**A Mother-in-Law Who Became a Friend**
“How *dare* you!” Margaret Thompson’s voice trembled with indignation. “My son was doing just fine before he met you!”
“And now what, he’s not?” Emma stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wet with tears, clutching a tea towel. “Maybe you could explain what the problem is?”
“The problem is that Jeremy has lost a stone! Just look at him—you’ve turned him into a shadow!”
Jeremy sat at the table, staring at his half-eaten bowl of soup, wishing the ground would swallow him. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded teenager.
“Mum, enough,” he muttered, not lifting his head.
“No, it’s *not* enough!” Margaret turned to him. “Look at yourself! Your cheeks are hollow, you’ve got bags under your eyes—all because she doesn’t feed you properly!”
“What do you mean, I don’t feed him?” Emma exploded. “I cook every day! I made this soup from scratch this morning!”
“Soup!” Margaret scoffed. “Water with carrots. Where’s the meat? Where’s the cream? Where’s the proper food for a man?”
Emma’s chest tightened. Six months of marriage, and every visit from her mother-in-law ended in a row—soup too thin, shirts not ironed right, flat not clean enough.
“Margaret, I’m trying my best,” she said quietly. “But I have a job, my distance-learning course—”
“A job!” Margaret threw her hands up. “What job? A woman’s place is at home, caring for her husband! But you’re off who-knows-where while my boy goes hungry!”
Jeremy finally looked up.
“Mum, I’m *not* hungry. And I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”
“The gym?” Margaret stared as if he’d said something obscene. “Why on earth would you need a gym? You were just fine as you were!”
Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She walked out, sat on the bed, and let the tears come. She was exhausted from the constant criticism. Nothing she did was ever right for Margaret.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Jeremy first introduced them, Margaret had been charming—serving tea, asking about her family, even giving compliments. But the moment “wedding” was mentioned, everything changed.
“Em, where are you?” Jeremy peeked into the bedroom. “Mum’s gone.”
“Finally,” Emma sniffed.
He sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t let her get to you. She’s just set in her ways.”
“What ways? The fact you lived with her till you were thirty-two?”
Jeremy sighed. This was a sore point.
“Emma, she’s been on her own since Dad died when I was fifteen. She’s done everything for me.”
“I get that. But I’m your *wife* now. Can’t we find a middle ground?”
“Of course. It’ll just take time.”
*Time.* Emma had heard that a hundred times. How long before Margaret accepted her as family?
The next day, Emma took action. After work, she bought ingredients and cooked a proper three-course meal—beef stew, shepherd’s pie, and fresh salad. She set the table with their best china.
When Jeremy came home, he gasped.
“Blimey! What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just wanted to spoil my husband.”
“It’s brilliant! Smells like Mum’s cooking when I was a kid.”
They dined by candlelight. Jeremy praised every dish, and Emma felt it was worth it. Maybe if she tried harder, Margaret would soften.
But the next day, the criticism continued.
“Jeremy, you look shattered—were you up late?” Margaret asked the moment she stepped in.
“No, Mum. Went to bed at half eleven.”
“*Half eleven*? And up at seven? That’s no way to live!”
Emma realised then—it wasn’t about food or sleep. It was about *her*. The woman who’d “stolen” her son.
So she tried a different approach.
“Margaret,” she said during the next visit, “could you teach me to make that beef stew Jeremy loves?”
Margaret eyed her suspiciously.
“Why?”
“I want to make him happy. You know his tastes best.”
A pause. Margaret weighed whether this was a trick.
“Well… I suppose. But you’ll never get it quite right.”
“Let’s try.”
And they did. Margaret dictated the recipe while Emma wrote it down. They shopped together.
“See, the meat should be like *this*,” Margaret said, pointing. “Not too fatty, not too lean.”
Emma listened carefully. Back home, they cooked side by side.
“Chop the onions bigger,” Margaret corrected. “And don’t cry, or the stew will be too salty.”
“How am I supposed *not* cry?”
“Rinse the knife with cold water. Breathe through your mouth.”
Slowly, the atmosphere warmed. Margaret shared stories of Jeremy’s childhood, and Emma listened with genuine interest.
“He used to eat three bowls as a boy,” Margaret laughed. “I thought he’d burst!”
“His appetite’s not like that now.”
“He’s just tired from work. Difficult clients on this new project.”
Emma blinked. Jeremy never shared work details with her—yet his mother knew everything.
“He tells you a lot?”
“Of course. He tells me everything—school, friends, girls he fancied.”
Margaret’s voice dipped with sadness.
“Now I suppose he tells *you*.”
“Not really,” Emma admitted. “He’s quiet with me.”
Margaret looked startled.
“*Jeremy*? Quiet? He used to chatter for hours!”
Emma realised how little they still knew each other. Six months of marriage wasn’t long.
The stew was a triumph. Jeremy couldn’t believe Emma had made it.
“Just like Mum’s! How’d you manage it?”
“Your mum taught me,” Emma said, and Margaret brightened.
“Oh, I only gave a few tips.”
Cooking lessons became regular. They started with Jeremy’s favourites, then branched out.
“My mum made these,” Emma said, showing a recipe for scones. “God rest her.”
“Gone young?”
“Fifty-eight. Cancer.”
Margaret nodded. She had her own health struggles—high blood pressure, a dodgy heart.
“I just worry about Jeremy,” she confessed one day. “He’s all I’ve got.”
“Nothing’ll happen to him. We’ll take care of him.”
*We.* Margaret repeated the word, then smiled at Emma—properly—for the first time in months.
Their relationship thawed. Margaret stopped nitpicking. Emma began to understand her better.
Margaret had been a primary school teacher, devoted to her pupils but unable to have more children herself.
“I raised so many children,” she said, flipping through old class photos. “But only one of my own.”
“You raised him well.”
“Too well, maybe. I shielded him too much.”
Emma also discovered Margaret was a brilliant knitter. Spotting Emma struggling with a unravelled scarf, she offered to teach her.
“Winter’s not over yet. Let me show you.”
They spent evenings knitting, drinking tea, chatting about everything—work, neighbours, summer plans.
“D’you have a garden?” Emma asked.
“A cottage in the Cotswolds. Small but cosy. Jeremy grew up there, really. We went every weekend.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s lonely. And hard to keep up.”
Emma suggested, “Maybe we could help? Jeremy misses it.”
Margaret perked up.
“Really? He said that?”
“Of course. He talks about gardening with you.”
They went together. Jeremy was overjoyed, showing Emma his childhood haunts.
“I built a den here,” he said, pointing to an old apple tree. “And had bonfires—when Mum allowed.”
Margaret watched them, smiling. For the first time in months, she saw him truly happy.
“You know,” she told Emma later, “you’re good for him.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. He’s livelier now. Used to be so serious—laughs more these days.”
Emma’s heart warmed. Her first real approval from Margaret.
The cottage brought them even closer. Margaret taught Emma to plant seedlings, tend flowers, make preserves.
“Pick cucumbers daily,” she instructed. “Or they’ll grow bitter.”
“Tomatoes?”
“Let those ripen. But bring greens inside if it’s cold.”
Working side by side, Emma noticed how relaxed Margaret was here—in her element.
“Sometimes I feel more at home here than in London,” Margaret admitted one evening on the patio.
“I get that. It’s peaceful.”
“Yes. And full of memories. Jeremy recited his first poem right here—a school assignment.”
She paused, then added,
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For”Years later, when Margaret passed away peacefully in her sleep, Emma found comfort in knowing their bond had truly made them family in every sense.”
