Gone to the Dogs
“Emily, have you completely stopped vaccuuming? My eyes are watering from the dust. Look at this, you could roll it up and sell it as a rug”
Emily clenched her fists under the table, watching as Mrs Penelope Smith did her usual tour of the flat with all the charm of a health and safety inspector wielding a clipboard. Her mother-in-law paused meaningfully at every corner, glowered at the state of the shelves, pursed her lips at the fingerprintless windowsillstill somehow not up to scratchand shook her head at the jumble of childrens toys strewn about. After three years of these visits, every appearance of Penelope Smith was pure unadulterated torture for Emily.
“I cleaned yesterday, hoovered, dusted, the lot,” Emily tried to keep her voice steady. “The kids just played this morning.”
“You cant tidy up when its convenient for you, dear, it has to be when its needed. When I was your age”
Penelope collapsed into the armchair with a regal sigh, brushing the armrest as if she were checking for anthrax rather than dust.
“In my day, you could see your reflection in the floorboards. Children dressed as if they were going to tea with the Queennever a crease, mind! Everything in apple-pie order! My husband, bless his soul, could drop by unannounced and not find a single speck. Not once!”
Emily listened in silence, jaw tight. Shed heard the story about the sparkling floor at least fifty, possibly sixty times by now. She might as well have it embroidered on a tea towel.
“And what did you make the children for lunch today?”
“Vegetable soup.”
“Is it in the fridge?” Penelope was already tottering towards the kitchen. “Let me see.”
Out came the soup pot: she sniffed, peered, took a tasting spoonful and pursed her lips like shed just been offered a mouthful of bleach.
“Too much salt! And carrots, really? What do you think they are, rabbits? I made soup completely differently for Martin as a child. Hed finish every last drop and then holler for seconds.”
No point arguing; Emily knew how this song went.
“And what do you give them for breakfast? Not those supermarket cereals again? I told youproper porridge oats! Now Georgina, Simons wife, always soaks her oats overnight and makes fresh porridge in the morning. Her children are never sick, not once.”
Ah, perennial Georgina. Perfect Georgina with her shining cereal grains and children who presumably never smeared jam anywhere.
“Penelope, rolled oats are also natural”
“Oh, dont make me laugh! All your so-called convenience food in my day, we didnt even know what takeaway meant. Spent three hours at the stove, cooking everything with love!”
She began her customary inspection of the childrens room.
“And bedtime, what time do they go? I rang at nine last night and little Ellie was still up!”
“Nine-thirty, usually.”
“Too late, much too late! Routine is sacred. Martin was always tucked up by eight. No fuss, no whining. Because there was discipline, Emily. Whereas you just faff about, pandering”
Emily bit her lip. She wanted to say times had changed, that the experts now recommended a different approach, that her children werent Martin circa 1988. But what was the point? Penelope only ever had room for one point of viewher own.
“And these classes you send them toart, pottery all a waste of time. I took Martin to swimming and chess. Thats what develops a child! Drawing can be done at home. Why spend money?”
“Ellie really likes her drawing class. Shes got talent.”
“Talent! Thats just what studios say when they want to squeeze you for more money. What sort of talent can you have at four?”
She settled back into her armchair, hands folded with the finality of a judge about to bang the gavel.
“Ill tell you what, Emily. You lot have become hopeless. All you know is your phones and the internet. The homes are falling apart, children are out of control, and husbands walk around starving. GeorginaSimons wifemanages not only to work but to keep her house immaculate and raise three children. Youve got two and cant even cope.”
Oh, Georgina againSaint Georgina, halo freshly ironed from her linen cupboard.
“I work, too, Penelope.”
“I know, I know. Sitting at your computer all day, shuffling bits of paperwork. Is that work? When I was your age” Penelopes eyes grew dreamy, “three children, vegetable patch, housework, and still found time to be a good daughter-in-law! Never once answered back.”
Emily tried to explain that her job took concentration, that she managed complex projects, but her words bounced straight off Penelopes condescending smile. The one that said, Im wise, and I must endure the feeble-minded with patience.
Each visit felt less like a family get-together and more like an exam that Emily was destined to fail. From tea that was too hot, to towels folded the wrong way, to plants that looked gloomyPenelope found a flaw everywhere. Three years of this pressure had Emily at breaking point, but she kept her mouth shut. For Martin. For a peaceful home.
Today Penelope was clearly in a mood from the start. She made a beeline to the kitchen and tutted loudly at the sight of a frying pan in the sink.
Four-year-old Jamie, Emilys son, was fussing over his soup, poking it with a spoon.
“Dont like it! Yucky!”
