From the very first meeting between Emily and her mother-in-law, Margaret, the air between them turned frosty. An invisible barrier rose, shutting Emily out from the warmth she had hoped to find in her new family. Margaret regarded her like an uninvited guest intruding upon their perfect world. Her spacious home on the outskirts of a coastal town in Devon exuded wealth—polished oak floors, oil paintings in antique frames, chandeliers that caught the light. But beneath the veneer lay an emptiness—cold, calculating, like the biting wind off the Atlantic in midwinter.
Emily avoided visits whenever she could. Her husband, William, urged her to mend the relationship, insisting his mother simply “took time to warm to people.” But every encounter became an ordeal. Conversations always veered toward money: the cost of renovations, the wisest investments, who owed whom what. To Margaret, everything in life had a price—even family. Emily felt like an item being appraised but never welcomed.
Years passed. Then, late one evening, the phone rang. Margaret’s usually sharp, assured voice trembled—she was seriously ill. She begged Emily for help. Emily froze, clutching the receiver. Memories flooded back—years of indifference, cutting remarks, glances laced with condescension. Should she go? Her heart tore between resentment and duty. In the end, duty won. She packed a bag and set off for the house by the sea.
Emily found Margaret in her bedroom, frail beneath a cashmere throw, her face gaunt, eyes dulled by pain. She complained of weakness, of loneliness. Emily watched her, searching for sincerity—was this suffering real, or just another ploy? Her doubts vanished when Margaret suddenly grasped her hand, pleading not to be left alone. Emily called doctors, arranged the hospital transfer, spent hours by the bedside, negotiating with nurses.
Weeks of treatment dragged on. Slowly, Margaret recovered. Upon her discharge, Emily helped her home, cleaned the house, cooked meals. She waited—just one word of thanks, some acknowledgment that her efforts mattered. Instead, Margaret settled into her leather armchair and asked coolly,
“How much do I owe you for all this?”
Emily flinched, something snapping inside.
“How can you say that? I helped you because—because it was the right thing to do!” Her voice shook with hurt.
“Don’t be naive,” Margaret replied, her smile hollow as her words. “I always pay for services rendered. Consider it gratitude. Money is the surest way to show appreciation.”
“Do you truly believe everything has a price?” Emily’s fists clenched. “If you were a real mother, William would have looked after you himself. You wouldn’t have had to beg me in secret.”
Margaret frowned. Her lips quivered, but she said nothing. Something flickered in her eyes—anger? Surprise? *Why does she despise me?* Margaret wondered. *I live by my own rules. Is that a crime?*
Emily left without another word. The next day, a bank transfer notification glared from her phone. The sum was generous—but to Emily, it felt like a slap. She didn’t return the money—not out of greed, but exhaustion. Arguing with Margaret was like shouting at a brick wall.
William never learned what happened. To him, his mother remained kind-hearted, incapable of pettiness. Emily kept the truth buried, knowing some silences cost more than words. Yet whenever she looked at her husband, she felt it—the shadow stretching between them, cast by his mother’s relentless arithmetic.
