“No, William! Absolutely not!” Harriet slammed her fist onto the table, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. “I’ve had enough! I can’t take it anymore!”
Her father-in-law raised his eyebrows in surprise and set aside his newspaper.
“Harriet, what’s gotten into you? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? I’m not your servant, that’s what!” She stood, hands on her hips. “Your mother orders me about all day as if I were hers to command! And you say nothing!”
Just then, Margaret Whitmore, Harriet’s mother-in-law, stepped into the kitchen, having caught the raised voices.
“What’s all this racket? Harriet, must you shout so?”
“There! Look at her!” Harriet jabbed a finger toward Margaret. “‘Harriet, fetch the bread,’ ‘Harriet, make the stew,’ ‘Harriet, scrub the floors!’ Am I your housemaid now?”
Margaret pressed her lips, seating herself at the table.
“Well, who else should do it? I’m old and unwell, and William is at work all hours. You’re young and strong enough—”
“I work too!” Harriet cut in. “I’m on my feet all day at the shop, my legs ache, and then I come home to more cooking, cleaning, and scrubbing!”
William rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between his wife and mother.
“Mum, perhaps Harriet does have a point—”
“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Margaret huffed. “Now you’re turning against me! For the sake of some—”
“Some what?” Harriet snapped. “I’m your son’s wife, or have you forgotten? And I’ll bear his children too, God willing! Yet you speak of me as ‘some’ stranger!”
Margaret turned toward the window, silent. William stood and approached his wife.
“Harriet, love, don’t take it so hard. Mum’s getting on in years, it’s difficult for her—”
“And what, is it easy for me?” Harriet pulled away. “Listen, Will—I’ll say this plainly: either things change, or I’m leaving.”
A heavy silence fell. Margaret slowly turned back.
“And where would you go? Back to your parents, I suppose? You think they’d welcome you with open arms?”
Harriet paled. She *had* strained relations with her parents, especially her father, who still hadn’t forgiven her for marrying William.
“I’ll find my own way—don’t trouble yourself!”
“Harriet, don’t be foolish!” William took her hand. “We’re family. We must find a way forward.”
“Precisely!” She freed herself. “A way forward—meaning my terms.”
Margaret scoffed.
“Terms! She sets terms—in *my* house!”
“*Our* house!” Harriet corrected. “Will, tell your mother this is our home too!”
William hesitated. The house was in his mother’s name, inherited from her parents, and the couple had moved in after the wedding—there’d been no other choice.
“Mum, technically—”
“No ‘technically’!” Margaret interrupted. “This is my house, and my rules!”
“Fine!” Harriet marched to the cupboard, pulling out a notepad. “Then I’ll write it down. First: I cook supper every other day—Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. The rest fall to you or Will.”
“And why should we agree to that?” Margaret bristled.
“Because I’m not the cook!” Harriet scribbled. “Second: we take turns cleaning—one week me, the next you.”
“The nerve of you!” Margaret rose. “William, are you hearing this?”
William sat with his head low. He was mortified, yet he understood his wife. His mother had been demanding too much.
“Third,” Harriet continued, “no one enters our room uninvited, and no one touches my things.”
That was the sorest point. Margaret had a habit of ‘tidying’ every corner, even rifling through Harriet’s letters and rearranging their furniture.
“And if I want to vacuum?” Margaret challenged.
“Ask first. Knock and wait for permission.” Harriet jotted more. “Fourth: once a week, Will and I go out—just us. To the pictures or to friends. Without you.”
“Now you’re stealing my son!” Margaret cried.
“I’m not stealing him! I want time with my husband—as any wife would!”
William lifted his head.
“Mum, it’s not unreasonable. We’re young—we need time to ourselves—”
“Oh, so it’s *everyone* against me now!” Margaret flung up her hands. “Well then, write down the rest of your ‘terms’!”
Harriet studied her mother-in-law. Beneath the anger, she heard hurt.
“Margaret, I’m not against you. I just want peace in this house.”
“Peace?” Margaret sank into a chair. “How can there be peace if my son turns from me?”
Harriet set down the pen and sat opposite her.
“No one’s turning away. But I need space here, too. I’m not an outsider.”
“Not an outsider, perhaps, but not blood,” Margaret muttered.
“Why not?” Harriet frowned. “I’m your daughter-in-law—we *are* family.”
“Family?” Margaret shook her head. “Family shares blood. You… you came from *outside*. Here today, gone tomorrow…”
William stood.
“Mum, enough! Harriet is my wife—that makes her your daughter. Full stop.”
“A daughter…” Margaret sighed. “Very well. If she’s a daughter, then a daughter she’ll be. But daughters ought to heed their mothers.”
“They heed—but not blindly,” Harriet countered. “And not as servants do.”
The silence stretched. William paced while Harriet flipped through her notes. Margaret gazed out the window, watching a neighbor hang laundry.
“Mrs. Higgins’ son married last year,” she said suddenly. “That daughter-in-law of hers is quiet as a mouse. Knows her place.”
“And I don’t?” Harriet asked.
“I wonder. Bargaining with demands…”
“Not out of disrespect. So we all know our duties.”
Margaret turned back.
“And am I to sit idle? Like some potted plant?”
For the first time that evening, Harriet smiled.
“Of course not! You’ve your garden, your knitting, your reading. I’m not speaking of those.”
“Then what?”
“That I shouldn’t bear every chore—cooking, scrubbing, washing. I’ve a life of my own.”
William stopped by the table.
“Mum, she’s right. We must share the work. Myself included.”
“You?” Margaret blinked. “You’ve never once boiled an egg!”
“I’ll learn!” William said firmly. “Harriet will teach me.”
She looked at him gratefully. At last, open support.
“Truly, Will?”
“Certainly! How hard can it be? Peel potatoes, chop carrots…”
“You’ll be hopeless,” Margaret grumbled, though her tone had softened.
“He’ll manage. And he’ll help.”
Margaret studied Harriet.
“If I agree… what do I get in return?”
“In return?”
“A bargain goes both ways.”
Harriet faltered. She hadn’t thought of that.
“What would you like?”
“Call me Margaret. Not ‘Mrs. Whitmore.’”
“Very well… Margaret.”
“And take tea with me evenings. William’s always at the wireless—I’ve no one to talk to.”
Harriet saw it then—not a tyrant, but a lonely woman.
“Agreed. But not every night. Some days I’m too tired.”
“Understood. When you’re able.”
William exhaled, relieved.
“Thank heavens. I thought we’d be at war all night.”
“Oh, we *were* at war,” Harriet said. “Now it’s a truce.”
“Better peace,” Margaret murmured. “Margaret… I’ll need time getting used to that.”
“You’ll adjust. You’re not so old.”
“Not old, no, but worn out. Aching bones, high blood pressure…”
Harriet looked closer. Margaret *did* seem weary. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to burden Harriet—perhaps she simply couldn’t manage.
“Margaret, have you seen the doctor?”
“Aye, pills and all. But they don’t help much.”
“What if we hired a maid? Just once a week, for the heavy work?”
William raised his brows.
“With what money?”
“We’ll manage. I’ll take extra shifts.” “And I’ll pick up odd jobs,” William added. “Mr. Carter’s offered weekend work.”
Margaret stared.
“You’d do that… for me?”
“For all of us,” Harriet said. “I’d rest easier too. And you’d haveThat night, as the house settled into quiet, Margaret whispered to herself, “Perhaps this new way won’t be so bad after all.”
