**The Daughter-in-Law Lays Down the Law**
“No, Vincent Prescott! Absolutely not!” Emily banged her fist on the kitchen table, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. “I’ve had enough! I can’t take it anymore!”
Her father-in-law blinked in surprise and set aside his newspaper.
“Emily, love, what’s got into you?”
“What’s got into me? I’m not your maid, that’s what!” She stood up, hands on hips. “Your mother barks orders at me all day like I’m some servant, and you just sit there!”
Margaret Prescott, the mother-in-law, chose that exact moment to stroll into the kitchen, catching the tail end of the shouting.
“What on earth is going on? Emily, why are you making such a racket?”
“There! See?” Emily jabbed a finger toward Margaret. “‘Emily, pop down to Tesco.’ ‘Emily, make a roast.’ ‘Emily, hoover the sitting room.’ Am I your hired help now?”
Margaret pursed her lips and took a seat. “Well, who else? I’m old, my arthritis’s playing up, Vincent’s at work all hours. You’re young, healthy—”
“I work too!” Emily cut in. “On my feet at Boots from open till close, and when I come home, it’s more cooking, cleaning, laundry!”
Vincent scratched his head, glancing between his wife and mother.
“Mum, maybe Emily really is knackered…”
“Oh, so it’s like that now, is it?” Margaret huffed. “Even my own son’s turning against me! For some—some—”
“Some what?!” Emily’s voice shot up. “I’m your son’s wife, in case you’ve forgotten! And if God’s willing, I’ll give him children too! And here you are calling me ‘some’ thing!”
Margaret turned to the window and stayed silent. Vincent stood and shuffled over to his wife.
“Em, come on. Mum’s getting on, it’s hard for her—”
“And it’s easy for me, is it?” Emily shrugged him off. “Listen, Vince, I’ll be straight with you—either things change, or I’m out of here!”
A heavy silence fell. Margaret slowly turned back around.
“And where exactly would you go? Back to your parents, is it? Oh, I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms!”
Emily paled. Her relationship with her parents was rocky at best, especially with her dad, who still hadn’t forgiven her for marrying Vincent.
“I’ll figure it out, don’t you worry!”
“Emily, don’t be daft!” Vincent grabbed her hand. “We’re family. We’ve got to find a way.”
“Exactly!” She yanked her hand free. “Find a way. So here are my terms.”
Margaret scoffed. “Terms, she says! In my own home!”
“Our home!” Emily corrected. “Vincent, tell your mother this is our home too!”
Vincent hesitated. The house was in his mother’s name—inherited from her parents—and they’d moved in after the wedding because, frankly, they couldn’t afford anything else.
“Well, technically, Mum—”
“No ‘technically’ about it!” Margaret snapped. “This is my house, and my rules!”
“Fine!” Emily marched to the sideboard, grabbing a notepad and pen. “First term: I cook dinner every other night. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays—you or Vince handle it.”
“And why’s that?” Margaret demanded.
“Because I’m not your personal chef!” Emily scribbled in the pad. “Second: we rotate cleaning. One week me, one week you.”
“You’ve got a nerve!” Margaret shot to her feet. “Vincent, are you hearing this?”
Vincent sat with his head down, torn between embarrassment and sympathizing with his wife. His mum did pile too much on Emily sometimes.
“Third,” Emily continued, “no one barges into our room without knocking. And no one touches my things.”
That one stung. Margaret had a habit of “tidying” the entire house—including the couple’s bedroom. She’d shuffle Emily’s clothes, snoop through her letters from mates, even rearrange the furniture to her liking.
“What if I need to vacuum?” Margaret challenged.
“Ask first. Knock. Wait for permission.” Emily added another note. “Fourth: Once a week, Vince and I go to the cinema or visit friends. Just us.”
“Now you’re taking the mick!” Margaret exploded. “Stealing my son away!”
