**The Mother-in-Law Who Became a Friend**
*”What on earth do you think you’re doing?”* Margaret’s voice trembled with outrage. *”My son was perfectly fine before he met you!”*
*”And now he isn’t?”* Emily stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wet with tears, clutching a tea towel. *”Explain to me, please, what exactly is the problem?”*
*”The problem is that James has lost two stone! Look at him! You’ve turned him into a shadow of himself!”*
James sat at the table, staring at his half-finished soup, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded schoolboy.
*”Mum, enough,”* he muttered without looking up.
*”No, it’s not enough!”* Margaret rounded on him. *”Look at yourself! Your cheeks are hollow, there are bags under your eyes! All because she isn’t feeding you properly!”*
*”Not feeding him?”* Emily burst out. *”I cook every day! I made this soup this morning!”*
*”Soup!”* Margaret scoffed. *”Water and carrots. Where’s the beef? Where’s the proper food for a man?”*
Emily’s chest tightened. Six months of marriage, and every visit from Margaret felt like walking into a battlefield—the soup was wrong, the shirts weren’t pressed right, the flat wasn’t clean enough.
*”Margaret, I’m doing my best,”* she said quietly. *”But I have work, my distance-learning course—”*
*”Work!”* Margaret threw up her hands. *”A woman’s place is at home, with her husband! Yet you’re off God knows where while my son starves!”*
James finally lifted his head.
*”Mum, I’m not starving. I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”*
*”The gym?”* Margaret’s expression twisted as if he’d said something obscene. *”Why on earth? You’re fine as you are!”*
Emily couldn’t take it anymore. She fled to the bedroom, sinking onto the bed as tears spilled. She was so tired of this. No matter what she did, it was never enough.
At first, it hadn’t been like this. When James introduced her, Margaret had been warm—offering tea, asking about her family, even complimenting her. But the moment they announced their engagement, everything changed.
*”Em, where are you?”* James peeked in. *”Mum’s gone.”*
*”Thank God,”* Emily sniffed.
He sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders.
*”Ignore her. She’s just… set in her ways.”*
*”Set in what ways? The fact you lived with her till you were thirty-two?”*
James sighed. It was a sore subject.
*”She’s been alone most of her life, Em. Dad died when I was fifteen. She did everything for me.”*
*”I get that. But I’m your wife now. Can’t we find a middle ground?”*
*”We will. Just need time.”*
Time. Emily had heard that word a hundred times. How long would it take Margaret to accept her?
The next day, Emily decided to act. After work, she bought groceries and cooked a proper roast—beef with Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes, gravy. She set the table with their wedding china.
When James saw it, he whistled.
*”Blimey! What’s the occasion?”*
*”No occasion. Just wanted to spoil my husband.”*
*”It’s perfect! Smells just like Mum’s when I was a kid.”*
Dinner was lovely. James praised every bite, and Emily allowed herself to hope. Maybe if she tried harder, Margaret would soften.
The next visit shattered that hope.
*”James, you look exhausted!”* Margaret fussed the moment she stepped in. *”Red eyes—did you sleep at all?”*
*”Fine, Mum. Went to bed at eleven.”*
*”Eleven! Up at seven? That’s no way to live!”*
Emily realized then—it wasn’t about food or sleep. It was about her. She’d “stolen” Margaret’s only son.
So she changed tactics.
*”Margaret,”* she said during the next visit, *”could you teach me to make that roast beef James loves? Your way?”*
Margaret eyed her suspiciously.
*”Why?”*
*”I want to make him happy. You know what he likes best.”*
Silence. Then a grudging nod.
*”Fine. But don’t expect it to taste the same.”*
They tried. Margaret dictated; Emily took notes. They went to the butcher’s together.
*”See this cut? Marbling’s key. Too lean and it’s dry.”*
Back home, Margaret bossed her through the recipe.
*”Chop the onions bigger. And don’t cry—salty beef ruins everything.”*
*”How? Onions burn!”*
*”Rinse the knife in cold water. Breathe through your mouth.”*
As they cooked, the air lightened. Margaret shared stories of James as a boy.
*”At five, he’d eat three helpings. I thought he’d burst!”*
*”He doesn’t eat much now.”*
*”Work stress. Tough clients lately.”*
Emily blinked. James never talked about work with her.
*”He tells you everything?”*
*”Course. We’ve always been close. School, friends, girls he fancied—he’d tell me all of it.”* Her voice wavered. *”Suppose he tells you now.”*
*”Not really. He’s quiet with me.”*
Margaret stared.
*”James? Quiet? He used to chatter nonstop!”*
Emily realized—six months of marriage wasn’t enough to truly know him.
The roast was perfect. James marveled.
*”Just like Mum’s! How’d you manage?”*
*”Your mum taught me.”*
Margaret’s posture eased.
*”Oh, I just helped a bit.”*
Cooking lessons became routine. First James’s favorites, then other dishes.
*”These scones are my mum’s recipe,”* Emily said once. *”God rest her.”*
*”Gone too soon?”*
*”Fifty-eight. Cancer.”*
Margaret softened. She admitted her own aches—high blood pressure, a dodgy heart.
*”I’m terrified something’ll happen to James,”* she confessed. *”He’s all I’ve got.”*
*”Nothing will. We’ll look after him.”*
*”We.”* Margaret smiled at her properly for the first time.
Their bond grew. Margaret stopped criticizing. Emily saw her differently—not just as a meddling mother-in-law, but as a retired teacher who’d dedicated her life to children yet had only one of her own.
*”Thirty years teaching, and just my boy to show for it,”* Margaret sighed over old class photos.
*”But what a boy.”*
*”A good one. Maybe too coddled. Always shielded him.”*
She also knitted beautifully. When Emily struggled with a scarf, Margaret stepped in.
*”Let me teach you. Winter’s not over yet.”*
Evenings now meant tea, knitting, and conversation—work, neighbors, summer plans.
*”You’ve got a cottage?”* Emily asked.
*”In the Cotswolds. Tiny but cozy. James practically grew up there.”*
*”Do you still go?”*
*”Not much. Lonely. Hard to manage alone.”*
*”We could help. James misses it.”*
Margaret brightened.
*”Really? He said that?”*
*”Of course. Talks about gardening with you.”*
They went together. James was euphoric, showing Emily his childhood haunts.
*”Built a treehouse here. Bonfires over there—when Mum allowed.”*
Margaret watched them, smiling. For the first time in months, her son looked truly happy.
*”You know,”* she told Emily later, *”you’re good for him.”*
*”Am I?”*
*”Yes. He’s livelier now. Used to be so serious.”*
Emily glowed. Her first real approval.
The cottage brought them closer. Margaret taught her gardening, preserves.
*”Pick cucumbers daily or they’ll go bitter.”*
*”Tomatoes?”*
*”Let them ripen indoors. Safer.”*
Working side by side, Emily saw Margaret relax, her edges softening.
*”Sometimes I feel more at home here than in London,”* Margaret admitted one evening on the porch.
*”I can see why. It’s peaceful.”*
*”Full of memories. James recited his first poem right here.”*
A pause. Then—
*”Thank you.”*
*”For what?”*
*”For not taking*”For sharing your son with me instead of making me choose between loving him and respecting you,”* Emily replied, and in that moment, both women knew they had found something far more precious than pride—family.
