The tension in the grand Victorian house was thick enough to slice through.
“Dont you dare dress like that under my roof,” hissed Margaret Winchester through clenched teeth, her voice barely above a whisper as guests mingled in the next room.
“Emily, have you seen my reading glasses? I thought I left them on the side table,” Margaret called out, stepping into the kitchen where her daughter-in-law was assembling a salad with meticulous precision.
“Theyre in the case, Margaret. I tidied the lounge earlier,” Emily replied without looking up, her focus fixed on the evenness of each cucumber slice.
Margarets lips tightened. No one touched her thingsnot without asking. Especially not *her* things. But with guests due any minute, she bit back her irritation. Today was importantthirty years since shed moved into this house, with its high ceilings and antique furniture passed down from her own mother-in-law. Every inch of it bore her touch, her rules. And though it technically belonged to her son, James, in her mind, she was still its mistress.
Emily had only been here two years. A whirlwind romance, a rushed marriageMargaret had barely had time to process it before this bright, university-educated woman with her “modern ideas” was sharing her home.
“The salads nearly ready,” Emily said, arranging it on a serving platter. “Ill just change before everyone arrives.”
“Youre not wearing that red dress, are you?” Margaret remarked casually, smoothing her immaculate silver chignon.
Emily paused, then met her gaze. “Actually, yes. James chose it for our anniversary.”
“Its hardly appropriate for a family dinner,” Margaret clipped. “Far too revealing. What about that navy one I gave you at Christmas? Much more refined.”
Emily exhaled. That dressprim, high-collared, something a headmistress might wearhad been worn exactly once, out of obligation. Since then, it had hung untouched in the back of her wardrobe.
“Margaret, Im thirty-two. I think I can decide what to wear,” she said evenly.
“Of course you can,” Margaret replied with a tight smile. “Just remembermy friends are coming. People of a certain generation. They have standards.”
Without waiting for a reply, she swept out, leaving Emily standing there, frustration simmering.
Upstairs, James was buttoning a freshly pressed shirt. He grinned when she entered. “Everything ready for the grand celebration?”
“Almost,” Emily said, pulling the red dress from the wardrobe. “Your mothers already had words about my outfit.”
James sighed. “Ignore her. Shes just worried about appearances in front of her friends.”
“Appearancesor me?” Emily held up the dress. It *was* daringa deep neckline, a slit in the skirtbut hardly scandalous.
“Not tonight, love,” James murmured, wrapping his arms around her. “Thirty years in this houseit means everything to her.”
“And my self-respect means everything to me,” Emily said quietly. “Im not a child to be dressed.”
James hesitated, torn between wife and mother. Finally, he sighed. “Wear what you like. Youre beautiful in anything.”
She kissed his cheek, swallowing the irritation. For him, shed keep the peace.
By six, the guests arrivedMargarets oldest friends, mostly women of her age, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. Emily played the dutiful hostess, smiling, serving, biting her tongue when Margaret “subtly” sent her to fetch things that didnt need fetching.
Then came the breaking point.
“I saw your glasses, Margarettheyre *right there*,” Emily said coolly, rejoining the table.
Margarets glare could have frozen fire.
Later, in the kitchen, the facade cracked.
“You *embarrass* me,” Margaret spat, voice trembling with fury. “That dressits vulgar. An insult to me and my guests!”
Emily recoiled. “Its just a dress!”
“Youre flaunting yourself! Mocking my rules!”
James appeared in the doorway, face dark. “Enough.”
Margaret paled. “James, you dont understand”
“No, *you* dont,” he said, stepping beside Emily. “This is her home too. She wears what she likes.”
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then
“Perhaps I… overreacted,” Margaret admitted stiffly. “But in my day”
“Times change,” Emily said softly. “But kindness doesnt.”
Margaret exhaled. “You *do* look… lovely in it.”
The admission hung between them, fragile as glass.
Back in the parlour, the evening softened. Even Margarets oldest friend, Beatrice, winked at Emily. “Never seen her back down before. Youve got spirit, girl.”
Later, as they cleared up, Margaret surprised them again. “Leave it. Tomorrows soon enough.”
James blinked. “But you always say”
“Some rules,” Margaret said, a rare smile tugging at her lips, “are made to be broken. Isnt that right, Emily?”
Emily smiled back. “Especially if it makes us happier.”
And for the first time in years, they laughednot as adversaries, but as family.
