“Where Are They?”
Emma’s breath hitched as she peered into the empty kitchen, then the silent sitting room. The house felt unnaturally still, heavy with an absence that sent a prickle of unease down her spine.
Everything had been unbearable since dawn. Her mother—stubborn, sharp-eyed, with a never-ending list of grievances. Her husband, James—withdrawn, simmering with quiet frustration, deaf to any plea. They’d agreed to let her mother stay “just a week.” A week had slipped into three.
“Mum? James?” Her voice rang out, unanswered. Her stomach twisted.
She snatched her coat and hurried to the garage, James’ usual hideaway—where he tinkered with old furniture, escaping the weight of domesticity. The door sat ajar, voices spilling out.
“Sand it properly, and the varnish will lie smooth,” her mother said, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.
“I usually thin the first coat,” James replied. “Helps the wood absorb better.”
Emma froze on the threshold, as if stepping too loudly might shatter this fragile truce. There they were—her perpetually clashing mother and husband—hunched together over the cracked frame of an antique mirror. Her mother’s apron was speckled with varnish, James’ fingers smudged with dust as he smoothed the wood.
“Well, this is a turn-up,” Emma murmured, sinking into the shadows just to watch.
Weeks ago, she’d insisted Mum move in. The retirement home where she’d lived since Dad’s death was under renovation. “It’s temporary,” they’d assured her. But her mother had dug in her heels. “I’ll stay with my daughter. I’ll help. I won’t be a burden.”
James had been less than thrilled. He’d never hidden his disdain for his mother-in-law—her rigidity, her uncompromising opinions. He was quiet but resentful, a man who preferred peace but never forgot a slight.
The bickering began instantly. Forks in the wrong drawer. Shirts folded improperly. A door shut too sharply. Evenings were spent navigating their silent grudges—two stubborn souls, each used to ruling their own domain, now crammed under one roof.
Emma had feared her marriage wouldn’t survive it.
Yet here they were. Her mother, it turned out, had spent her youth working in a furniture workshop. James, the self-taught restorer, had always longed for a mentor.
“You’ve got a steady hand,” he admitted. “Not many craftsmen do it that clean.”
“And you’ve got an eye for it,” her mother conceded. “Instinctive.”
Later, as they brewed tea and dug out a dusty jar of jam from the back of a cupboard, Emma finally blurted, “Who are you two, and what’ve you done with my mother?”
Her mother snorted. “Had nothing to talk about before. Now we’ve got a project. Thought he was hopeless. Turns out the boy knows his wood!”
James laughed—actually laughed. “And I thought you hated me.”
“I hate stupidity. You’re not stupid.”
Emma just watched, a smile tugging at her lips.
That night, as they climbed into bed, James murmured, “Glad your mum’s here. Never thought we’d find common ground.”
Come morning, her mother announced, “I’m staying. Won’t go back to that home. Help you set up a proper workshop instead.”
Emma didn’t argue. When two people who could barely stand each other start understanding—start valuing one another—it isn’t a disaster.
It’s a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, this house could be peaceful again.
Even warm.
