emma turned away.
I cant talk to you now, she said. I need time.
How long?
I dont know. A week? A month? Maybe never.
Emma
Leave, Claire. Please.
Claire nodded and left. Emma leaned against the door, Tom wrapping his arms around her.
Im sorry for what I said in the kitchen. Youre not to blame. Its Claire and my mother.
Thank you.
They stood hugging in the hallway until Tom spoke again.
I also want to apologise. Ive always sided with my mother. Youre right; Im scared to contradict her, afraid of a scene. Thats wrong. Youre my wife; I should protect you, not her.
Emma looked up at him.
Really?
Absolutely. From today, things will be different. I promise.
He drove to his mothers, returned two hours later, exhausted but satisfied.
We talked. I told her she was wrong to broadcast private messages, that it was low. I said if she wants to stay in our lives, she must respect our boundaries.
And her reaction?
She shouted, then cried, then sulked, but eventually admitted shed overstepped. She promised an apology.
Seriously?
Yes, though Im not sure shell keep it. At least she tried.
That evening Mrs. Wilson called.
Emma, I rushed I acted too quickly showing the chat. I shouldnt have.
You were a bit hasty?
Yes. I was angry, hurt. Tom explained that everyone deserves privacy and a chance to talk things through.
Thank you for understanding.
But I want you to understand me too. It hurt reading what you wrote about me. Ive always tried to be a good motherinlaw.
Emma wanted to retort but held back.
Lets make a deal. Ill try to be more open with you, share my concerns. And you try not to intrude where you arent asked. Agree?
Mrs. Wilson paused.
Agreed. Lets try.
They said goodbyes. Emma turned to Tom.
Looks like weve reached an agreement.
Good job. Im proud of you.
A week passed. Claire sent daily messages, apologising, asking to meet, swearing shed never do such a thing again. Emma didnt answer. She needed space to sort her feelings.
On one side, Claire was a fifteenyear frienda lot. On the other, the betrayal cut deep. Could she forgive?
Emma visited a psychologist, a kindly woman in her sixties, who listened.
You have the right not to forgive, she said. But think what that will do for you. Resentment will eat you from the inside. Forgiveness isnt for the offender; its for you, to let go. You can forgive without restoring the friendship, or you can rebuild on new terms.
Emma reflected. The psychologist was right. Each day she replayed the betrayal, anger rising anew.
She wrote to Claire, arranging to meet at a café.
Claire arrived early, waiting at a table. When Emma entered, Claire leapt up but stayed at her seat, watching.
They sat opposite each other. The waitress brought menus, they ordered coffee.
Thanks for meeting, Claire said.
I think we need to talk properly.
I really wanted to help. I thought if Mrs. Wilson saw how you felt, shed change. Naïve, I know.
Naïve and cruel. You broke my trust.
I know. Im ready to do anything to earn it back.
Claire, I need honesty. Were you really tired of me? Of my complaining?
Claire hesitated.
Sometimes, yes. I get weary. But thats normal, right? Everyone gets that. It doesnt mean I dont want to be friends.
Then why didnt you tell me earlier? I might have eased up.
I didnt want to hurt you. You were struggling, and I thought saying I was fed up would add to your burden.
Friendship isnt just support; its honesty. If something bugs you, you must say it.
I understand. I wont stay silent again.
Emma sipped the bitter coffee, unsweetened.
I dont know if we can be as close as before. Trust is hard to rebuild.
Ill wait as long as it takes.
Maybe we start anew, not as best friends but as acquaintances. Slowly, if possible, we can get back there.
Claire nodded.
Agreed. Ill follow your lead.
They finished their drinks, chatting lightly about weather, work, newseasy, without tension. Perhaps time would smooth the cracks.
As the evening light softened over the quiet town, Emma felt a fragile peace finally settle over her heart.
