**Diary Entry**
*March 12th*
“What do you even know about cooking?” snapped Margaret Wilkes, yanking the saucepan from her daughter-in-law Emily’s hands. “Making proper porridge is an art!”
Emily stood in the middle of her own kitchen, stunned. Three days ago, her mother-in-law had moved in “just while the renovations lasted,” and already, she’d turned their lives upside down.
“Margaret,” Emily said quietly, “this is my kitchen. I decide what to cook.”
“Yours?” Margaret scoffed. “Who bought this flat? My son! That means I’ve every right to be here as much as you!”
Something inside Emily snapped.
At forty-two, she was used to yielding—working at the nursery had taught her patience. But this? This crossed the line.
Margaret had turned up on Sunday with three enormous suitcases. “I’ll need to stay a week or two,” she’d declared cheerfully.
Simon, Emily’s husband, did what he always did when it came to his mother—folded like a deckchair. “Of course, Mum, make yourself at home.”
And so it began. Margaret rewashed all the laundry, rearranged the furniture, threw out half the houseplants—”dust traps.” By day two, she’d moved onto the kitchen, binning all the “foreign spices.” Simon stayed silent.
“Oh, come on, just bear with it,” he told Emily. “She’s my mother. And she knows best.”
That’s when Emily realised—she was on her own.
Then came the final straw. The next morning, Emily woke to the smell of burning. Rushing to the kitchen, she found a smoking pan on the hob while Margaret chatted on the phone by the window.
“Margaret! Something’s burning!”
“Oh, don’t fuss,” she dismissed with a wave.
Emily lunged for the stove. The pan was ruined.
“That was my favourite pan!”
“So what? The porridge turned out proper, with a proper crust!”
Simon walked in. “What’s all this?”
“Your wife’s screaming over a pan,” Margaret complained.
“Emily,” Simon sighed, “no need to overreact. Mum’s just trying to help.”
Something shattered inside Emily. She looked at her husband, at her mother-in-law, at the ruined pan.
“You know what?” she said, low but clear. “I’ve had enough. Margaret, since this is *your* house, you can cook. And clean. And do the laundry. I’m going shopping.”
“What are you doing?” Simon stammered.
“What I should’ve done days ago. Defending my home. You can stay, Margaret—but under *my* rules. This is *my* house, and *I’m* in charge here.”
“How dare you!” Margaret spluttered. “Simon, are you hearing this?”
“I am,” Simon said, oddly calm. “Mum, she’s right. This is her home. Her rules.”
Margaret gaped.
“But I’m your mother!”
“Which is why you should respect my wife—and my choices,” Simon said firmly.
The next few days passed in stiff silence. Margaret sulked but obeyed. A week later, she packed.
“Renovations finished?” Emily asked.
“No,” Margaret said curtly. “But I’m staying with your aunt. It’s… quieter there.”
Emily nodded. She knew—Margaret just couldn’t stand living where someone else set the rules.
When the door closed, Emily didn’t feel relief. Just hollow.
“Don’t worry,” Simon hugged her. “Mum’s proud, but she’ll come round. She knows now—you’re no pushover.”
That evening, Emily sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea. *Her* kitchen. *Her* rules. *Her* life.
She’d learned something—sometimes, you’ve got to bare your teeth to earn respect. And a real man stands by his wife, even against his mother.
Outside, the daffodils bloomed. Life went on. And Emily knew now—she was mistress of her home, and her fate.
