“Oh, playing housewife now, are we?” smirked her mother-in-law, eyeing the new curtains with disdain. “Wheres my grandson?” were the first words Emma heard upon opening the front door. Margaret stood on the threshold, clutching an oversized tote bag, her expression dripping with disapproval.
“Hello, Margaret,” Emma greeted politely. “Olivers nappingI just put him down an hour ago.”
“Napping? At two in the afternoon?” Margaret huffed, sweeping past her into the flat. “At his age, my James was already running circles around me by midday.”
Emma swallowed the familiar sting of criticism and helped Margaret out of her coat. Every visit from her mother-in-law felt like stepping into a minefield. The woman had a knack for fault-findingwhether it was Olivers upbringing, the way Emma washed dishes, or even the brand of biscuits in the cupboard.
“Would you like some tea?” Emma offered, retreating toward the kitchen.
“Obviously. And put out those oat biscuitsthe ones I brought last time.”
Margaret marched into the living room and froze by the window. Yesterday, Emma had finally hung the new curtainssoft, cream-coloured linen with a subtle gold weave, the ones shed spent weeks agonising over. Shed scrimped from her paychecks to buy them, dreaming of a cosier home.
“Oh, playing housewife now, are we?” Margaret scoffed, flicking a curtain with her finger. “Whats next, chandeliers?”
Emmas chest tightened. Again. Another failure in Margarets eyes.
“The old ones were falling apart,” she said quietly. “James agreed it was time for new ones.”
“James agreed?” Margaret spun around, eyebrows arched. “And how much did these set you back? Half his monthly wages, Ill bet.”
“I used my own money,” Emma replied, forcing calm into her voice.
“Your own?” Margaret sank into the armchair, eyes narrowing. “I thought married couples shared finances. Or are you the independent type now, making all the decisions?”
Emma set a teacup in front of her and sat opposite. The conversation was veering into familiar, uncomfortable territory.
“James and I discuss everything,” she said.
“Discuss?” Margaret took a sip of tea and grimaced. “Weak. Ive told you how to brew it properly. And these curtainsthey dont even suit the room.”
Emma glanced at the windows. To her, they looked perfectbrightening the space, softening the light.
“I like them,” she murmured.
“You like them,” Margaret echoed. “And your husbands opinion? Or his mothers, for that matter?”
“James approved.”
“James is too soft,” Margaret sighed. “Hates confrontation. And you take advantage.”
A cry sounded from the nursery. Oliver was awake. Emma stood, but Margaret was already on her feet.
“Ill get him. At least Ill have proper time with my grandson.”
Margaret vanished down the hall, leaving Emma alone with her cooling tea and the new curtains. Were they really that dreadful? Should she have consulted Margaret first?
From the nursery, she heard Margarets voicesofter now, cooing at Oliver. With him, she was patient, doting. With Emma? A relentless critic.
“Emma!” Margaret called. “Come here! Look at your child!”
Heart in her throat, Emma rushed in. Margaret stood by the crib, Oliver in her arms.
“Whats wrong?” Emma asked, breathless.
“Whats wrong? Hes got nappy rash!” Margaret snapped. “Are you blind? Do you even check on him?”
Emma leaned in. A faint redness, nothing alarming.
“Its from the new nappies,” she explained. “Just a mild reaction. Ive been using cream.”
“Cream?” Margaret shook her head. “In my day, we raised babies without all these potions. And they turned out just fine.”
“But modern products help”
“Modern nonsense,” Margaret cut in. “All this rubbish, and the child still suffers. Too busy buying curtains to notice.”
Emmas throat burned. Every visit ended like thisher confidence shredded, her choices mocked.
“I take care of Oliver,” she said quietly.
“Do you?” Margaret thrust him into her arms. “Then whys he so thin? James was twice his size at this age.”
“The paediatrician says his weights perfectly normal.”
“Paediatricians,” Margaret muttered. “Wheres a mothers instinct? I can see hes not eating enough.”
