The moment the door creaked open, Margarets disapproving gaze swept over the new curtains.
“Wheres my grandson?” were the first words out of her mouth as she stood on the doorstep, a towering handbag clutched in one hand, lips pursed.
“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Emma replied evenly, forcing a smile. “Olivers asleepI only just put him down an hour ago.”
“Asleep? At two in the afternoon?” Margaret scoffed, brushing past her into the flat. “When David was his age, hed been up half the day already.”
Emma swallowed the familiar sting of criticism and helped her mother-in-law out of her coat. Every visit was the samean interrogation wrapped in passive aggression. Nothing was ever right, from how she raised Oliver to the way she stacked the dishwasher.
“Would you like some tea?” Emma offered, retreating toward the kitchen.
“Of course. And put out those biscuitsthe oat ones I brought last time.”
Margaret stalked into the living room and froze by the window. The new curtainssoft cream with a faint gold sheenhad taken Emma a month to choose. Shed skimped on little luxuries to afford them, wanting to bring some warmth into the house.
“Trying to play the lady of the manor, are we?” Margaret sneered, fingering the fabric. “What next, chandeliers?”
Emmas chest tightened. Again. No matter what she did, it was never enough for Margaret.
“The old ones were falling apart,” she said quietly. “David agreed it was time to replace them.”
“David agreed?” Margaret turned sharply. “And how much did these set you back? Half his monthly wages, Ill bet.”
“I used my own money.”
“Your own?” Margaret sank into an armchair, eyes narrowing. “So theres no joint budget anymore? Or do you just make all the decisions now?”
Emma set the tea down and took a seat opposite, bracing herself.
“David and I discuss everything.”
“Do you?” Margaret took a sip and grimaced. “Weak. Ive told you how to brew it properly. And these curtainsthey dont suit the room at all.”
Emma glanced at the windows. To her, they looked perfectsoft, welcoming.
“I like them,” she murmured.
“You like them,” Margaret echoed flatly. “And your husbands opinion doesnt matter? Or his mothers?”
“David approved them.”
“Davids too soft,” Margaret sighed. “Hates confrontation. And you take advantage of that.”
A cry came from the nursery. Oliver was awake. Emma stood, but Margaret was already moving.
“Ill go. At least Ill get to see my grandson properly.”
Left alone, Emma stared at the curtains. Were they really so bad? Should she have consulted Margaret first?
From the nursery, Margarets voice cooedgentle, affectionate. With Oliver, she was patient. With Emma, she was a relentless critic.
“Emma!” Margaret called sharply. “Come here! Look at your child!”
Heart lurching, Emma rushed in. Margaret stood by the crib, Oliver in her arms.
“Whats wrong?”
“Whats wrong? Hes got nappy rash!” Margaret snapped. “Dont you notice anything?”
Emma leaned in. A faint redness, nothing severe.
“Its from the new nappiesa mild reaction. Ive already put cream on it.”
“Cream?” Margaret scoffed. “In my day, we raised children without all these lotions. And they turned out fine.”
“But now we have better”
“Now we have too many gimmicks,” Margaret cut in. “The childs suffering, and youre buying curtains instead of watching him.”
Tears threatened. Every visit ended this wayEmma doubting herself, feeling unfit.
“I do watch him,” she whispered.
“Then why is he so thin? David was twice his size at this age.”
“The GP says his weights perfect.”
“GPs, GPs,” Margaret muttered. “Wheres a mothers instinct? Hes clearly not eating enough.”
Emma cradled Oliver, swallowing hard. He was healthy. Thriving. But to Margaret, shed always fall short.
They returned to the living room. Margaret settled back into her chair, scanning the space.
“When did you even get these up? While he was napping? Neglecting housework, I suppose.”
“I did them last nightDavid helped.”
“David helped?” Margarets lips curled. “Bothering a man with chores. My David never lifted a finger at home.”
Emma bit back the retortthat David had offered, had wanted to help. Arguing was pointless.
“How much were they?” Margaret pressed.
“Fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds? For curtains? Have you lost your mind? That couldve bought Oliver clothes for months!”
“He has clothes. We hadnt changed the curtains in three years.”
“And you shouldnt have! The old ones were fine. Not gaudy like these.”
Gaudy? Emma blinked at the muted cream fabric. What was gaudy about them?
The front door clicked openDavid was home. Relief washed over her.
“Mum!” He grinned, stepping in. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Margaret said, rising to embrace him. “Ive missed you.”
“Missed you too. Everything all right?”
“Came to see Oliver, but hes covered in rashes. And hes too thin.”
David frowned, glancing at Emma. “What? No, hes fine.”
“I saw it myself,” Margaret insisted. “Youre just too busy to notice.”
“Mum, hes healthy. Emma takes brilliant care of him.”
Margaret pursed her lips. “If you say so. But you might want to keep an eye on spending. Fifty pounds on curtainscan you imagine?”
David finally noticed the curtains. “Oh, you put them up! They look great.”
“They look great,” Margaret repeated, slow and patronising. “Fifty pounds, David. For curtains.”
“So? We saved for them.”
“You saved?”
“Yeah. Emma set aside a bit each month. Wanted to surprise me.”
Margarets gaze flicked to Emma, sharper now. “Saving behind your husbands back? Interesting.”
“Mum, whats that supposed to mean?” Davids tone hardened. “We talked about redecorating. Emma said shed handle it.”
“Handle it, did she?” Margaret nodded. “Making all the decisions now.”
Davids patience frayed. “Mum, enough. The curtains are lovely. The house feels like a home.”
“Whose home?”
“Ours,” he said firmly.
Margaret fell silent, but the disapproval hung thick. Oliver began fussinghungry.
“Ill feed him,” Emma said, turning toward the bedroom.
“No, wait.” Margaret held up a hand. “Give me a bottleIll do it.”
“Hes breastfed.”
Margaret stiffened. “Still? At eight months?”
“The doctor recommends a year.”
“Doctors,” Margaret muttered. “Dont you think its time to wean him? He needs independence.”
“Mum, stop,” David cut in. “Breastfeedings best for him.”
“Best, best.” She waved a hand. “We raised healthy children without all this fuss.”
Emma slipped away to feed Oliver, Davids low murmurs and Margarets clipped replies fading behind her. When she returned, Margaret was gathering her things.
“Leaving so soon?” Emma asked.
“Yes, things to do.” The reply was curt.
She kissed Olivers head and marched out. David walked her to the door.
“Mum, dont make a drama 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 independently, its trouble.”
The door shut. David exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“What did she say?” Emma asked.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
But the weariness in his eyes told her enough. Every visit left scars.
“Maybe talk to her?” she whispered.
“About what? She raised me alonecontrols all she knows. We just have to tolerate it.”
“And I have to tolerate the insults?”
David pulled her close. “Im sorry. Shes frightened of losing me, thats all.”
Emma nodded, though she knew tolerance wouldnt fix this.
Later, with Oliver playing at their feet, David watching telly, and Emma cooking, the flat felt peaceful. But Margarets words lingeredpoisonous, inescapable.
“David do you really like the curtains?”
“Course I do. Why?”
“Your mother said they dont fit.”
He glanced at them, shaking his head. “Mum hates change. Theyre perfect.”
“And the price?”
“Emma, stop.” He sighed. “Theyre worth every penny. This house is ours.”
She nodded, but the doubt gnawed
