“You were always the outsider in this family,” whispered my mother-in-law, watching me with that familiar icy glare.
“Margaret, I made some stewed fruitwould you like some?” offered Mabel timidly, poking her head into the sitting room where her mother-in-law was stitching yet another doily.
The woman didnt even glance up from her embroidery hoop.
“I dont want your stewed fruit. Have you forgotten I have diabetes? Or do you just not care?”
Mabel sighed as she stepped back. Margaret didnt have diabetesshe knew that for a fact. It was just another barb, another way to make her feel like a clueless guest in the house shed lived in for seven years.
“Mum, come on, not again,” came her husbands voice from the hall. “Mabel tries her best”
“Oh, her best!” scoffed Margaret. “She forgets the salt in the soup, your shirts come out yellow from her washing, and the house is always dusty.”
Mabel sank onto the stool by the stove, staring at the pot of stewed fruit. Seven years of the same thing. Every day, something was wrong. The soup was too salty, or not salty enough. The floors were never clean enough, the bed never made right.
“Edward will be home soon,” she said, carrying a tray into the sitting room. “Perhaps we could have dinner together?”
Margaret set aside her embroidery, fixing Mabel with that lookthe one shed learned to read without words. A mix of pity and contempt.
“Ill eat in my room. I dont want to watch you poison my son with that cooking of yours.”
The door slammed. Mabel stood alone, the tray in her hands, a lump in her throat.
Edward came home late, exhausted, barely muttering a greeting. He sat at the table, mechanically eating while staring at his phone.
“How was work?” Mabel asked, sitting across from him.
“Fine,” he grunted, not looking up.
“Edward, we need to talk.”
He lifted his eyes, irritated.
“About Mum again? Honestly, Mabel, how many times? Shes elderly, shes unwellshes entitled to her opinions.”
“Unwell? Shes got slightly high blood pressure, thats all! But every day”
“Every day what?” Edward put down his fork. “She lives in her own house? Voices her complaints? Well, its her home, Mabel!”
“And mine too! Im your wife, not the maid!”
“No ones forcing you to cook or clean. Mum managed just fine on her own her whole life.”
Mabel fell silent. Pointless. Edward would never understand what it was like to walk on eggshells every day, to feel like an intruder in her own home.
After dinner, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Thirty-two, but she looked forty. Tired eyes, downturned mouth. When had she aged like this?
She remembered the girl shed been when she first met Edwardcheerful, full of plans. Shed thought she was marrying a prince. Tall, handsome, with a good job. And his mother, so refined, so cultureda retired English teacher.
“Mabel, dear,” Margaret had said back then, “Im so glad Edward found you. Hes a homebody, you knowhed be lost without a womans care.”
So Mabel tried. She learned Edwards childhood recipes, ironed his shirts just as Margaret showed her, cleaned the house to an unspoken schedule.
The first year had been bearable. The criticism was gentle, wrapped in smiles. “Youll learn, dear.” But gradually, the tone changed. The nitpicking grew sharper, the expectations higher.
“My friend Dorothys daughter-in-law is so capable!” Margaret would sigh over tea. “Her house sparkles, her cookings divineand she respects her elders!”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Mabel finally dared to ask once.
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Oh, nothing in particular. Its just obvious you werent raised the same way. Not your fault, of course.”
Mabel hadnt answered then. But at home, shed cried.
Edward used to defend her. But as time passed, even he started agreeing.
“Mums right, Mabel. Youve gone cold. You used to be different.”
“Before I knew what it was like to live in someone elses house,” she snapped once.
“Someone elses? This is our home!”
“Ours? Then why cant I move a chair without your mothers permission?”
“Because shes the one who made this home!”
Things only worsened. Edward stayed late at work; when home, he was silent or snapping. Margaret no longer hid her dislike.
“You see what youve done to my son?” shed say when Edward left. “He used to be cheerful.”
“Maybe its not me,” Mabel risked once.
“Oh? Then who?”
Margaret was a saint in front of others, though. “Mabels an angel!” shed gush to neighbours. “Such a wonderful cook, keeps the house spotless!”
And the neighbours would say, “Youre so lucky!”
It made her feel worse. Like the problem really was her.
They had no children. First, it hadnt happened. Then she didnt want themnot in this house, not with Margaret looming over every decision.
“Maybe you should stop working,” Edward suggested once. “Mums alone all day.”
“And live on what? Your salary?”
“Wed manage. At least Mum wouldnt worry.”
As if her worries mattered.
Then, one ordinary Tuesday, everything changed. Mabel came home to a note: “Away on business. Back in a week. Look after Mum.”
Margaret switched off the telly. “Edwards gone. Now its just us. Lets see how you behave without him here.”
Mabel ignored her, started dinner.
“You know, Ive thought a lot about why you dislike me,” Margaret mused. “And Ive realisedyoure jealous. Jealous that Edward loves me more.”
The knife slipped. Blood dripped onto the potatoes.
“He should love me more. Im his mother. Youre just some woman who latched onto him.”
Something inside Mabel snapped.
“Youre rightI am jealous,” she said, turning. “Jealous that you can say whatever you like. That your word is law here, mine doesnt matter.”
“Finally showing your true colours!”
“Oh, I am. And youre not some frail old woman. Youre bitter because your son grew up.”
Margaret stood, red-faced. “How dare you! In my house!”
“Our house! I have a right to be here!”
“You were always the outsider,” Margaret whispered.
Mabel turned at the door. “Maybe. But the worst part? I believed it. Seven years of thinking I wasnt good enough. But I am. I love Edward. That should be enough. You just refuse to see it.”
She finished dinner in silence. Margaret locked herself away.
That night, Edward called.
“Hows Mum?”
“We had words.”
“About what?”
“About me finally speaking up.”
Silence.
“Edward, when youre backwe need to talk. About our family.”
“Not this again”
“Oh, yes. Because its my family too.”
She sat by the window a long time, watching the city lights. Tomorrow would be hard. The days after, harder still. But she wouldnt stay silent anymore.
And theyd see where that led.
