Family storms are a tricky thing. Before marriage, Emily had no idea that living with her husband’s relatives could become such a trial. Having grown up in a close-knit family where arguments were rare, she assumed she’d be spared such troubles. She’d heard colleagues gripe about their mothers-in-law but dismissed it as exaggeration—surely it wouldn’t happen to her.
After the wedding, Emily and James moved in with his mother, Margaret, in her cosy but cramped two-bedroom flat in a small town near Manchester. At first, Margaret welcomed her daughter-in-law warmly, and the early months passed smoothly. Children weren’t part of the plan yet—the newlyweds were saving for their own place.
James worked for a major tech firm, and his salary allowed them to dream big. Emily also worked, though she earned less as a teacher at the local secondary school. Margaret was pleasant enough but had a habit of doling out advice, which initially seemed harmless.
Emily tried not to react, but over time, Margaret interfered more often. Her tone grew sharper, her comments more pointed.
One day, Emily came home beaming with a new blender.
“Now we can make smoothies in the mornings—healthy and delicious!” she announced, placing the box on the kitchen table.
Margaret eyed it sceptically, pursing her lips.
“What’s the point? A waste of money. Proper people have porridge for breakfast, not these fancy gadgets ruining your digestion. You’ll regret it later, mark my words.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.
Emily couldn’t help snapping back, “Your son hates porridge! He grabs toast and tea and rushes to work!”
Margaret froze in the doorway, turning to deliver a icy retort.
“If you were a proper wife, you’d get up earlier and make him a decent breakfast instead of lazing in bed!”
“I don’t laze in bed! My classes start later—should I lose sleep over it?”
That evening, a shadow fell between them. The blender was just the spark—tension had been building for ages. Sipping tea at the kitchen table, Emily brooded.
“What kind of mother-in-law did I land? Instead of being happy for me, she always finds fault. It’s not my fault my job starts later. James is a grown man—he can butter his own toast. Why should I live by her rules?”
When she heard the key turn in the lock, Emily perked up—James was home. They always caught up in the evenings, their only time together.
“Hi, love,” he said, pecking her cheek. “Why the long face?”
“Waiting for you. Wanted to show off my new toy.” She nodded at the blender. “Breakfasts just got an upgrade!”
“Brilliant! Well done,” James grinned.
But then Margaret’s voice carried from her room.
“What’s there to cheer about? Just another way to wreck your health!”
“Mum, come on. Everyone has blenders—it’s not a big deal,” James said, trying to smooth things over.
“How much did that rubbish cost?” Margaret demanded, rounding on Emily.
Without missing a beat, Emily quoted half the real price.
“And that’s not too much? Who brings in the money here? James works his fingers to the bone, and you fritter it away!”
“I work too!” Emily shot back. “And I’m not idle, thanks very much!”
“Pocket change! James keeps this family afloat while you splurge!”
The row escalated. Seeing it spiral, James took Emily’s hand and steered her to their room, shutting the door behind them.
“God, I’ve had enough!” Emily exhaled. “Why does she have to meddle?”
She wanted to vent, but held back—James wasn’t to blame for his mother. Margaret spent her pension on her cottage: fixing the fence, patching the roof. James grumbled but helped out.
The next morning, while Emily slept, Margaret made James breakfast, eager to prove who truly cared for him.
“Mum, you don’t need to do this. I’m capable,” James said, baffled.
But Margaret wouldn’t let up. She unloaded her thoughts: Emily was lazy, ungrateful, a poor wife. James listened, hiding a smile. He knew his mum was exaggerating and didn’t take it to heart.
“Thanks, Mum. Got to dash,” he said, heading to work.
Margaret stood there, perplexed. Emily breakfasted alone—Margaret stayed in her room. When James returned that evening, his mother resumed her complaints. Emily, overhearing, finally snapped.
“She’s at it again?” she hissed when James entered.
He hugged her.
“Don’t let it get to you. She means well.”
“Well for whom? I’m sick of her controlling everything! If I buy so much as a toaster without her say-so, it’s Armageddon! James, I can’t take it. Let’s rent our own place!”
“And spend my whole salary on rent? We’re saving for a house.”
“I’ll find a better-paying job,” Emily vowed. “Then we’ll move.”
“Alright, let’s not rush,” James soothed. “I’m on your side. Buy what you want. I’ll talk to Mum.”
After his chat with Margaret, she grew distant, speaking only when necessary. Emily avoided the kitchen if Margaret was there. James, ever the diplomat, navigated between them, keeping the peace.
Then they were invited to the birthday party of James’s colleague’s wife, Olivia, who raved about her husband’s gift—a dishwasher.
“Em, it’s a lifesaver!” Olivia gushed. “Load it, press a button, and you’re done!”
“I want one!” Emily declared. “I’m not waiting for James to gift it. I’ll buy it myself—he said I could.”
She didn’t hesitate. After picking a model at the shop, she called James.
“James, I bought a dishwasher! Olivia recommended it. It’s being delivered tonight.”
“Great, more free time,” he approved, not asking the price.
When the deliverymen brought the box into the kitchen, Margaret stormed out.
“What’s this now?”
“Dishwasher,” the deliveryman said proudly before leaving.
Emily braced for the explosion. Margaret turned puce.
“A dishwasher! Too lazy to wash a few plates! I’ve washed up by hand all my life, and she plays the lady of the manor!”
Emily tuned her out, focused on unboxing, but muttered, “James knows. Don’t surprise him.”
Margaret snatched up her phone and retreated. When James came home, she launched into fresh complaints, not caring if Emily heard.
“Enough!” Emily burst out. “Your interference is unbearable! I’ve got a new job—better pay. James and I are renting our own place. You can live alone, how you like!”
Margaret left without a word. The next day, a Saturday, she stayed in her room. James went to the garage to fix the car, while Emily sat at the kitchen table, thinking.
“Maybe I went too far. She wasn’t always like this. We got on fine at first. It all started with these purchases. Maybe we could’ve managed without the dishwasher?”
Steeling herself, Emily arranged a tray with tea and biscuits and knocked on Margaret’s door.
“Margaret, fancy a cuppa?”
“I’d love one,” came the unexpectedly warm reply. “Come in, love. I’ve found a recipe for apple pie. Shall I bake it?”
“Nothing better than apple pie!” Emily smiled.
That evening, returning from the garage, James found his wife and mother chatting over tea and pie. The sight warmed his heart.
*Sometimes the hardest storms clear the air best.*
