**Diary Entry**
At last, Oliver and Emily moved into their large, two-story house. With three children—Ben, seven, Timmy, four, and little Sophie, just one and a half—they needed the space. Each kid had their own room, and everyone was thrilled—though Sophie, of course, didn’t quite grasp the concept yet.
“Thank you, love,” Emily said, beaming. “It’s wonderful being mistress of a proper home. The boys are tearing through the place, but that’s life—children need room to grow.”
Fast forward, and Emily quickly realised that keeping a big house tidy with three little ones was no small feat.
One evening, after dinner, Oliver was sprawled on the sofa watching telly while the kids played. Then his phone rang.
“Alright, mate?” he said, answering. Emily recognised the voice—Oliver’s younger brother, Ethan, calling from Manchester. He was still single at thirty, living with their mum, in no rush to settle down. After a quick chat, Oliver grinned.
“Guess what? Ethan’s getting married. Invited us to the wedding.”
“Really?” Emily raised an eyebrow. “I thought he’d never tie the knot. He’s got it made—handsome, women falling over him, Mum cooking and cleaning for him. Hardly a proper job, though, even with his degree. Bit of a waster, isn’t he?”
Oliver stayed quiet, lost in thought.
“You’re nothing like him,” Emily went on. “A proper go-getter, ambitious, hardworking. Does Ethan still DJ at that nightclub?”
“Yeah,” Oliver said.
“Who’s the bride?”
“Didn’t say much. Just that her name’s Daisy, primary school teacher.”
Emily sat beside him, sensing something unspoken.
“Where will they live? Does Daisy have her own flat?”
Oliver looked at her. “That’s the thing. How’d you feel… if Mum moved in with us? She’s got a tiny flat—no way a couple could live there. We’ve got space.”
Emily fell silent, weighing life with a mother-in-law under the same roof. Oliver held his breath.
Finally, she tossed her curls. “You know what? I don’t mind. Extra help with the kids.”
“You’re brilliant,” Oliver kissed her cheek.
Emily didn’t know Margaret—Oliver’s mum—well. She’d visited occasionally but never for long. A weekend here, a christening there—hardly enough to judge. Margaret was nearly sixty, pleasant, tidy, polite. A doting grandmother. But Emily couldn’t shake the thought: *No one’s that perfect. There’s always a catch.*
Two months later, Oliver went to the wedding alone—Sophie had a cold. When he returned, Margaret came with him.
*Well*, Emily thought. *No turning back now.*
Margaret arrived bearing gifts—a doll for Sophie, toy cars for the boys. That evening, they chatted over tea.
“Daisy’s lovely,” Oliver said. “Got Ethan wrapped around her finger—listens to her, even though she’s younger.”
Margaret nodded along, saying nothing unkind. Emily silently approved.
For the first week, Emily kept a close eye. But Margaret was an ideal grandmother—reading to the kids, playing games, even helping with chores.
“Mum, Gran taught me to tie my laces!” Timmy crowed.
“I can read properly now,” Ben added—he’d start school in autumn. “Gran’s been helping.”
Emily was pleased. *Maybe there’s nothing to worry about.*
Then, one day, Margaret said, “You’re run ragged, love. Let me take over the cooking.”
Emily nearly hugged her. “That’d be a blessing!”
Oliver chimed in, “We do a big shop once a week, but anything else, just say. Can even order online. You know how to use a computer, Mum?”
“Well enough,” Margaret said modestly. “I keep up.”
Dinner that night was roast chicken with rosemary potatoes—the boys, who usually turned their noses up, devoured it. Emily was impressed.
“Since we’ve got built-in childcare,” she said later, “let’s go out. Been ages.”
Before, she’d never have left the kids with anyone. But this was family.
“Go on,” Margaret urged. “We’ll manage.”
They walked through Hyde Park, stopped at a cosy pub, even danced to the live music.
“This is *fantastic*,” Emily sighed. “Your mum moving in might be the best thing that’s happened to us.”
Oliver, relieved—he’d feared clashes—grinned.
Back home at eleven, they froze at Margaret’s voice from the study:
“Die! You’re next—no escaping now!”
“What on earth—?” Emily gasped.
Margaret was hunched over the computer, blasting away in a shooter game.
“Mum?!” Oliver gaped.
“Oh, you’re back!” She didn’t look up. “Kids are asleep. Left you a plate if you’re hungry—can’t pause, I’m in a squad.”
They exchanged glances and checked on the boys—safe in bed—then Sophie, snug in her cot.
“My mum’s a gamer,” Oliver muttered.
“Better than gin or bingo,” Emily shrugged.
Two nights later, Margaret announced, “Mind if I pop out tonight?”
“Where to?” Oliver asked.
“Just… about.”
“*Alone?*”
“Oliver, I’m a grown woman.”
She left. By ten, no sign of her. Eleven—Oliver rang. No answer.
“Christ, where is she?”
“We should call the police!”
On the third try, Margaret finally picked up.
“*Where are you?!*”
“Nightclub,” came the cheerful reply. “Don’t wait up—getting a cab.”
They sat up, TV forgotten, until the door clicked at half one.
“How’d you even *get in*?” Oliver demanded.
“Walked in, didn’t I? Ethan invited me. Had to see his workplace—he’s *brilliant*, by the way.”
“How’d you find a nightclub here?!”
“Internet,” Margaret said airily. “Met some interesting people, too.” With a wink, she vanished upstairs.
Oliver stared after her. “I thought women her age were all knitting and tea.”
Emily laughed. “Every woman’s got a bit of the devil in her. Let her have her fun—better she’s happy than rattling round the house bored.”
**Lesson learned:** Never assume you’ve got someone pegged. Even the quietest ones might surprise you—just wait till they’re comfortable enough to show it.
