**”You’re Not My Real Family, and That’s That”**
“You should mind your own business!” shouted Emily, waving her hands wildly. “She’s *my* daughter, not yours!”
“I just wanted to help,” replied Margaret softly, standing by the stove with a frying pan in hand. “Sophie’s ill—she has a high fever.”
“*Help*?” Emily sneered. “You just want to prove what a perfect stepmother you are, don’t you? So Dad will think you’re wonderful?”
“Emily, that’s enough,” interjected Richard, but his daughter didn’t even glance his way.
“Oh, *you* shut up! You always defend her!” She jabbed a finger at Margaret. “You’re not my real mother, and that’s that! You threw me away for *her*!”
Emily stormed out before she could finish. The slam of her bedroom door rattled the cupboard glasses.
Margaret set the pan down and sank into a chair, her hands trembling, eyes brimming with tears.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Richard murmured, resting a hand on her shoulder. “She’s upset about uni—her loan application fell through. Now she’s lashing out.”
“Richard, she’s right,” Margaret whispered. “I’m not her mother. I never will be.”
“Don’t be silly. Time will sort this out.”
Margaret gave a bitter smile. *Time.* They’d been married four years, yet things with Emily had only worsened. First, she was distant. Then came the barbs, the snide remarks. Now, outright war.
“Was offering to pay for her tuition a mistake?” Margaret asked.
“Why? You meant well.”
“She took it as me trying to *buy* her.”
Richard sighed and sat beside her.
“I know this is hard, love. But Emily lost her mum at fourteen. She’s terrified someone’s replacing her.”
“I’m not trying to *be* her mother. I just want peace.”
“And she’ll understand that. Eventually.”
Margaret nodded, though doubt lingered. Every day here felt like walking on eggshells—Emily picked fights over meals, misplaced belongings, even phone calls.
Now, music blasted from her room. The neighbours had complained, but Emily ignored them.
“Ask her to turn it down,” Margaret said.
*You* ask her. You two need to talk.”
“After what just happened?”
“Especially now. Don’t let this fester.”
Reluctantly, Margaret knocked.
“Emily, may I come in?”
The volume *increased.* She knocked harder.
“Emily, please. We need to talk.”
The door flung open. Emily stood there, eyes red.
“What do *you* want?”
“Lower the music. The neighbours—”
“I don’t *care* about them.”
“You’re upset—”
“Upset? You think tossing money at me will make me *like* you? Dream on!”
“I don’t expect you to like me. I just want us to stop fighting.”
“Then *leave.* This is *our* house—mine and Dad’s. You don’t belong here.”
The words stung. Margaret forced calm.
“Your father loves me. We’re family.”
“No! *We’re* family! You’re just… *here!*” Emily’s voice turned venomous. “I know why you married him—for the *house.* Grandma told me. You were forty, stuck in a *flat*, till you snagged a widower with a *three-bedroom!*”
Margaret paled.
“Who told you that?”
“Gran. Mum’s mum. She says you’re a gold-digger. That you *targeted* Dad.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” Emily stepped closer. “*Admit it.* You’re here for the money.”
Each word landed like a slap.
“That’s *enough!*” Margaret snapped.
“It’s *my* house. You’re *nothing!*”
The door slammed. The music roared louder.
Margaret stood trembling in the hall, doubts creeping in. Yes, she’d been forty when she met Richard. Yes, she’d lived in a tiny flat. But she’d married for *love*, not profit.
Richard found her composing herself in the bathroom.
“What happened? Emily’s screaming bloody murder.”
“She said I married you for the house.”
His face darkened.
“Where’d she get *that*?”
“Your ex-mother-in-law. Apparently, *Dorothy*’s been filling her head with it.”
Richard clenched his fists.
“Dorothy never approved of me. Even *less* after you.”
“Richard… maybe I *should* go. Emily’s suffering. I won’t ruin your bond.”
“You’re *staying*,” he said firmly. “You’re my *wife.* If others can’t accept that, it’s *their* problem.”
“But Emily—”
“—needs to learn the world doesn’t revolve around her.”
Margaret clung to him, safe in his arms—yet dreading the next clash with Emily.
The next morning, Emily skipped breakfast, then slammed out for lectures. Margaret exhaled—a few hours’ peace.
She tidied, cooked lunch, then settled at her sewing machine. Freelance dressmaking paid modestly but steadily.
The doorbell rang. An older woman stood there, stern-faced.
“Dorothy?” Margaret blinked.
“Yes. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Dorothy marched to the sofa without invitation.
“Tea?” Margaret offered.
“No. I’m not here socially.”
“Then why?”
Dorothy scanned the room.
“You’ve landed nicely. From a *flat* to *this*.”
Margaret flushed.
“If you’ve come to insult me—”
“Not insults. A *deal*.” She pulled an envelope from her purse.
“£5,000. Yours. If you divorce Richard and *disappear*.”
Margaret stared.
“You’re *mad*.”
“I’m *pragmatic.* You’re wrecking this family. Emily’s *miserable,* Richard’s changed—”
“Richard *loves* me—”
“He’s *blinded.* It’ll pass. But while you’re here, that girl *hurts.* Have you no *heart*?”
Margaret eyed the envelope, nausea rising. *So everyone thinks I’m a gold-digger.*
“Keep your money.”
“Think *hard.* £5K could buy you a studio. Independence.”
“I’m not for *sale.*”
“Everyone has a price. £7K?”
“*Leave.*”
“£10K. My final offer.”
Margaret stood, opening the door.
“I said *go.*”
Dorothy stood, scowling.
“You’ll regret this. Emily will *never* accept you.”
“We’ll see.”
Scoffing, Dorothy left—but left the envelope. Margaret stared, then tossed it.
That evening, Richard gaped when she told him.
“She *offered* you *money*?”
“£10K to divorce you.”
His face darkened.
“I’ll deal with her—”
“Don’t. It’ll make things worse.”
“I won’t let her *humiliate* you.”
“And what *can* you do? Ban her from seeing Emily?”
They fell silent. Both knew that would backfire.
Emily stayed out late, ignoring calls. By morning, she still hadn’t returned. Richard drove to Dorothy’s.
“Is she here?”
“Yes. And she’ll *stay* till that *woman*’s gone.”
“Dorothy, *stop this.* Emily *belongs* at home.”
“*Home?*” Dorothy smirked. “Where her *stepmother* rules? Where her own father’s a *stranger*?”
“I haven’t—”
“You *have.* Emily was *everything* to you. Now? You choose a *wife* over her.”
“I’m not *choosing*—”
“You are. Decide—daughter or wife.”
Richard returned seething. Margaret listened, heart heavy. *Because of me, he’s losing her.*
Days passed. Emily stayed away. Richard called daily; she ignored him.
“Should we *visit* her?” Margaret asked.
“No. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
But she saw his pain. He *missed* her.
One morning, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there, suitcase in hand.
“Dad home?” she asked, avoiding Margaret’s eyes.
“Work. You’re… moving back?”
“Getting my things. For *good.*”
She bulldozed past, stuffing clothes into the suitcase. Margaret hovered.
“Emily, let’s *talk*—”
“About *what*?” Emily didn’t look up.
“What’s happening. Your dad *misses* you.”
“If he *missed* me, he’d *act*.”
Margaret watched her go, realizing that sometimes love means letting go of pride to hold onto family.
