They’ve Completely Let Themselves Go
– Emily, have you just stopped vacuuming altogether? My eyes are streaming from all this dust. Look, the carpets got a layer on it…
I clenched my fists under the table, watching as Mrs. Margaret, yet again, did her rounds about the flat with the righteous air of a council health inspector. My mother-in-law stopped at every corner, checked the shelves with a critical frown, grimaced at imaginary dust on the windowsill, and shook her head at the sight of scattered toys. After three years of her visits, each one felt like a proper ordeal.
– I did clean, vacuumed and dusted yesterday, I tried to keep my tone calm. The children were playing this morning.
– You shouldnt tidy when it suits you, but when its needed. When I was your age
She sank into the armchair like a queen, lowering herself to chat with a peasant. Her fingers ran along the armrest, checking for dust.
– In my day, the floors gleamed so much you could fix your lipstick in the shine. The children always looked immaculate, not a crease out of place. And the house was spotless! My late husband could walk in and inspect at any timenever a speck of dust anywhere. That’s how it was!
I gritted my teeth. The story about the gleaming floorsby now, it must have been told fifty times, if not more. Id lost count.
– And what did you cook for the childrens lunch today?
– Vegetable soup.
– Is it in the fridge? Margaret was already getting up, heading for the kitchen. Let me have a look.
She opened the pot, sniffed, tasted with a suspicious scowlas if she were taste-testing poison.
– Over-salted. And far too much carrot. Children arent rabbits! When James was little, I made soups so different. He always finished every drop and even asked for more.
I kept silent. There was simply no point arguing.
– And what sort of porridge do they eat for breakfast? Not those instant cereals again? Ive told youproper oats only! Now, SarahToms wifealways soaks oats overnight and cooks them fresh in the morning. Her children are never ill.
That Sarah, always Sarah. Perfect Sarah with her perfect children and perfectly soaked oats.
– Mrs. Margaret, oats are a natural food too.
– Oh please! Thats all just fast food these days In my day, fast food wasn’t even a word! We prepared everything ourselves, lovingly, hours at the cooker.
She started inspecting the childrens room with a critics eye.
– By the way, what time do the children go to bed? I rang at nine last nightSophie was still up.
– Usually by half-past nine.
– Thats late! A child needs structure. When James was a child, hed be in bed by eight. Not a word of complaint. Because we had discipline. But you people, you just coddle them
I bit my lip. I wanted to say times had changed, that child psychologists suggested different things now, that my children werent James thirty years ago. But Margaret never listened to anyone but herself.
– And these clubs of yoursart class, clay modelling all just nonsense. I took James swimming and to chess club. Proper activities! Why waste money on drawing, they can do that here at home.
– Sophie loves art. Shes got real talent.
– Talent? Margaret snorted. Thats just what they say at those studios, to empty your pockets. What talent can a four-year-old possibly have?
She sat again, hands folded tightly on her lap.
– Let me tell you, Emily. You young mums have really let yourselves go these days. Always on your phones and the internet. The house is a mess, children run wild, husbands go hungry. Now, Sarah, Toms wifeshe works, keeps the house immaculate, and raised three children just fine. But youtwo, and you still cant manage.
Sarah again. Saint Sarah, haloed in starchy bedsheets.
– I work too, Mrs. Margaret.
– I know, I know. Sitting at the computer all day, shuffling papers. Is that really work? When I was your age she closed her eyes, dreamy three children, a garden, the house, everything done. I looked after my own mother-in-law too, not a word of complaint.
I tried to explain that my work took focus, that I managed real projects, but my words bounced off her as always, lost in the gentle but oh-so-patronising smile she worethe smile of a wise elder, patiently bearing the stupidity of her wayward pupil.
Every visit was an exam I was fated to fail. She found fault in everything: towels folded wrong, tea too hot, drooping flowers on the windowsill, curtains due for a wash. After three years of this, I was at my wits end, but stayed silentfor James. For peace.
That day, Margaret was in a particularly foul mood. She went straight to the kitchen, clicking her tongue at a frying pan left in the sink.
Four-year-old Peter was being fussy at the table, pushing soup around his bowl.
– Dont want it! Its nasty!
– See! Margaret crowed in triumph. I told you! He wont eat the soup because you cant cook. Ill show you how to make proper soup for little onesfirst you get a proper chicken, never those rubbery supermarket ones
Something snapped inside me. Quietly, noiselessly, but I felt it as though a tight string had just broken.
