“No, no, and absolutely not!” Victor paced the tiny kitchen like a caged animal, hands flailing. “Margaret, for heaven’s sake, be reasonable! We’ve got a shoebox of a flat – one and a half rooms, if we’re being generous!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, dear!” Margaret clucked, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “It’s two proper rooms, and the nursery’s perfectly adequate. Poor Emily needs help – newborns require constant attention, don’t they?”
“Mum, we’re managing,” Emily interjected softly from the doorway, bouncing little George in her arms. “Victor’s right – it’s already cramped enough.”
“Managing?” Margaret scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Look at you! Dark circles like coal smudges, thinner than a rake – no amount of concealer will fix that. ‘Managing’? At this rate, you’ll be divorced by Christmas!”
Victor stopped dead, inhaled sharply, and forced calm into his voice. “Margaret, Emily and I have been married five years without a single proper row. A baby won’t change that.”
“Oh, youth! You think you know everything!” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Do you even realise how hormonal women get after childbirth? Who’ll make her bone broth and lactation tea? Who’ll—”
Emily groaned quietly. Once Mum started on remedies, arguing was pointless.
“I’ve already packed,” Margaret barrelled on, straightening her cardigan. “Train ticket’s booked for two months time. I’ll help settle you in, then we’ll see.”
“Two months?!” they blurted in unison.
Margaret pretended not to hear and bustled to the hallway where two overstuffed suitcases loomed. “Victor, be a lamb and shift these to the nursery? Oh, and George’s cot must go in your room. I’ll manage with the sofa – I’m not fussy.”
Victor shot Emily a pleading look, but she just shrugged helplessly. Resisting Margaret’s steamroller will was impossible, especially on three hours’ sleep.
“Fine,” he ground out. “One month. Not a day more.”
“One month, two – what’s the difference?” Margaret flapped a hand. “We’ll play it by ear.”
Emily forced a smile and escaped to nurse George, while Victor trudged after the luggage like a condemned man.
Margaret’s invasion transformed their home overnight. She commandeered everything – drafted feeding schedules, meal plans, even dictated when Victor should work late.
“Victor! This is disgraceful!” she shrilled one morning as he dressed for work. “Going out in a wrinkled shirt? What will your colleagues think?”
“You were blasting EastEnders last night,” he muttered. “George wouldn’t sleep—”
“Exactly!” she crowed triumphantly. “You need me! Now give that here. And remember – telly time is sacred. Forty years of evening soaps – tradition!”
After a week, Victor was losing his mind. No private conversations with Emily. No cuddling George without commentary. Not even a peaceful meal without Margaret dissecting every bite.
“We have to talk,” Victor whispered once she’d left for groceries. “This can’t go on. She’s taken over our lives.”
Emily sighed. “But you know Mum – once she digs in…”
“So we live as a quartet forever?” he hissed. “This is our family, Em!”
“She helps,” Emily murmured. “I’m actually sleeping… Maybe we—”
“You honestly believe she’ll leave in two months?” Victor scoffed. “I’d bet our flat she’s planning to sell hers and move in permanently.”
The front door clicked – Margaret was back.
Victor changed tactics. If he couldn’t evict her, he’d make her want to leave.
Late work nights? She simply waited up with reheated shepherd’s pie. Loud music? Earplugs. Messy habits? She tidied relentlessly.
“Are you waging war, dear?” she asked pointedly one evening. “Waste of energy. I’m here for your family’s good.”
Then, one morning, Victor overheard her phone call:
“– such luck, Doris! Their flat’s darling, Emily’s hopeless with the baby, and Victor… well, he’ll adjust. I’m thinking of letting my place out! Extra income, and they’ll thank me – my soaps drown out George’s crying!”
Victor’s vision darkened. She really meant to stay forever.
That evening, he rifled through her suitcase and found the return ticket – three days left.
Suddenly, he became the model son-in-law – flowers, compliments, even theatre tickets (“A surprise, Margaret!”).
“That’s… very thoughtful,” she said suspiciously.
Later, Victor confessed the overheard call to Emily.
“But tricking her?” Emily gasped.
“And her secret relocation isn’t deceit?” he countered. “She’s wonderful, Em, but this is our home.”
Reluctantly, Emily agreed.
Next day, their “theatre trip” detoured to King’s Cross Station.
“Why are we here?” Margaret froze.
“We know about your plans,” Victor said gently. Emily squeezed her hand. “We adore you, but—”
“So you’re ejecting me!” Margaret’s face purpled. “And I thought—”
“Mum, stop.” Emily’s voice broke. “We need to be parents ourselves.”
Victor produced the ticket and an envelope. “For taxis and groceries tomorrow. We’ve arranged delivery for your return.”
Margaret stared, then snatched the items with a huff. “Fine. But don’t come crying when—”
“I’ll read to George,” Victor interrupted. “Bad singing and all.”
“Poor lamb,” Margaret muttered, boarding reluctantly. “Call me. Send photos. And if that child gets even a sniffle—”
“We’ll manage,” Emily promised.
As the train disappeared, Emily suddenly giggled. “Can you imagine her telling the neighbours you kidnapped her?”
Victor laughed too, the tension dissolving.
That night, rocking George in a blissfully quiet flat, Victor reflected. Margaret’s meddling had taught them resilience.
“Maybe…” he mused later, “we could invite her for a fortnight next summer. When George is six months. Only a fortnight, mind!”
Emily beamed. “Really? She’d—”
“On one condition,” he warned. “No EastEnders at full volume.”
“Deal.” She kissed him. “I love you.”
“And I you,” Victor murmured. “And George. And even your mother… in small doses… from a distance.”
