“You were always the outsider in this family,” hissed the mother-in-law, her cold gaze following Emma as she retreated.
“Margaret, Ive made some stewwould you like to try it?” Emma ventured, hovering at the sitting room door where her mother-in-law sat embroidering yet another tablecloth.
The older woman didnt even glance up from her needlework.
“I dont want your stew. Have you forgotten about my diabetes? Or do you just not care?”
Emma exhaled, stepping back. She knew full well Margaret didnt have diabetesit was just another barb, another way to remind her that after seven years, she still didnt belong in this house.
“Mum, not again,” came her husbands voice from the hall. “Emma tries her best”
“Tries!” Margaret scoffed. “She forgets the salt in the roast, your shirts come back yellow from the wash, and the house is always dusty.”
Emma sank onto the stool by the stove, staring at the pot of stew. Seven years of the same. Every day, something new was wrongtoo much salt, not enough, the floors too polished or not polished enough.
“James will be home soon,” she said, carrying a tray into the sitting room. “Maybe we could all have dinner together?”
Margaret set her embroidery aside, fixing Emma with that familiar lookdisdain laced with pity.
“Ill eat in my room. I cant bear to watch you poison my son with that cooking.”
The door slammed. Emma stood alone, tray in hand, throat tight.
James arrived late, barely greeting her before sitting at the table, mechanically shovelling food into his mouth, eyes glued to his phone.
“How was work?” Emma asked, taking her seat across from him.
“Fine,” he muttered, still scrolling.
“James, we need to talk.”
He looked up, irritation creasing his brow.
“About Mum again? Emma, for Gods sakeshes old, shes ill, shes entitled to her opinions.”
“Ill? Shes got slightly high blood pressure, thats all! But every day”
“Every day what?” James set his fork down. “She lives in her own home? Voices her displeasure? Its her house, Emma!”
“And mine too! Im your wife, not a maid!”
“No ones forcing you to cook and clean. Mum managed on her own her whole life.”
Emma fell silent. Pointless. James would never understand what it meant to walk on eggshells, to feel like a stranger in her own home.
After dinner, she stood in the bathroom, studying her reflection. Thirty-two but looking forty. Tired eyes, downturned mouth. When had she aged so much?
She remembered the girl shed been when she first met Jamesbright, laughing, full of plans. Shed thought she was marrying a princetall, handsome, a stable job. His mother, a retired English teacher, had seemed so cultured, so refined.
“Emma, dear,” Margaret had said back then, “how lovely that James found you. Hes such a homebodyhed be lost without a womans care.”
So Emma had tried. Learned to cook his favourite childhood meals, ironed his shirts just as Margaret showed her, cleaned the house on the unspoken schedule his mother dictated.
The first year had been bearable. Gentle corrections, wrapped in smiles. But gradually, the tone shifted. The criticism grew sharper, the expectations higher.
“My friend Patricias daughter-in-law is so capable!” Margaret would sigh over tea. “Her home sparkles, her cooking is divine, and most importantlyshe respects her elders.”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Emma had once dared to ask.
Margaret had arched a brow. “Nothing, really. Its just clear you were raised differently. Not your fault, of course. Your family must have been more… relaxed.”
Emma had nodded, then cried at home. Her upbringing had been stricther mother had drilled into her the importance of hospitality, cleanliness, respect. But somehow, Margarets version was different.
James had defended her at first, argued with his mother. But over time, it grew harderespecially when Margaret began complaining of poor health.
“Darling, my heart aches with worry,” shed whisper when she thought Emma couldnt hear. “I only wanted you to be happy, and look at the mess were in.”
“Mum, how is this Emmas fault?”
“Because she resents me. I can feel it. And after all Ive tried to dolike a second mother to her!”
Emma had been baffled. When had she ever shown resentment? She cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret through colds, fetched her prescriptions.
“James, Im trying!” shed pleaded.
“You are. But Mum senses its forced. Shes not stupid, Emma.”
So shed tried sincerityasking after Margarets health, listening to her teaching stories, praising her. But that was wrong too.
“Youre suffocating me,” Margaret had snapped. “I need space.”
Emma had retreated, focused on the houseonly to hear:
“Now shes ignoring us. Thinks shes too good for this family.”
A no-win situation.
Worse, James had slowly begun agreeing with his motherfirst nodding along, then openly siding with her.
“Mums right, Emma. Youve gone cold. You used to be different.”
“I used to not know what it was like to live in someone elses home,” shed once retorted.
“Whose home? This is ours!”
“Ours? Then why cant I move a chair without your mothers permission?”
“Because its her home! She built this life!”
After that, things had deteriorated. James worked late, barely speaking when he was home. Margaret dropped all pretence of civility.
“See what youve done to my son?” shed say when James left. “He used to be so cheerful.”
“Maybe its not me,” Emma had dared to say.
“Oh? Then who? Am I to blame for having no peace in my own house?”
Friends had urged her to move out, but James refused. “Why waste money when we have a home? And whos going to look after Mum?”
“Let her look after herself!”
But reasoning with James was impossible.
The worst was Margarets performance around otherssuddenly the doting mother-in-law. “Our Emma is an angel!” shed gush to neighbours. “Such a wonderful cook, keeps the house shining!”
And the neighbours would say, “Youre so luckynot everyone gets a mother-in-law like that.”
Making Emma doubt herself.
Theyd never had children. At first, it hadnt happenedthen shed stopped wanting to. The thought of Margaret hovering over her parenting was unbearable.
“When will you give me grandchildren?” Margaret would sigh. “A woman my age needs joy.”
“It hasnt happened yet,” Emma would reply.
“Seen a doctor? Or are you too busy with your career?”
What career? She worked part-time at a fabric shop, earning penniesbut it was the only place she felt like herself.
“Maybe you should stay home,” James had suggested once. “Mum gets lonely.”
“And how would we live? I need my job, James.”
He hadnt understood. To him, a wifes place was at homejust like his mother.
Everything changed on an ordinary Tuesday. Emma returned from work to find a note: *Gone to Birmingham for work. Back in a week. Look after Mum.*
Margaret sat in the living room, television muted.
“James is gone,” she said. “Just us now. Lets see how you behave when hes not here.”
Emma said nothing, started cooking. But Margaret continued.
“Ive thought a lot about why you dislike me. And Ive realisedyoure jealous.”
Emma kept chopping carrots, ignoring her.
“Jealous because James loves me more. Because I come first. Youre just… temporary.”
The knife slipped. Blood dripped onto the cutting board.
“And hes right to,” Margaret went on. “Im his mother. You? Just some woman who latched onto him.”
Emma bandaged her finger, kept cooking. Silent.
“You think I dont see your hatred? Youre waiting for me to die. Well, Ill outlive you.”
Something snapped. Emma turned.
“You know what? Youre right. I am jealous.”
Margaret blinked, caught off guard.
“Jealous that you can say whatever you want. That your word is law here. That my feelings dont matter.”
“Now the truth comes out!”
“Yes. And heres more truthyoure not some frail old woman. Youre cruel, and you cant stand that your son grew up.”
Margaret stood, face red. “How dare you! In my house!”
“*Our* house! I have a right to be here!”
“You were always the outsider,” Margaret whispered.
Emma paused in the doorway, then turned