“I’m not stealing anyone! I want to spend time with my husband! That’s what normal couples do!”
Vincent lifted his head. “Mum, she’s got a point. We’re young, we fancy a night out now and then…”
“Oh, marvelous! Gang up on me, why don’t you?” Margaret threw her hands up. “Go on, then, write down the rest of your demands!”
Emily studied her mother-in-law. Beneath the bluster, she caught a flicker of hurt.
“Margaret, I’m not against you. I just want us to live peacefully.”
“Peacefully…” Margaret sank into a chair. “How peaceful will I be when my son’s forgotten me?”
Emily set down the pen and sat across from her. “No one’s forgetting anyone. But I need space here too. I’m not an outsider.”
“Not an outsider, maybe, but not blood either,” Margaret muttered.
“What?” Emily frowned. “I’m your daughter-in-law. That makes us family.”
“Family…” Margaret shook her head. “Family’s blood. You… you came from outside.”
Vincent stood abruptly. “Mum, enough! Emily’s my wife. That makes her your daughter. Full stop.”
“Daughter…” Margaret sighed. “Fine. If she’s my daughter, then daughters ought to listen to their mothers.”
“They listen,” Emily countered. “But they’re not servants.”
Another silence stretched. Vincent paced. Emily flipped her notepad. Margaret gazed out the window at next door’s washing line flapping in the breeze.
“Agnes from down the lane—her son married last year,” Margaret said suddenly. “Nice girl, that one. Quiet, respectful. Knows her place.”
“And I don’t?” Emily asked.
“Dunno. Making lists of terms and all…”
“It’s not about disrespect. It’s about fairness.”
Margaret turned. “So I’m to sit about like a potted plant?”
Emily smiled for the first time all evening. “Course not! You’ve got your garden, your knitting, your telly shows. That’s not what I’m on about.”
“Then what?”
“That I shouldn’t be the only one cooking, cleaning, scrubbing toilets. I’ve got a life too.”
Vincent stopped at the table. “Mum, she’s right. We should pitch in. Me included.”
“You?” Margaret gaped. “You’ve never so much as boiled an egg!”
“I’ll learn!” Vincent declared. “Emily’ll teach me.”
Emily shot him a grateful look. Finally, some proper backup.
“You serious, Vince?”
“’Course! How hard can it be? Chop some veg, stir a pot…”
“Oh, you’ll be hopeless,” Margaret grumbled—but the edge in her voice had dulled.
“Won’t be. He’ll help.”
Margaret studied her lap, then looked up at Emily. “If I agree to your terms… what do I get?”
“What?”
“Well, it’s a negotiation, isn’t it? What’s your part?”
Emily faltered. She hadn’t thought of that.
“What d’you want?”
“Call me Maggie. None of this ‘Margaret’ business.”
“Alright,” Emily nodded. “Maggie.”
“And have cuppas with me evenings. Vincent’s always glued to the telly. Gets lonely.”
Emily felt something shift. Maybe her mother-in-law wasn’t a monster—just lonely.
“Deal. But not every night. Some days I’m dead on my feet.”
“Fair enough. When you’re up for it.”
Vincent collapsed into a chair with a relieved sigh. “Thank heavens. Thought we were headed for World War Three.”
“Oh, it was a war,” Emily said. “Now it’s a truce.”
“Better a peace treaty,” Margaret—no, Maggie—said. “Maggie. Still sounds odd.”
“You’ll get used to it. You’re not that ancient.”
“Not ancient, no, but these knees don’t lie.”
Emily took a proper look at her mother-in-law. She did seem worn out. Maybe the workload wasn’t malice—just exhaustion.
“Maggie, have you seen the GP lately?”
“Oh, pills here, pills there. Doesn’t help much.”
“WhatThey eventually adopted a fluffy tabby named Biscuit, who—despite his habit of knocking over Maggie’s prized porcelain—somehow managed to knit them all closer together than any negotiation ever could.
