Goodbye, Dear Mother-in-Law
“Well now, has Stephen gone off again?” Margaret flitted about the kitchen, arranging custard creams in rows on a lace doily. Her voice trembled with theatrical alarm. “Shall we start the tea or shall I fetch my sherry to toast his departure?”
“Mum, sherry at this hour?” Emily rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed. “But a splash, perhaps. It *is* a special occasion.”
“Special indeed!” cried Margaret, clapping her hands. “Half a year without my beloved daughter! Must I remind you of the Battle of Britain?”
Daniel, perched by the window, stifled a groan. The journey from London to this windswept village had felt endless—one of those days where the world blurred at the edges. He’d endured Emily’s guilt over the visit and Margaret’s unrelenting zest. Now they stood in the parlor, enveloped in the scent of lavender drapes and old photograph albums.
“Look, Mum, I brought you things,” Emily rummaged through her handbag.
“Later, later!” Margaret waved her away. “Daniel, have you fed her properly? She’s thinner than a Yorkshire sparrow!”
“I feed her thrice daily, like clockwork,” Daniel muttered, though his mind had already wandered to the empty house—his office at home, the unanswered emails.
“Nonsense! You fib like a bevy.” Margaret jabbed a finger at the air. “But since Stephen’s son graces us at last, let’s pour the sherry!”
As she vanished into the kitchen, Emily leaned toward Daniel, whispering, “Don’t start this week, okay? Just three days, then home.”
“Three *days*? We agreed on a weekend!” He nearly spilled his glass. “Even your mother can’t stretch a Sunday.”
“She’s been waiting, Daniel. She’s planned tea parties, walks in the garden, everything. You could work remotely, you said so.”
Emily’s eyes glistened, and Daniel groaned.
“Ah, you two!” boomed John, the stepfather, entering like a character from a sepia-toned novel. Crumpled fishing net in hand, he grinned. “Daniel, lad, let’s go snare a few pike before the tide turns.”
Daniel’s spirits lifted—until Margaret returned with a crystal decanter.
“Shut down the rod, John! They’ve just arrived. A little sherry will settle their bones.”
“Mother, rest is overrated. A change of pace is the best tonic,” John countered, his tone as smooth as the Thames at dawn.
Daniel followed John into the garden, the sherry already warming his throat. The air smelled of daffodils and diesel fuel. As they trudged toward the river, Margaret’s voice floated after them: “See to it he stays, John! Don’t let him slip away again!”
The first hour passed in silence. John cast his net without a word, and Daniel watched the clouds morph into strange shapes—like his mother-in-law’s face, stern and reproachful.
“Your Margaret isn’t the easiest in the world,” John said suddenly.
“No,” Daniel laughed. “But she’s yours now, isn’t she?”
John chuckled. “Aye. I’ve learned to vanish when the winds change. I disappear into the garage, the garden, the village pub. Somehow, we both survive.”
That night, Emily shivered in the narrow bed, her voice a thread. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it’d be this…”
“Challenging? Not tomorrow.” Daniel pulled her close. “We’ll steal off to the woods, just the two of us. Tell her we’re fishing.”
“Will she let me go?”
“She won’t. But we’ll pretend.”
Morning brought a betrayal. Margaret, swathed in a floral dressing gown, barred their path. “Where do you think you’re sneaking off to at this hour?”
“Fishing,” John said flatly. “Just like last time.”
“Fishing?” Margaret’s nose wrinkled. “Emily’s only just arrived, and already you’re running off like common gulls!”
Emily looked to Daniel, who shrugged. “Then let’s anchor here, eh?”
The day on the river felt suspended in time. They caught more fish than expected, and John spoke of his youth—how he’d worked down the docks, how Margaret had shouted at him for ten years until he learned to raise the sails of silence.
“Why not come to London with us?” Daniel asked. “She rules with a spoon, but you two—”
“Where would I find a garden like this?” John gestured to the willows and the mist. “Besides, someone’s got to make her suffer. It’s our mutual pact.”
The return home was maddening. Margaret interrogated them under the guise of “refreshments,” her sherry glass never emptying. She recounted Emily’s childhood as if sculpting a statue from stone—every detail wrong, every memory a reconfiguration.
“And when will you give me grandsons?” she erupted one evening, her voice cutting through the hum of the kettle.
Emily blushed crimson. “Mum, we’re not ready. We’re still settling.”
“Settling? I was a mother by twenty-eight! You’re twenty-seven, not thirty-seven!”
Daniel, his pulse rising, spoke without thinking. “It’s not that simple.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “What nonsense?”
“We’ve tried for two years. Tests, injections, the lot. It’s… complicated.”
The room fell into a dreamlike silence. The clock ticked, Margaret’s face crumpling like paper. John placed a hand on her arm, and she stared at the floor.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
“Neither did we. But now we do.”
Margaret said nothing. Her silence hung in the air, heavier than the fog over the river.
The next morning, Daniel found Emily and Margaret in the kitchen. Tea simmered, and Margaret’s hands trembled as she poured, but her voice was soft.
“I’m sorry, darling. I only wanted to fill my hands with grandchildren, you know? It slipped my grasp. I see now.”
“Tis the way of things,” Emily murmured, her fingers wrapped gently around her mother’s.
Left alone, Daniel grappled with his own mirror of grief and empathy. Margaret, he realized, had simply worn her love like a corset—tight, constricting, and blind to comfort.
When they left three days later, Margaret hugged Daniel—a gesture foreign and warm as the sun after a storm.
“Goodbye, dear mother-in-law,” he quipped.
“Good *riddance*, then. Take care of her, won’t you?”
Back on the train to London, Emily stared out the window, her voice a reverent whisper. “She said something yesterday. About letting go. About being a mother isn’t just teaching, but trusting too.”
Daniel squeezed her hand. “She’s changed.”
“She has. And she said if it all works out, she’ll visit only when invited—and leave after three days.”
“Three days?” He snorted. “I believe in miracles, but I’ll still be counting hours.”
As the train hurtled through the countryside, Emily’s smile bloomed in the light. Later, she’d call her mother, her voice trembling—*“Mum… I think you’ll have a grandchild.”*
And though Margaret wept, these were different tears: a river unburdened, running clear.
