**Rift and Reconciliation**
Family storms can be treacherous. Before marriage, Charlotte never imagined living with her husband’s relatives could become such a trial. Raised in a close-knit family where arguments were rare, she assumed she’d be spared such troubles. Her colleagues’ tales of difficult mothers-in-law seemed exaggerated—surely, it wouldn’t happen to her.
After the wedding, Charlotte and Oliver 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 warmly, and the early months passed smoothly. Children weren’t yet on the cards—the newlyweds were saving for a place of their own.
Oliver worked at a major tech firm, his salary paving the way for their future plans. Charlotte also worked, though she earned less as a teacher at the local school. Margaret was pleasant but had a habit of offering advice that, at first, seemed harmless.
Charlotte tried not to react, but over time, Margaret interfered more often. Her tone grew more commanding, her remarks sharper.
One day, Charlotte returned home beaming with excitement, carrying a new blender.
“Now we can make smoothies in the mornings—healthy and delicious!” she declared, placing the box on the kitchen table.
Margaret eyed the purchase sceptically and pursed her lips.
“What’s the point of that? A waste of money. Normal people eat porridge for breakfast, not some trendy nonsense that’ll ruin your stomach. You’ll regret it later.” She turned on her heel and left.
Charlotte couldn’t hold back. “Your son hates porridge! He grabs toast and tea and rushes to work!”
Margaret stopped in the doorway, turned, and countered coldly, “If you were a proper wife, you’d get up earlier and make Oliver a real breakfast instead of sleeping till noon!”
“I don’t sleep till noon!” Charlotte shot back. “My classes start later—am I supposed to lose sleep over it?”
That evening, a shadow fell between them. The blender was just the spark—tension had been building for months. Charlotte sipped her tea at the kitchen table, brooding.
*What kind of mother-in-law did I land? Instead of being happy for me, she’s always finding fault. My schedule isn’t my fault. Oliver’s a grown man—he can make his own toast. Why should I live by her rules?*
The sound of the key turning in the lock lifted her spirits—Oliver was home. They always shared their day’s news, as evenings were their only time together.
“Hey,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Why the long face?”
“Was waiting for you. Wanted to show off my purchase.” She nodded at the blender. “New breakfast routine!”
“Brilliant! Well done!” Oliver grinned.
But Margaret’s voice carried from her room.
“What’s to celebrate? Just another gadget ruining your health!”
“Mum, come on. Everyone has blenders—no one’s complaining,” Oliver said, trying to defuse things.
“How much did that rubbish cost?” Margaret turned to Charlotte.
Quick-thinking, Charlotte halved the real price.
“And that’s not expensive?” Margaret huffed. “Who brings in the real money here? Oliver works hard, and you throw it away!”
“I work too!” Charlotte snapped. “And I’m not idle, by the way!”
“Pennies, that’s all you earn!” Margaret retorted. “Oliver supports this family, and you’re reckless with it!”
The argument escalated. Seeing the situation spiralling, Oliver took Charlotte’s hand and steered her to their room, shutting the door.
“God, I’m so tired of this!” Charlotte exhaled. “Why does she meddle in our lives?”
She wanted to vent but held back—Oliver wasn’t to blame for his mother. Margaret spent her pension on her countryside cottage: fixing the fence one month, patching the roof the next. Oliver occasionally grumbled but helped anyway.
The next morning, while Charlotte slept, Margaret made Oliver breakfast to prove who *really* cared for him.
“Mum, why bother? I can manage,” he said, surprised.
But Margaret wouldn’t let up. She unloaded her thoughts: Charlotte was lazy, ungrateful, a poor wife. Oliver listened, hiding a smile. He knew she was exaggerating and didn’t take it seriously.
“Thanks, Mum—gotta dash,” he said, heading to work.
Margaret stood baffled as he left. Charlotte ate alone—Margaret didn’t emerge. That evening, when Oliver returned, Margaret resumed her complaints. Overhearing from their room, Charlotte snapped.
“Gossiping about me again?” she flung at Oliver when he entered.
He hugged her. “Don’t mind her. She means well.”
“For whom?” Charlotte flared. “I’m done with her controlling us! If I buy something without her approval, it’s the end of the world! Oliver, I can’t take it. Let’s rent our own place!”
“And spend my whole salary on rent?” he countered. “We’re saving for a house.”
“I’ll find a better-paying job,” Charlotte said firmly. “Then we’ll move.”
“Alright, let’s not rush,” Oliver softened. “I’m on your side. Buy what you want. I’ll talk to Mum.”
After their chat, Margaret grew colder, speaking only when necessary. Charlotte avoided the kitchen if Margaret was there. Oliver, ever the diplomat, navigated between them, keeping peace.
One day, they were invited to the birthday party of Oliver’s colleague’s wife, Emily, who raved about her husband’s gift—a dishwasher.
“Charlotte, it’s a miracle!” Emily gushed. “Load it, press a button—done!”
“I want one!” Charlotte decided. “No waiting for Oliver to gift it. I’ll buy it myself—he said I could.”
She didn’t hesitate: she visited a shop, picked a model, and called Oliver.
“Bought a dishwasher! Emily loved hers. It’s being delivered tonight.”
“Great, more free time,” he approved, not asking the price.
When the deliverymen carried the box into the kitchen, Margaret flew out.
“What’s this now?”
“Dishwasher,” the man said proudly before leaving.
Charlotte braced for an explosion. Margaret turned crimson.
“A dishwasher! Too lazy to wash a few plates! I’ve washed dishes by hand my whole life, and she plays the lady!” The rant poured out.
Charlotte ignored her, unpacking, but muttered, “Oliver knows, so don’t shock him later.”
Margaret snatched her phone and retreated. When Oliver arrived, she complained loudly, not caring if Charlotte heard.
“Enough!” Charlotte burst out. “Your interference is unbearable! I’ve got a better job lined up—higher pay. Oliver and I are renting our own place. Live alone, see if I care!”
Margaret stormed off silently. The next day, a Saturday, she stayed in her room. Oliver went to the garage to fix the car, leaving Charlotte at the kitchen table, thinking.
*Maybe I overreacted? She wasn’t always like this. We got on at first. Did all this start over appliances? Was the dishwasher really necessary?*
Steeling herself, Charlotte prepared a tea tray and knocked on Margaret’s door.
“Fancy a cuppa?”
“Alright,” Margaret replied, unexpectedly warm. “Come in, love. Found a recipe for apple pie. Fancy some?”
“I *love* apple pie!” Charlotte smiled.
That evening, Oliver returned from the garage to find his wife and mother chatting over tea and pie. The sight warmed his heart.
