“Try Harder, Dear”
“You’ll need to work very hard to fit into our family, sweetheart,” Lydia declared, her tone sharp as a headmistress inspecting a new pupil.
Emily barely stifled a laugh. Predictable. Her mother-in-law was already tapping the ruler before the lesson had even begun.
Beside her, James averted his gaze. She could almost hear his silent sigh—*here we go*—but he wisely stayed out of it. Good. This wasn’t his battle.
“Work harder?” Emily repeated, arching a brow. “Could you clarify? Should I sign up for sewing classes? Or perhaps ballroom dancing?”
The conversation unfolded in Lydia’s immaculate kitchen—all gilded curtains, crystal candy dishes, and champagne-coloured chairs. Lovely, but Emily could never live here. It was too perfect, like a stage set for a show.
“Emily, dear, we’re a *cultured* family,” Lydia continued, ignoring the bite in her tone. “We’re refined people. Outsiders don’t just waltz in.”
Emily nodded absently, no longer listening. This script was painfully familiar. She’d swum these waters before—only back then, she’d been younger, softer, with wide, trusting eyes and a desperate need to be the *perfect wife*.
Fifteen years ago, she’d adored her first husband, Peter.
But Peter had only ever adored his mother.
Her first mother-in-law, Margaret, fancied herself the queen of their little world. She had opinions—loud ones—on everything, from Emily’s cooking (“Dry as a boot sole! I’ll teach you, since your mother clearly didn’t”) to her lipstick. Emily had smiled through it, believing patience and politeness would earn her place. She’d called Margaret “Mum,” made her roast beef instead of ham for Christmas, and endured the endless lectures on “raising a proper lady” after her daughter, Sophie, was born.
Then came the day Sophie, barely four, asked, “Mummy, why are you stupid?”
Emily’s stomach dropped. “What? Who said that?”
“Granny Maggie.”
When she begged Peter to intervene, he shrugged. “Oh, come off it. She didn’t mean it. You know how she is.”
She did. And one day, she stopped trying. Stopped bending, begging, buying expensive gifts just to hear *Well done*. She filed for divorce.
“You’ll die alone with cats!” Margaret had hissed.
But Emily didn’t get cats. She got a flat, a career, and—eventually—James.
James wasn’t the lovestruck, poetry-spouting type. But he respected her. Knew her past. Adored Sophie. And when he proposed, Emily hesitated—not because she didn’t love him, but because she refused to step into another family where she’d always be an outsider.
Now, sitting across from Lydia, she felt no shame, no fear. Just déjà vu.
“We don’t just let *anyone* in,” Lydia sniffed. “James is too soft to see faults. But *I* do. So… try harder, dear.”
Emily smiled coolly. “Thank you for the advice. But I’ll just be his wife, if it’s all the same. I already have a family. A daughter. A husband. That’s enough.”
She stood, James following without a word. Outside, he squeezed her hand. “You alright?”
“Fine. Just déjà vu.”
This time, Emily knew her worth. If Lydia didn’t like her? So be it.
Two years passed. No forced visits, no performances. They lived quietly in Emily’s flat. James got on brilliantly with Sophie. Lydia’s calls grew fewer, gifts delivered only through him. No fights. No attempts to bridge the gap.
Then—out of nowhere—a thaw.
One evening, Lydia called, honey-sweet. “Darling! Fancy tea? I’ve made cherry scones!”
Emily declined.
A week later: *Found this vintage tea set—thought of you!*
Emily thanked her but refused.
The truth clicked when James mentioned his brother had moved to Manchester. With no other daughters-in-law nearby, Lydia had suddenly remembered Emily existed.
At their next accidental meeting, Lydia beamed. “Emily! Come for cake!”
Emily didn’t smile. “Remember when you said I’d need to *try harder* to fit in? Well, here’s the thing. I’m not letting you into *my* family now. Harsh, but honest.”
Lydia straightened, icy again. “Suit yourself.”
Months later, as they played dominoes—Sophie giggling, James cheating—Lydia called.
“Mum says happy Mother’s Day,” James said after hanging up.
Emily shrugged. “I’ve got people who celebrate me. That’s enough.”
Once, she’d been told to shrink, to squeeze into someone else’s frame. Now, she’d painted her own canvas—vibrant, unapologetic. And she guarded it fiercely from those who hadn’t earned a place in the picture.
Some doors, once shut, stay closed. And that’s alright.
