Emma waved off her husband, Oliver, with a peck on the cheek as he left for work, shutting the door behind him. She exhaled, ready to unwind. The day had already been chaotic—juggling remote work, chores, and settling into their rented flat in Brighton, a far cry from the honeymoon bliss they’d just returned from. The place wasn’t theirs, but it was cosy—freshly done up, bathed in sunlight, with a view of the River Ouse. The landlords had been picky, but they’d chosen Emma and Oliver, a “lovely young professional couple,” as the letting agent put it.
That day, Emma was working from home, her schedule a mix of emails and video calls. She’d just settled at her laptop when the doorbell rang—unexpected. No deliveries, no guests. And yet, there stood Margaret, her mother-in-law, all pearls and imperious energy.
“Good morning,” Emma said, blinking.
“I’m here to see Oliver. Well? Let me in,” Margaret declared, already stepping past her.
“He’s at work.”
“Fine. I’ll wait.” She made a beeline for the kitchen.
Emma blocked her path. “I’m working—scheduled calls all morning. Maybe come back when Oliver’s home?”
Margaret’s lips puckered, but she left without another word. That evening, Oliver was bemused. “Mum says you didn’t even offer her tea.”
“Ollie, you know how she is—treats our place like her own. I was mid-meeting! And remember what happened last time?”
Oliver shrugged. “That’s just Mum. I invited her for Sunday roast—let’s try again, yeah?”
Emma agreed but added, “We’ve got the flat clean-up Saturday, and brunch with the Smiths Sunday. No surprises.”
Sunday passed without fireworks. Margaret ate quietly, though her comments were barbed. “This flat’s far too pricey. You could’ve got something modest on the outskirts. And your parents have that big house—couldn’t you’ve stayed there? Saved for your own place?”
Emma kept her cool. “Ask Oliver if he fancies living with my parents.”
“No thanks,” Oliver cut in. “I like my space.”
“But it’s not even yours!” Margaret snapped.
“For twelve months, it is. We pay, it suits us,” he replied.
Margaret sniffed. “Move in with me, then. Three bedrooms—plenty of room.”
“Nope. We’ll visit. Living together? Disaster. Different routines.”
The following week, Emma was napping after Oliver left for work when the smell of coffee woke her. Odd—Oliver never brewed it before leaving. She threw on a dressing gown and froze in the kitchen doorway. There sat Margaret, sipping coffee and picking at a Victoria sponge.
“How did you get in?” Emma demanded.
“I’ve got keys. William gave them to me. It’s his flat, after all. What’s his is mine.”
“Where’d you get them?” Emma hissed.
“Took them Saturday. They were in the bowl. And I’m keeping them.”
“We’ll discuss this with Oliver. Right now, though—leave. I’m working.”
“I’m not going until I’ve said my piece. I never liked you. Fancy name, no family to speak of. Oliver used to give me half his salary—now it’s pennies. All spent on you. Renting this place, dining out, and you’ve not even given him children. Can’t cook, either—worse than a Wetherspoon’s!”
“Finished?” Emma said coolly. “Hand over the keys.”
“No.” Margaret reached for her handbag, but Emma was quicker, upending it onto the table. The keys clattered out.
“Now. Leave.”
“You’ll regret this. Oliver will throw you out when he hears how you’ve treated his mother!” Margaret stormed off, slamming the door.
That evening, Emma told Oliver everything. He listened, then pulled her close. “I’ll handle it. And for the record—you were right.”
Emma didn’t cry. She knew self-respect had an expiry date. Let it slide, and even family would walk all over you.
