**The Return of the Mother-in-Law**
Emily stood by the window, watching raindrops drum against the sill. Behind her, the quiet shuffle of her husband’s footsteps filled the flat as he paced, phone pressed to his ear. For three hours, he’d been murmuring to someone, too low for her to catch a single word.
“James, what’s going on?” she finally asked, turning to him. “You’ve been on edge all day.”
James stopped mid-step, eyes flickering guiltily toward her. His phone screen flashed with unread messages.
“Em, I need to tell you something,” he began hesitantly. “Just—don’t freak out, alright?”
Her stomach dropped. Eighteen years of marriage had taught her every shade of his voice. *This* tone only ever meant bad news.
“Just say it,” she said, sinking onto the sofa.
“Mum’s coming back.”
“Back?” Emily stared at him blankly. “From where?”
“Birmingham. From Auntie Margaret. They had a row, and now she wants to come home. To us.”
A chill snaked down Emily’s spine. Margaret—James’s younger sister—had taken their mother, Helen, in six months ago after yet another explosive argument. Back then, Emily had dared to hope their flat would finally be theirs again—no hovering judgements, no passive-aggressive nitpicking.
“James, no,” she said firmly. “We *agreed*. Do you remember how it was last time?”
“Em, she’s my *mother*,” James sat beside her. “She’s got nowhere else.”
“She has her own flat!”
“It’s rented out. She signed a lease till the end of the year.”
Emily squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe. Memories flashed—months of Helen’s constant critiques of her cooking, her cleaning, even the way she raised the kids. No decision was ever good enough.
“What happened with Margaret?” she asked.
“Don’t know the details. Mum just said she couldn’t stay there anymore. Her and Margaret’s husband didn’t get on.”
“And how long does she plan to stay?”
“Till her lease is up.”
Emily stood abruptly, pacing. *Four months*. Four bloody months sharing a roof with a woman who’d never believed she was good enough for her son.
“James, I can’t,” she said, stopping in front of him. “I can’t go through that again.”
“Em, please—” He caught her hands. “She’s changed. Living with strangers must’ve knocked some sense into her.”
“Your mother *doesn’t* change. She’ll always blame me for everything wrong in this family.”
James said nothing. He knew she was right. His mother had never accepted Emily—always finding fault where none existed.
“When’s she arriving?” Emily asked wearily.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“*Tomorrow?*” She nearly jumped. “James, are you *mad*? Why didn’t you warn me sooner?”
“She only called today. Said she’d already bought the ticket.”
“Brilliant.” Emily shook her head. “So she wasn’t even going to *ask*. Just drop it on us like a bomb.”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell her to sleep at King’s Cross?”
“She could’ve booked a hotel. Or stayed with friends.”
“She can’t afford a hotel. And friends—you *know* how she is.”
Emily did. Helen had burned bridges with every neighbour, every acquaintance. Nothing was ever good enough.
That evening over dinner, they broke the news to the kids. Fourteen-year-old Tom shrugged—to him, Gran was just Gran, occasionally slipping him cash, occasionally scolding him. But eleven-year-old Lily frowned.
“Is she going to tell me I’m doing my homework wrong again?”
“Lily, Gran just wants what’s best for you,” James tried.
“Then she can want it from *Birmingham*,” Lily muttered, and Emily had to bite back a smirk.
The next morning, Emily woke early, determined to show Helen a spotless home. Not that it would matter—she’d always find *something* to pick at.
At half ten, the doorbell rang. James rushed to answer while Emily lingered in the kitchen, scrubbing already-clean plates.
“Jamie, darling!” Helen’s voice echoed from the hall. “Oh, I’ve missed you!”
“Mum, come in. How was the journey?”
“Awful. Train was stuffy, air conditioning broken. And some drunkard in our carriage—shouting all night.”
Emily took a steadying breath and stepped into the hall. Helen stood surrounded by suitcases—enough for a permanent move.
“Hello, Helen,” Emily said politely.
Her mother-in-law turned, eyes sweeping over her with cold appraisal.
“Emily.” A clipped nod. “You’ve lost weight. Been ill?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Face looks drawn. Probably one of those fad diets. No wonder Jamie hardly glances at you anymore.”
Emily’s jaw tightened. *Here we go.*
“Mum, *enough*,” James cut in. “Let’s have tea. Tell us how you’ve been.”
“How I’ve been?” Helen marched into the kitchen, scanning the room. “Your sister’s lost her mind. Living with a man who *banned* me from their doorstep.”
James blinked. “*Banned* you?”
“Says there’s only one head of the house. That I ‘interfere too much’.”
Emily privately thought Margaret’s husband sounded wonderfully sane.
“And get this,” Helen continued, sitting. “He forbade me from correcting their children. Says grandparents should *spoil*, not discipline.”
“Maybe he’s got a point?” James ventured.
“*James!*” Helen gasped. “Since when do *you* side against me?”
“It’s not sides,” Emily said. “Every family has their own rules.”
Helen’s gaze frosted over.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back. Knew I wasn’t *wanted* here either.”
“Mum, don’t say that—”
“A *guest*,” Helen spat. “In my own son’s home.”
Emily set a teacup in front of her and turned back to the stove. The tension thickened with every breath.
“Where are the children?” Helen asked.
“At school,” James said.
“Ah. Hope they’re doing well? Not like last year, with Lily struggling in maths.”
“They’re fine,” Emily said. “Tom even competed in a school tournament.”
“Competed or *won*?” Helen sniffed. “Second place is just first loser.”
Emily’s hands clenched. Even the kids’ achievements weren’t safe.
Later, as James helped Helen unpack her *entire* wardrobe into his former study, Emily watched silently. The sheer amount of luggage screamed *permanence*.
When the kids returned, Lily mumbled a hello and fled to her room. Tom lingered.
“Gran, why’d you come back? Aunt Margaret okay?”
“Perfectly fine. We just didn’t *suit*.”
“Oh.” He hesitated. “So… how long you staying?”
Helen stiffened. “Don’t you *want* me here?”
“‘Course.” Tom glanced at Emily. “Just… Mum’s got enough on her plate.”
Emily’s chest warmed. *He noticed.*
“Your mother hardly works,” Helen scoffed. “Part-time at the school, home by lunch. Other women juggle *real* jobs.”
“She marks homework every night,” Tom argued. “And does *everything* here.”
“Housework isn’t *work*.”
Emily turned back to the stove, teeth gritted. She’d taken part-time teaching to be present for the kids—a choice Helen would never understand.
That night, with the kids in bed and Helen planted in front of the telly, Emily and James whispered in the kitchen.
“This isn’t working,” Emily said. “She hasn’t changed.”
“Give her time, Em. She’s upset.”
“She’s *always* like this. At least with *me*.”
James sighed. “Maybe you’re overreacting?”
Emily stared. “*I’m* the problem now?”
“No! Just… try to be patient?”
“Eighteen *years*, James. How much longer?”
He had no answer.
The next days unfolded in familiar misery. Helen rearranged the kitchen, criticised meals, lectured the kids on everything—from Lily’s backpack (“Textbooks *separate* from notebooks!”) to Tom’s grades (“Second place? Aim *higher*”).
Emily bore the brunt. Her cooking was “too bland”, her cleaning “half-hearted”. Even the windows weren’t safe.
“A home reflects the woman,” Helen declared, flicking invisible dust off the sill.
“The house is *clean*.”
“Is it?” Helen smirked, holding up a speck. “*Good* housewives wipe sills *daily*
