“Mother-in-Law for the Summer”
“Charlotte, why don’t I stay with you for the summer?” said Margaret, drying her hands on a tea towel. “The flat upstairs flooded mine, and now it needs repairs. The builders say it won’t be done before autumn.”
Charlotte froze, ladle poised over a pot of beef stew. A whole summer with her mother-in-law? Three months under one roof? Mentally, she tallied up the children’s school holidays, her husband’s leave, their planned trips to the countryside… And all that time with Margaret’s remarks, advice, and disapproving looks.
“Of course, Mum,” she heard herself say. “Of course, stay with us. Where else would you go?”
“Splendid!” Margaret beamed. “I won’t be a burden—I’ll help with the children. William’s always at work, and you’re run ragged looking after them alone.”
William did work late, but Charlotte managed perfectly well with ten-year-old Thomas and seven-year-old Emily. At least, she had—until Margaret arrived with her own way of doing things.
The very next day, her mother-in-law set about “tidying up.” She rewashed all the dishes because Charlotte, in her opinion, hadn’t rinsed the detergent properly. She rearranged the fridge, insisting sausages belonged on the top shelf, not “just anywhere.” The children’s toys were packed neatly into boxes and banished to the cupboard.
“Why must there be such a mess?” she scolded Emily, who was searching for her favourite doll. “Put things away when you’re done.”
Emily burst into tears. Charlotte clenched her jaw and fetched the toys back.
“Margaret, children should feel at home here,” she ventured.
“At home doesn’t mean living like pigs,” Margaret sniffed. “In my day, children had manners.”
Thomas, overhearing, muttered something darkly and slunk off to his room. He avoided his grandmother entirely, and she never missed a chance to correct him—his music was too loud, he spent too long on his computer, he made too much noise with his friends outside.
That evening, William came home tired and hungry. Charlotte warmed his dinner as usual, but before she could serve it, Margaret intervened.
“William, you’re wasting away!” she fussed, piling his plate high. “Charlotte feeds you nothing but shop-bought ready meals. Tomorrow I’ll go to the market, get proper meat, make some proper dinners.”
“Mum, don’t—we’ve got everything we need,” William tried, but she was already in full flow.
“Don’t be silly! You’re my son—I’ll take care of you! Look at the state of this place—shirts unironed, socks with holes. A wife should look after her husband properly.”
Charlotte felt her temper rise. She’d spent the day washing, cleaning, cooking, ferrying the children to school and clubs—and now she was being accused of neglecting her family?
“I *do* look after my family,” she said quietly but firmly. “Times have changed, Margaret.”
“Times, schmimes,” Margaret scoffed. “Family is family.”
William ate in silence, staying carefully neutral. He never took sides between his wife and mother, which infuriated Charlotte more than anything.
After a week, tensions reached breaking point. Margaret criticised everything—Charlotte’s cooking, her parenting, her housekeeping. She rose at six, clattering about the kitchen to make breakfast “properly.” The children complained she nagged them at mealtimes, correcting how they held their forks or chewed.
“Mum, why not visit Aunt Joan for a bit?” William suggested during another row. “She’s always asking.”
“So I’m in the way?” Margaret huffed. “I help, I try—and this is my thanks? Joan lives in a tiny flat—there’s no room! Or am I just a nuisance?”
“You’re not,” Charlotte lied. “It’s just…”
“Just what? Out with it!”
“We have different ways of doing things,” Charlotte said carefully. “Different ideas about raising children.”
“Aha!” Margaret crowed. “So my way isn’t good enough? And look how William turned out—a decent, hardworking man!”
“Mum, enough,” William sighed. “We’re all stressed.”
“*Enough?* I want to know what I’ve done wrong!”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Charlotte repeated. “But every family needs boundaries.”
“Boundaries!” Margaret snorted. “Against your own mother! What is the world coming to?”
Thomas and Emily huddled in the corner, wide-eyed. The air in the house was thick with tension.
The next day, Charlotte sat the children down. “How are you two holding up?”
“Granny’s weird,” Emily confessed. “She’s always telling us off.”
“She said computers rot your brain,” Thomas added. “That in her day, kids played outside.”
“Granny’s just from a different time,” Charlotte explained. “She loves you.”
“But she’s scary,” Emily whispered. “Can I eat in here instead?”
Charlotte hugged her. The house no longer felt like theirs—everyone tiptoed, afraid of drawing Margaret’s notice.
Meanwhile, Margaret carried on “improving” things. She rewashed the towels (“They smell wrong”), cleaned the windows (“Streaky”), and binned half the spices (“Rubbish—salt, pepper, and bay leaves are all you need”).
“Why did you throw out the cumin?” Charlotte asked, finding it gone.
“What do you want that muck for?” Margaret retorted. “Ruining your stomachs.”
Charlotte fled to the bathroom, turning on the taps to muffle her sobs. The house was a battleground.
That evening, she confronted William. “This can’t go on.”
“Just hang in there. It’s not forever.”
“Three months! The kids are miserable, I’m at my wits’ end, and all you say is *hang in there*?”
“What do you want me to do? She’s my mother.”
“Talk to her! Explain we have our own ways.”
“You know how she is. She’ll take offence.”
“And what about me? Or your children?”
William turned away. The conversation was over.
Things changed after an incident. Charlotte was late collecting Emily from ballet, and when they returned, Thomas was at the kitchen table, red-eyed, while Margaret ranted at William.
“What happened?” Charlotte asked.
“That boy,” Margaret jabbed a finger at Thomas, “broke my crystal teacup! The one your father gave me! Did it on purpose!”
“I didn’t!” Thomas sniffed. “It slipped when I poured the water!”
“He’s lying! I saw him smash it!”
“Thomas wouldn’t do that,” Charlotte said coldly.
“Oh, defending him! Your child’s a saint, and I’m the liar!”
“Granny said they should send me to boarding school,” Thomas whispered.
Charlotte’s blood boiled. She fixed Margaret with a glare so sharp the older woman stepped back.
“If you ever speak to my children like that again,” she said, very quietly, “I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
“How dare you! He’s my grandson!”
“He’s *my son*. And in *my home*, no one humiliates him.”
“William!” Margaret appealed. “Are you hearing this?”
William looked from his mother to his wife. This was it—would he stand by her, or would their family crack?
“Mum,” he said at last, “Charlotte’s right. Thomas is a good lad. And shouting at the kids isn’t on.”
Margaret gaped. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to side against her.
“So you’re against me too?” she whispered. “My own son…”
“No one’s against you. But we all need to respect each other.”
Margaret retreated to her room and didn’t emerge until morning.
The next day, the air was lighter. Margaret kept her distance, biting back remarks. It was a relief—but unsustainable.
A few days later, she approached Charlotte. “Let’s talk.”
“Perhaps I *am* too hard on the children,” she admitted grudgingly. “In my day, discipline came first.”
“Discipline matters,” Charlotte agreed. “But children need love too.”
“I do love them,” Margaret said softly. “I just don’t know how to show it.”
For the first time, Charlotte saw vulnerability in her eyes.
“Margaret,” she said gently, “we can find a compromise. Maybe cook together? Or—Emily’s been asking to learn knitting.”
Margaret brightened. “I could teach her.”
Slowly, things improved. Margaret still nitpicked, but less sharply. She taught Emily to knit, tried teaching Thomas chess. Charlotte ignored minor jabs and included her in chores, making her feel needed.
William watched the changes in amazement. The women still bickered, but without venom. The children stopped fearing their grandmother.
“You know,” Charlotte said one night, “this summer might not be so bad after all.”
“You’ve done brilliantly,” William murmured.
“I realised she’s not my enemy