All the slights, the humiliations, the endless comparisons to perfect Sarah, the constant digs, the sighs, the headshakes it all boiled over. Finally, and irreversibly.
I stood slowly. Looked at Margaret with new eyescool, determined.
– Mrs. Margaret. When you married, did your husband join your home, or did you come to his?
She froze, spoon mid-air. For a second she seemed to forget how to breathe.
– What?
– Did you move in with your husband, or did he come to you?
– I moved in with him, naturally, but what does that
– I brought James here. To this flat. This three-bedroom flat. Which I bought. With my own money. Earned, by the way, doing all that paper shuffling at the computer.
Margarets face turned pale.
– So I decide here, what soup is cooked, what time the children sleep, and what clubs they go toor not. And tell mehow much did you earn yourself, in your life? Or did you just run the house on your husbands purse?
She flushed crimson.
– How dare you how dare you speak to me like this?
– Im not insulting you. Im simply stating facts. Just so you know: I earn one hundred and eighty thousand pounds a year. Thats double Jamess salary. So next time you want to lecture me, please keep that in mind.
The kitchen went eerily quiet, the kind of silence you can almost touch. Even Peter stopped playing with his soup, wide-eyed, staring between me and his grandmother.
The front door banged. James was home, pausing in the entryway as he clocked the tension.
– James! Margaret rushed to him. Your wifes spoken to me horribly! Shes insulted me! Humiliated me!
– Wait, said James, holding up a hand. Hang on. Emily, whats going on?
I spoke softly, exhaustedof the three years, the constant comparisons, the criticism of every step, the endless undermining of me as a mother, as a homemaker. The way everything I did was wrong, how she intruded on how I raised the children.
James listened in silence. I saw his face changefrom puzzlement, to understanding, to something like shame. His jaw tensed and he pinched his nose, that gesture people make when theyve just realised something unpleasant about themselves.
– James, you dont believe her, do you? Margaret faltered, searching for words Im your mother! I raised you, slaved nights for you!
– Mum, James looked at her, and I was startled to see the softness was gone from his eyes. Is it true, what Emily says? Youve gone on at her for three years?
– Me? Gone on?! I just gave her a bit of advice! And she
– Advice, yes. The soup. The clubs. The bedtime. The dust. Every single visit, right?
Margaret opened her mouth, but James wouldnt let her get a word in.
– I noticed, you know. I noticed Emily always seemed lost after you left. Thought she was just tired. But actually shes put up with this in silence, for my sake, so we wouldnt row.
– James!
– Mum, he sighed. If you keep picking at my wife, youre not welcome round here again.
Margaret froze, gripping the table so hard her knuckles went white.
– Are you serious? Because of her? Her?
– Because of my wife, James corrected. The mother of my children. The woman who, by the way, owns this home. Who kept quiet three years while you ran her downjust to keep the peace. So yes, Mum. I mean it.
For a few seconds, Margaret just stared at him, as if seeing him afresh. Then she grabbed her handbag, flew to the door. On the threshold, she looked back, lips quivering with anger and hurt, but something in Jamess face made her say nothing. She waved her handwhether in farewell or in finalityand swept out.
In the returning quiet, you could hear the kitchen clock ticking and Peters quiet fidgeting as he forgot all about his untouched soup.
James drew me in and held me close. I pressed my forehead against his chest, and only now realised how much my shoulders achedthree years of carrying a burden I hadnt even noticed growing heavier and heavier.
– Why did you never say anything? James murmured into my hair, rubbing my back. Three years, Emily. You bottled it up for three years.
– I didn’t want you to fall out. Shes your mum.
– Silly thing, he pulled me tighter, and I felt his lips brush my temple. You and the kids, youre my family. Mum Mum will just have to get used to it, or she wont see the grandchildren.
I looked up at James. The urge to laugh bubbled up. For the first time in three years, I could breathe. For the first time, my chest didnt feel tight.
– Mum, Mum! Peter chirped. Is Gran gone? Does that mean I dont have to eat soup?
James and I exchanged a lookand burst out laughing. Real laughter, together, for the first time in ages.
– The soup, I said, sadly, you still have to eat. But tomorrow Ill make the one you like best.