Emma cuddled Oliver close. He was thrivinghappy, healthy. But to Margaret, nothing was ever right.
Back in the living room, Margaret resumed her armchair, scanning the space like a disapproving inspector.
“And when did you even have time to hang these? Probably while he nappedneglecting proper housework.”
“James helped me last night after work,” Emma said, rocking Oliver.
“James helped?” Margaret smirked. “Dragging a man into domestic chores. My James never lifted a finger for such trifles.”
Emma bit her tongue. Arguing was pointless.
“How much did you pay?” Margaret pressed.
“Fifty quid,” Emma admitted.
“Fifty quid? For curtains?” Margaret gasped. “Have you lost your mind? Thats half a years baby clothes!”
“He has plenty. These were three years overdue.”
“Overdue? The old ones were perfectly fine. Not as garish as these.”
Garish? Emma stared at the understated linen. What was garish about them?
Keys jingled in the hallway. James was home. Emma exhaledmaybe Margaret would redirect her scrutiny.
“Mum!” James beamed, stepping inside. “How long have you been here?”
“Just arrived,” Margaret said, embracing him. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. Everything alright at home?”
Margaret sighed. “Came to see my grandson, and hes covered in rashes. And so thin.”
James blinked at Emma, then his mother.
“Mum, hes fine. No rashes.”
“Oh, there are,” Margaret insisted. “Youre just too busy to notice.”
“Olivers healthy. Emmas brilliant with him.”
Margaret pursed her lips. “If you say so. But you should monitor her spending. Fifty quid on curtains! Can you imagine?”
James finally noticed the windows.
“Ah, you put them up! Looks fantastic.”
“Fantastic,” Margaret parroted. “Fifty quid, James. For curtains.”
“So?” James shrugged. “Fair price. We saved up.”
“Saved up?” Margarets eyes darted to Emma. “Behind your back?”
“Mum, we talked about redecorating. Emma offered to handle it.”
“Handle it,” Margaret repeated. “Making decisions for the whole family now.”
Jamess patience frayed.
“Mum, whats the issue? Emma did a great job. The place feels homier.”
“Homier for whom? Her?”
“For all of us,” James said firmly.
Margaret fell silent, but her disapproval hung thick in the air. Oliver fussed, hungry.
“Ill feed him,” Emma said, turning toward the nursery.
“Wait,” Margaret ordered. “Give me a bottle. Ill do it.”
“Hes breastfed,” Emma said.
“What?” Margaret recoiled. “Still? Hes eight months!”
“The doctor recommends at least a year.”
“Doctors,” Margaret muttered. “Dont you think its time to wean him? Make him independent.”
“Mum, enough,” James cut in. “Breastfeedings beneficial.”
“Beneficial,” Margaret waved a hand. “We raised healthy children without all these fads.”
Emma escaped to nurse Oliver, leaving James to endure Margarets lecture. Muffled grumbles drifted from the living roomno doubt another list of Emmas failings.
When she returned, James sat silent while Margaret gathered her things.
“Leaving so soon?” Emma asked.
“Yes, things to do,” Margaret clipped. She kissed Olivers head and marched to the door. James followed.
“Mum, dont fret over nothing,” he said. “Emmas a wonderful wife and mother.”
“If you say so,” Margaret said coolly. “But mark my wordswhen a woman starts acting too independently, trouble follows.”
The door slammed. James trudged back, exhausted.
“Whatd she say?” Emma asked.
“Same old rubbish,” he sighed. “Ignore her.”
But Emma saw the tension in his shoulders. Every visit left them drained.
“Maybe talk to her?” she ventured.
“About what? She raised me alonecontrols all she knows. We just have to endure.”
“And I endure her jabs?”
James pulled her close. “Im sorry. I know its hard. She doesnt mean harmjust fears losing me.”
“So this is forever?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Lets just live our lives and tune her out.”
Emma nodded, though she knew that was impossible. Margarets words always found their mark.
That evening, as Oliver played on the floor and James flicked through telly channels, Emma
