“No, Edward! Absolutely not!” banged her fist on the kitchen table, making the teacups rattle. “I’ve had enough! I can’t take it anymore!”
Edward looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. “Emily, what’s gotten into you? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? I’m not your maid, that’s what!” She crossed her arms, standing defiantly. “Your mother orders me around all day like I’m hired help—and you just sit there!”
Just then, Margaret, her mother-in-law, walked into the kitchen. “What on earth is all this shouting about, Emily?”
“There! That’s exactly what I mean!” Emily pointed angrily. “Margaret, fetch the groceries! Margaret, make the roast! Margaret, scrub the floors! Am I your housekeeper?”
Margaret pursed her lips and sat down. “Well, who else should do it? I’m not as young as I used to be, and Edward’s always at work. You’re young, strong—”
“I work too!” Emily cut in. “I’m on my feet all day at the shop—I come home exhausted, only to cook, clean, and do laundry!”
Edward ran a hand through his hair, glancing between his wife and mother. “Mum, maybe Emily *has* been doing too much…”
“Oh, so now you’re against me too!” Margaret huffed. “Your own mother, for—”
“For *what*?!” Emily snapped. “I’m your son’s *wife*, might I remind you! One day, God willing, I’ll give him children—and you treat me like some stranger?”
Margaret turned away, lips pressed tight. Edward stood and walked over to Emily. “Love, please—Mum’s just not used to—”
“Oh, and I am?” Emily pushed his hand away. “Listen, Edward. Either things change, or I’m leaving.”
Silence fell. Margaret turned slowly. “And where exactly would you go? Back to your parents? They’d welcome you with open arms, I suppose?”
Emily flinched. Her relationship with her father had always been strained—he still resented her for marrying Edward.
“I’ll find a way!”
“Emily, don’t be ridiculous.” Edward reached for her. “We’re a family. We can work this out.”
“Exactly!” She pulled free. “So here are my terms.”
Margaret scoffed. “Terms?! In *my* house?!”
“*Our* house!” Emily corrected sharply. “Edward, tell her—this is our home too!”
Edward hesitated. The house *was* in his mother’s name; she’d inherited it. But they’d lived there since the wedding—there was nowhere else to go.
“Mum, technically—”
“No *technically*!” Margaret cut in. “My house, my rules!”
“Fine.” Emily yanked open a drawer and pulled out a notepad. “First: I’ll cook dinner every other night. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, *you two* handle it.”
“Why on earth—?”
“Because I’m not your personal chef!” Emily scribbled. “Second: We take turns cleaning—one week me, one week you.”
“You’ve got some nerve!” Margaret stood, chair screeching. “Edward, are you hearing this?”
Edward dropped his head into his hands. He understood Emily—his mother *did* demand too much—but confronting her wasn’t easy.
“Third,” Emily continued, “no one enters our bedroom without knocking. And *no one* touches my things.”
That was the sorest point. Margaret had a habit of “tidying” their room—rearranging Emily’s clothes, even snooping through her letters.
“And if I need to vacuum?” Margaret sniffed.
“Ask first. Knock. *Wait* for an answer.” Emily jotted another note. “Fourth: Once a week, Edward and I go out—just us. No chaperones.”
“Absolutely not!” Margaret’s face reddened. “You’re stealing my son!”
“I’m *marrying* him! Couples spend time together—it’s normal!”
Edward finally spoke up. “Mum… she’s right. We *should* go out sometimes.”
Margaret threw up her hands. “So it’s two against one now? Fine! Write your little list!”
Emily studied her. Beneath the anger, Margaret sounded… hurt.
“Margaret, I’m not against *you*. I just want fairness.”
“Fairness…” Margaret sank back into her chair. “And what happens when my son forgets me entirely?”
Emily set down the pen. “No one’s forgetting anyone. But this is *my* home too.”
Margaret muttered, “You’re still an outsider. Easy come, easy go.”
Edward stood abruptly. “Mum, *enough*. Emily’s *family* now.”
Margaret sighed. “Fine. But daughters mind their mothers.”
“Daughters *listen*,” Emily countered. “They’re not servants.”
The room fell quiet. Edward paced. Emily flipped her notebook. Margaret stared out the window at the neighbors hanging laundry.
“Mrs. Whitmore’s son got married,” Margaret said suddenly. “That girl’s *polite*. Respects her elders.”
“Do I *disrespect* you?” Emily asked.
Margaret shrugged. “Lists. Demands…”
“It’s not disrespect. It’s *clarity*.”
Margaret turned. “And what am *I* to do, then? Sit like a potted plant?”
Emily almost smiled. “Of course not. You’ve got your garden, your knitting—I’m only asking for *balance*.”
Edward stopped pacing. “Mum, she’s right. I’ll help too.”
Margaret gaped. “*You*? You’ve never even boiled an egg!”
“I’ll learn!” He grinned at Emily. “She’ll teach me.”
Emily softened. Finally—backup.
Margaret sighed, but the fight had left her. “And what do *I* get, if I agree?”
Emily blinked. “What?”
“A deal goes both ways.”
“…What do you want?”
“Call me Maggie. None of this *Margaret* nonsense.”
Emily nodded. “Maggie.”
“And have tea with me sometimes. Edward’s always glued to the telly—I get lonely.”
Emily’s anger ebbed. Maybe Maggie wasn’t cruel—just lonely.
“Deal. But not *every* night. Some days I’m knackered.”
“Fair enough.”
Edward slumped into a chair, relieved. “Thank God. I thought we’d need UN peacekeepers.”
“Too late,” Emily said. “The war’s over.”
“Better peace,” Maggie murmured. “Though it’ll take getting used to—*Maggie*.”
“You’ll manage. You’re not *that* old.”
Margaret—*Maggie*—chuckled. “Old enough. Knees ache, blood pressure’s dodgy…”
Emily studied her. She *did* look tired. Maybe the demands weren’t malice—just exhaustion.
“Maggie, are you seeing a doctor?”
“Oh, pills galore. Useless, the lot.”
“Then what if we hire a cleaner?” Emily suggested. “Just once a week.”
Edward frowned. “With what money?”
“We’ll manage. I’ll pick up extra shifts.”
“And I’ll take that weekend job at the garage,” Edward added.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “*For me*?”
“For all of us,” Emily said gently. “You’d rest more. I’d breathe easier.”
Edward nodded. “Should’ve thought of it sooner.”
“Couldn’t afford it sooner,” Maggie murmured. “But now…”
Emily stood, heading for the stove. “Right. Dinner, then tomorrow—fresh start.”
“Fresh start…” Maggie echoed. “Maybe it *will* be better.”
Later, in their room, Edward hugged Emily close. “You were brilliant today.”
She laughed. “I shrieked like a banshee.”
“But they *heard* you,” he said. “Sometimes that’s the only way.”
Down the hall, Maggie lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Maybe Emily *had* a point. Age wasn’t an excuse to boss people around. And the girl *was* hardworking—just strong-willed. Good for Edward, really.
She smiled in the dark. Tomorrow, she’d try calling her *Emily* instead of *girl*. See how it went.
People *could* change. If they tried.
