**Storm in the House: Emily’s Dilemma**
Emily waved her husband, James, off to work and retreated to their cosy flat in Manchester, longing for a quiet moment. No sooner had she settled than the doorbell rang sharply.
“Open up, now!” snapped her mother-in-law’s voice through the door.
Startled by the harsh tone, Emily obeyed. Margaret stood there, eyes blazing with determination.
“Margaret, is something wrong?” Emily asked cautiously, her stomach knotting with dread.
“Asleep, were you? Pack your things—I’m moving in!” Margaret declared, as though issuing a challenge.
“Moving in? Why?” Emily froze, unable to process the words.
Emily and James had been overjoyed when they discovered she was five months pregnant. Yet Margaret’s interference had soured their happiness. Since learning of the baby, she’d smothered Emily with “care”—more suffocating than comforting.
Margaret doted on James but treated Emily with backhanded concern. Every word carried a sting.
“I look at you and worry,” she’d remarked once, barging in unannounced.
“Why?” Emily glanced down at herself.
“Have you seen a mirror lately?” Margaret squinted. “Thin as a rake! Narrow hips—how will you manage childbirth? Only your eyes are pretty. That’s likely all my James saw in you.”
Emily faltered. A compliment? An insult? She didn’t know how to respond.
“You were probably sickly as a child,” Margaret pressed. “Where were your parents looking?”
“I wasn’t! They took me to Cornwall every summer!”
“Exactly—because you were frail. You just forgot!” Margaret snapped, as if settling the matter.
Only James and his sister, Charlotte, earned her untainted admiration.
By her seventh month, Emily dreaded Margaret’s visits more than labour. She even considered cancelling her birthday to avoid her. But James insisted:
“I want to spoil you, Em. A family celebration should be happy!”
Blind to his mother’s cruelty, James didn’t grasp Emily’s torment.
“Let’s celebrate at home,” he suggested a week prior. “Restaurants are crowded, and you shouldn’t risk germs.”
“Why at home?” Emily asked flatly.
“You’re due soon—why chance getting ill?”
“Fine,” she sighed. “But no fuss—I can’t cook.”
“Mum will come early to help!” he beamed.
Emily stiffened, her eyes darkening.
“Was this Margaret’s idea?”
“What’s Mum got to do with it? I decided!”
“Of course! Her advice rules everything!” Emily flared.
“Em, she means well!”
“Stop! We’ll host, but *my* mother helps!”
“Yours has an hour’s drive! Mum’s round the corner!”
“They’ll stay overnight!”
“What’s your problem?”
“One more word, and I’ll ask them to bring their dog!” she barked.
“You know I hate dogs.”
“Precisely!” Emily slammed the bedroom door.
On the eve of the party, Emily’s parents, Helen and Peter, arrived with gifts from their garden and baby clothes. Helen, knowing Emily wasn’t superstitious, had already bought essentials. Emily and James had purchased a crib and pram but hid them from Margaret.
“Mum, don’t mention the baby things in front of Margaret,” Emily begged.
“Still pushing her old wives’ tales?” Helen frowned.
“She’s unbearable. Every doorbell makes me jump.”
“And James?”
“He’s fine—always at work. But her…”
“This ends tomorrow,” Helen said firmly.
“Mum, don’t—”
“I’ve been a mother for thirty years. I won’t let her bully you.”
The next morning, Helen and Peter bustled in the kitchen.
“Happy birthday, darling!” Peter hugged Emily.
“Our beautiful girl—be happy!” Helen kissed her cheek.
Emily showed off James’s gifts: a ring and tickets to an art exhibit she’d wanted.
“Lucky with your husband!” Peter chuckled. “I’d never remember which exhibit Helen fancied.”
“I’ll freshen up, then help,” Emily said.
“I’ll set the table,” James offered.
The doorbell shattered the cheer—Margaret had arrived.
“Well, look who’s here! Six months apart, and you barely visit your pregnant daughter. Why trek an hour?” she sneered.
Helen didn’t flinch.
“At least we don’t intrude uninvited—*and* we send money.”
Margaret clenched her jaw but stayed silent—the jab had struck home. The party passed tensely, Emily and James averting a row.
The next morning, Helen and Peter left. James headed to work, and Emily, craving rest, returned to bed—until the doorbell blared again.
“Open up!” Margaret barked.
Emily let her in, pulse racing.
“Good morning, Margaret. Is something wrong?”
“Asleep again? Up! We’re preparing my room—I’m moving in before the birth!”
Emily went cold. Living with Margaret? A nightmare.
“Please don’t. James and I will manage. Where would you even stay? The lounge?”
“Don’t be absurd! Buy a sofa bed for the nursery. I’ll tend to my grandchild—properly!”
Emily’s blood ran cold. Her life was hard enough without this.
“I lived with James in his student flat! Fed him, ironed his shirts, even helped with his dissertation! Thanks to me, he’s successful!”
Trembling, Emily called James. He rushed home and, seeing Margaret, said firmly,
“Mum, go home. We don’t need you moving in. I’m a grown man.”
Margaret recoiled as if struck. After all she’d done—this?
“Ungrateful wretches! You’ll never see me again!” she spat, storming out.
Until the birth, peace reigned. At the hospital, Helen, Peter—and, shockingly, Margaret—greeted them. They took photos, then headed home, skipping a big feast with the newborn. Noting Emily’s exhaustion, Helen and Peter prepared to leave.
But Margaret announced, “Off you go. *I’ll* stay—they need help!”
Emily nearly wept. Helen stepped in.
“Margaret, when Charlotte has children, help *her*. Emily has me. We’ll drop you home.”
“How dare you eject me? You don’t care about this baby!”
The row exploded. James finally drove Margaret away, stating, “Don’t come unless invited.”
She demanded an apology, but they refused. The silence, for now, is a relief.
**Lesson: Love shouldn’t shackle. Sometimes, the kindest boundaries are the firmest.**