“There!” Penelope declared, triumphant. “See? I told you! The child refuses to eat because youve got no idea how to cook for him. Let me tell you how to make proper childrens soup. You must use a free-range chicken, never this supermarket rubber”
Something snapped. Quietly, without a fuss. Emily felt it as surely as if a guitar string had pinged in her chest.
Years of slights, humiliations, endless comparisons to Georgina the Glorious, all the eye-rolling and sighing, boiled overfinally, irrevocably.
Emily stood up from the table. Looked at Penelope with a gaze as cool and sharp as a newly-polished teaspoon.
“Penelope. Did you move in with your husband when you married, or did he come to live with you?”
Penelope froze, spoon aloft, breathing stilled.
“What?”
“Im just asking: when you got married, did you move into your husbands home, or did he move into yours?”
“Well, obviously I moved in with him but how is that”
“I brought Martin to this flat. This three-bedroom flat. Which, by the way, I bought. With my own money. Earned sitting at the computer shuffling paperwork.”
Penelope went a bit pale.
“So in this house, I decide what sort of soup to make, when the kids go to bed, and which clubs they attend,” Emily said, voice icy but calm. “Another thing, by the way. How much did you ever earn? Or did you just keep house and live off your husband?”
Penelope flushed purple.
“How dare youhow absolutely dare”
“Im not insulting you, just curious. For your information: I make £4,500 a month. Twice what Martin earns. So, next time you want to supervise my parenting, kindly bear that in mind.”
The quiet in the kitchen was so solid you could have sliced it for sandwiches. Even Jamie stopped prodding his soup, eyes darting from mother to grandmother.
The front door bangedMartin was home from work, stopping dead at the charged atmosphere.
“Martin!” Penelope lunged. “Martin, do you know what your wife just said to me? Shes humiliated me! Disgraced me!”
“Hold on,” Martin raised a hand. “Wait a sec. Em, whats going on?”
Emily spoke softly, exhausted. She told him about three years of this. The endless comparisons. The relentless nitpicking of every step and decision. The constant hints that she was failing as a mother and housekeeper. The never-ending interference.
Martin listened, silent. Emily saw his expression shiftfrom confusion, to understanding, to the kind of embarrassment people get when they see themselves in a bad light. His jaw flickered. He pinched the bridge of his nose like a man whos just learned something deeply unpleasant about himself.
“Martin, surely youre not going to believe all this” Penelope stopped, grasping for words. “Im your mother! I brought you up, fed you, never slept a wink”
“Mum,” Martin said, and for once the gentle tone was gone. Emily noticed. “Have you really been having a go at Em for three years?”
“Me? I I was just giving advice! She”
“Advice. About soup, clubs, bedtime, dust. Every single time?”
Penelope opened her mouth, but Martin held up a hand.
“I should have noticed, really. Emilys always shattered after your visits. I thought she was just tired. Turns out shes just been putting up with itso as not to make me upset.”
“Martin!”
“Mum,” he said, sighing. “If you keep this up, you wont be welcome in our home.”
Penelope went rigid, fingers pressed so tightly on the table her knuckles were white.
“Youyou cant be serious! Over her? Over this?”
“Over my wife,” Martin corrected. “Mother of my children. The woman who, incidentally, owns this home. Who kept silent for three years so we wouldnt argue. So yes, Mum. Absolutely serious.”
For a second Penelope looked at her son as though he were some stranger shed sat next to on the bus. Then, with hands trembling and lips quivering, she snatched her handbag and stormed to the door. At the threshold she looked back, wavering between saying goodbye or casting a curse, but Martins face stopped her short. She simply flapped a handwave? curse? who knowsand marched out of sight.
The kitchen was so quiet, you could hear the ticking clock and Jamies tentative spoon quest through the soup.
Martin hugged Emily, drawing her in. Emily pressed her forehead to his chest and, for the first time in years, realised just how hunched and rigid shed becomelike she was carrying a sack of bricks on her shoulders for all those visits.
“Why didnt you say something sooner?” Martin stroked her back, words muffled in her hair. “Three years you kept this in.”
“I didnt want you to fight. She is your mum, after all.”
“You daft thing,” he tightened his hug, lips brushing her temple. “Youre my family. You and the kids. Mum well, shell have to make her peace. If notshe wont be seeing the grandchildren.”
Emily looked up at Martin and, in that moment, wanted to laugh. For the first time in years, her chest felt light, her breath easy.
“Mum! Mum!” Jamie chattered happily. “Is Granny gone? Do I have to eat my soup?”
Martin and Emily exchanged glancesand burst out laughing. Together, at last, loudly and wholeheartedly.
“Youll have to eat the soup,” Emily managed, wiping her eyes. “But tomorrow, Ill make the kind you like best.”
