The Mother-in-Law Who Became a Friend
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Veronica’s voice trembled with indignation. “My son was perfectly fine before he met you!”
“And now he isn’t?” Emma stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wet with tears, clutching a tea towel. “Please explain—what’s the problem?”
“The problem is Richard’s lost ten kilos! Look what you’ve done to him!”
Richard sat at the table, staring into his half-finished bowl of soup, wishing he could vanish into thin air. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded schoolboy.
“Mum, please,” he muttered, not lifting his head.
“Please, nothing!” Veronica turned on him. “Look at yourself! Sunken cheeks, bags under your eyes! All because she doesn’t feed you properly!”
“Doesn’t feed him?” Emma exploded. “I cook every day! I made this soup from scratch!”
“Soup!” Veronica scoffed. “Water with carrots. Where’s the meat? The proper food for a man?”
Emma’s chest tightened. Six months of marriage, and every visit from Veronica turned into an ordeal—if it wasn’t the soup, it was his shirts or the flat not being tidy enough.
“Veronica, I’m trying my best,” she said quietly. “But I’ve got work, my distance learning—”
“Work!” Veronica threw up her hands. “What work? A woman’s place is at home, with her husband! And where are you? Off gallivanting while my boy starves!”
Richard finally looked up.
“Mum, I’m not starving. I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”
“The gym?” Veronica’s face twisted in horror. “Why? You’re perfect as you are!”
Emma fled to the bedroom and let the tears come. She was exhausted from the constant criticism. No matter what she did, it was never right for Veronica.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Richard first introduced them, Veronica had been warm—serving tea, asking about her family, even giving compliments. But the moment “wedding” was mentioned, everything changed.
“Emma?” Richard peeked in. “She’s gone.”
“Finally,” Emma sniffed.
He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Ignore her. She’s just set in her ways.”
“Set in what way? That you lived with her till you were thirty-two?”
He sighed. This was a sore spot. “Emma, she’s been alone since Dad died when I was fifteen. She did everything for me.”
“I get that. But I’m your wife now. Can’t we compromise?”
“We can. It just takes time.”
Time. Emma had heard that word a hundred times. How much longer would Veronica need to accept her?
The next day, Emma took action. After work, she bought ingredients and made a proper three-course meal—beef stew, roast potatoes, and salad. She set the table properly, even lighting candles.
When Richard came home, he gasped.
“Blimey! What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just wanted to treat my husband.”
“It’s brilliant! Smells just like Mum’s cooking.”
They ate by candlelight, Richard praising every bite. Maybe, Emma thought, if she tried harder, Veronica would soften.
But the next day brought more complaints.
“Richard, did you stay up late?” Veronica demanded the moment she walked in. “Your eyes are red.”
“Not late, Mum. Half eleven.”
“Half eleven! You get up at seven! That’s torture for your body!”
Emma realized then—it wasn’t about the food or the bedtime. It was about her. She had “stolen” Veronica’s only son.
So she tried a different approach.
“Veronica,” she said during the next visit, “could you teach me how to make that stew Richard loves?”
Veronica blinked. “Why?”
“I want to make him happy. You know his tastes best.”
There was a long pause, as if Veronica suspected a trap.
“Well… I suppose. But you’ll never make it as nice.”
“We can try.”
And they did. Veronica dictated the recipe, Emma wrote it down, then they went to the market together.
“Look, the meat has to be like this,” Veronica said, pointing at the butcher’s counter. “Not too fatty, not too lean. And get fresh parsley, none of that wilted stuff.”
Back home, they cooked side by side.
“Put the potatoes in now,” Veronica corrected. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t overcook the carrots.”
Gradually, the mood lightened. Veronica shared stories of Richard’s childhood—how he’d once eaten three bowls of stew in one sitting, how he’d recited poetry on the porch.
“He used to tell me everything,” Veronica murmured. “School, friends, girls he fancied.”
Emma was surprised. Richard wasn’t talkative with her.
“Not chatty?” Veronica looked baffled. “He never shuts up with me!”
The stew was perfect. Richard couldn’t believe Emma had made it.
“Just like Mum’s!” he marveled.
“Veronica taught me.”
Veronica brightened. “Oh, I just gave a few tips.”
After that, cooking lessons became their ritual. They made shepherd’s pie, apple crumble, even Emma’s mother’s pancake recipe.
One evening, while Emma mended a scarf, Veronica took the knitting needles from her.
“Let me show you. Winter’s not over yet.”
They sat by the fire, knitting and talking. About work, neighbors, plans for the countryside cottage.
“You have a cottage?” Emma asked.
“In the Cotswolds. Small, but cosy. Richard practically grew up there.”
“Could we visit?”
Veronica’s face lit up. “You’d want to?”
“Of course! Richard misses it.”
So they went—all three of them. Richard was giddy, showing Emma his old treehouse, the spot where he’d built campfires.
Veronica watched them, smiling. For the first time in months, she saw her son truly happy.
“You’re good for him,” she told Emma later. “He’s livelier with you.”
The cottage trips bonded them further. Veronica taught Emma to garden, make preserves, even pick apples without bruising them.
“I feel more at home here than in London,” Veronica admitted one evening on the porch.
Emma understood. The cottage was full of memories—Richard’s first school play, his first bike ride.
“Thank you,” Veronica said suddenly.
“For what?”
“For not taking him from me completely. Some daughters-in-law do.”
“Why would I? Family should stick together.”
“Family.” Veronica smiled.
Back in London, they saw each other more often. Veronica helped Emma with her studies—her teaching experience came in handy—and Emma taught Veronica to use the internet.
“What’s all this nonsense?” Veronica grumbled, poking at the laptop.
“But now you can find former students! They’ll message you.”
“Really? How?”
When Emma fell ill with flu while Richard was away, Veronica appeared with soup, medicine, and stern instructions.
“Veronica, you’ll catch it!” Emma croaked.
“Rubbish. I taught primary school—I’m immune to everything.”
For three days, she nursed Emma, never once complaining.
When Richard returned, he found them drinking tea, discussing a TV show.
“Mum, thank you,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. Emma’s one of us now.”
One of us. That settled it.
Later, Richard asked, “How did you two become friends?”
Emma thought. “There’s no secret. We love you differently—she as a mother, me as a wife. There’s room for both.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is. A bit of patience, a bit of listening.”
When their son, Oliver, was born, Veronica was over the moon.
“My grandson!” she cooed. “Look at him, Emma—just like Richard.”
“And you,” Emma laughed. “Same nose.”
Now they had even more reasons to meet. Veronica adored babysitting, and Emma trusted her completely.
Neighbours were baffled. “How do you not argue?”
“Why would we?” Emma said. “We love the same man. The same child.”
Veronica told her friends, “Emma’s like a daughter to me.”
“It’s not luck,” she’d say. “It’s about accepting people. Not fighting for your son, but being glad he’s happy.”
And she was. Richard was happy, they had a grandson, and the family had grown—not smaller, but fuller.
Exactly as a family should be.
