Margaret smoothes the delicate shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son, James, and his wife, Emily, are due to arrive in a couple of hours.
The quiet is shattered by a sharp, insistent ring of the telephone. Margaret wipes her hands on her apron and picks up.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” comes an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Margaret Elizabeth Harrison?”
“Yes, speaking,” Margaret replies, instinctively tensing.
“My name is Beatrice Margaret Whitmore. I’m Emily’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law.”
Margaret pulls a kitchen chair closer and sits down. *Former mother-in-law?* Her thoughts race to Emily, to the few but bitter remarks she’s made about her past marriage.
“I see,” Margaret says evenly, keeping her voice steady. “How can I help you, Beatrice?”
The woman’s tone drops all pretense of politeness. It turns sharp, mocking, dripping with spiteful curiosity.
“Well, I just wanted to see how *our* Emily is getting on with you lot. Behaving herself, is she? Bet you’ve had your hands full already! Or is it yet to come? Trust me, you’ll regret it! Oh, you’ll regret taking that lazy girl into your family!”
“Beatrice, I don’t understand. Emily is wonderful. Why on earth would we regret it?”
“*Wonderful?!*” Beatrice shrieks, her voice pitching higher. “That girl’s bone idle! *I* scrub the floors every day, as you should! And her? Once in a blue moon, and only because she’s pushed into it! And the curtains! When was the last time *you* washed yours? Eh? For me, it’s once a month, like clockwork! But *her*? Once a year if you’re lucky! Dust collecting for *years*! And her cooking—she fed my poor boy *slop*! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs, barely fit to eat! Gave him *ulcers*!”
“Beatrice, their flat is *spotless*—always. And Emily cooks *beautifully*. I taught her a few tricks myself, and she’s a natural. We’ve no complaints. And if your son had ulcers, I’d wager it was from drinking too much!”
“No complaints?!” Beatrice screeches, ignoring her. “And how she treated her husband! My boy would come home knackered—had a pint to unwind, like any proper bloke! But *her*? Instead of pouring him one and tucking him in, showing a bit of care, she’d *scream* at him! Row after row! Cold-hearted cow, she is!”
Margaret closes her eyes. She knows—from Emily—that her “just a pint” ex-husband would stumble home at dawn, smash up the flat, shout and throw insults. And she knows her James—steady, responsible, never touching a drop. He brings Emily flowers for no reason, brags about her job.
“My son, James,” Margaret says firmly, emphasising every word, “does *not* come home drunk. *Ever*. He respects his wife and his home. Emily has no reason to shout at him. They’re happy.”
A heavy silence. Then Beatrice’s voice slithers back—spiteful, hissing.
“*Happy*? Ha! Do you even *know* she’s from a children’s home? We took her in, though I *know* what they get up to in those places. No wonder she’s *barren*! Useless! Mark my words—years will pass, and you’ll have no grandchildren. *Then* you’ll see what rubbish you’ve let into your home! *Then* you’ll regret it!”
“Beatrice,” Margaret says, loud and clear, as if standing right in front of her, “you’re utterly mistaken. About *everything*. In this family, we have peace, order, and love.”
“I adore Emily. She respects me—calls me *Mum*. Of *course* we know she grew up in care, and it wasn’t her fault. I’ve been kind to her, given her the warmth and love she missed. She’s *good*, Beatrice. And about grandchildren—your ‘prophecy’ is a bit late. Emily and James are expecting. Soon. So your worries are pointless.”
The line goes dead quiet. Then—a ragged, wheezing breath. A sob. The venom melts into messy, gulping tears.
“A—a baby?” Beatrice croaks, voice crumbling. “Truly? Or is it some other man’s, ever think of that? Oh God… my boy…”
Her crying thickens.
“He’s a *wreck*! Drinks, can’t keep a job… lives like a tramp! And I—I *long* for grandchildren! Just *one*!”
Margaret listens, pity aching—not for this woman, but for the Emily who endured years of such cruelty.
“Beatrice—” she begins, but the woman cuts in, voice suddenly desperate, pleading.
“Listen… if—if it doesn’t work with *your* James, if they split—ring me! *Promise*! I’ll talk to my son—maybe he’ll sort himself out!”
She’s *good* now, you say? Keeps house, cooks? Maybe she’d come back to *us*? Just—just tell me if it happens! *Please*! Where else would she go? She knows *us*…
There it is. Not remorse. Not guilt. Just a bitter woman realising the “rubbish” she discarded has become precious—and clawing to snatch it back for her failing son. To use Emily again—as a maid, as a broodmare.
“A daughter-in-law like Emily is *ours* to keep. Never call again.”
She hangs up, blocking the number. Her throat burns—with anger, with grief for Emily’s past, with disgust at the cruelty. But stronger than all of it? *Protectiveness.*
Of her nest, of James, of this once-fragile but now fiercely loved girl she’s taken as her own.
She covers the dough with a clean cloth. Soon, this kitchen will be loud with laughter, smelling of fresh baking, full of happy voices. Soon, there’ll be another tiny voice—loud, bright, alive.
She remembers meeting Emily—shy, flinching at kindness. It took time to earn her trust. Now? She’s family.
A knock at the door. Margaret blinks back unexpected tears, straightens her apron, and opens it.
James holds a bouquet of lavender; Emily—her bump just showing—glows, radiant.
“Mum!” Emily chirps, hugging her. “Something smells amazing! What’s baking?”
Margaret holds her tight. “Shortcrust, love,” she murmurs, kissing her cheek. “James, put those in water.”
As she ushers them in, she glances at the phone. That call, that voice—now feels like poison fading in the sunlight.
Here, in this room, brimming with warmth and love, is *life*—the one they’ve built. And as its guardian, she’ll let *nothing* shadow it.
They’re happy. And they’ll stay that way. Forever.
