Margaret had never been fond of her son-in-law, David. A brash fellow from the sticks who knew little of polite society, he drove a van by day and played his war games by night. She’d done all she could to shield Emily from such a husband, but he’d won her over the old-fashioned way—filling her with child.
There was nothing she could do now; Margaret had watched enough dramas to know if Emily had an abortion, she’d lose the grandchild entirely. So the wedding happened in a rush. Worse still, he’d planned to take Emily out to a rented flat—what cheek! Margaret insisted they live with her, even offering them the spare room.
“Emmie, what’s he at the games for?” Margaret grumbled. “You’ve got the whole day with Sophie, give you half a break!”
“Mum, he’s stressed. He’ll play a bit then go tuck Sophie in,” Emily chirped. “Leave him be.”
He wasn’t all bad, this David. Margaret had been a widow a decade, barely able to change a lightbulb when they married. He’d fixed the kitchen cupboards, installed a new sink, not to mention the garden shed. Better yet, it would be the shed and crooked doors rather than letting Emily live in this rough sort with his eye on their two-up, two-down. And David had wrecked Emily’s career in ballet—a path Margaret had always dreamed for her. Now, post-maternity leave, Emily was reduced to teaching t’ai chi at the community centre. No, David was a bad lot, a very bad lot.
David never noticed Margaret’s sullenness, though. He called her “mum,” which made her grit her teeth.
“Mum, your cooking’s a marvel!” he’d praise, eyeing her stew. Margaret often longed to point out the difference between Emily’s tender lamb and his tough, cheap cuts.
“One day, you’ll see,” she snapped one night, ladling thicker soup for Emily and a watery broth for David. “Liam next door’s son earns handsomely as a coder.”
“I studied it too,” David replied, biting into stale bread she’d shoved toward him.
“And failed?” Margaret arched a brow.
“Not failed. They gave me a chance, but I was busy.”
“Playing your games,” Margaret said.
“Now, mum!” Emily interjected. “Dave works nights to pay the bills. I’ve told him to finish his courses, but he won’t.”
“Of course not—his brain’s for steering wheels, not books,” Margaret scoffed.
Emily tutted, and Margaret retreated to her room, proud.
Still, she loathed David’s kin more than him. She’d met them once at the wedding, and that was enough. So when David, head down, mentioned they’d visit Manchester, Margaret nearly fainted.
“Hotel’s fine,” she declared.
“I told them, mum,” David muttered. “They just want to meet us for dinner.”
Emily, ever the peacemaker, hurried in.
“Oh, that’s lovely! I’ll bake a quiche and the apple strudel, and you, mum, your shepherd’s pie!”
Margaret sighed. How could she deny Emily? The milk would go bad…
“Fine,” she grumbled.
She wasn’t sure, but the pair were loud, clumsy, and brought no gifts for Sophie. They kept hinting at Manchester hotels being overpriced and how “dashing” Margaret’s house was.
David’s mother, watching Margaret serve shepherd’s pie, suddenly said:
“Mum, don’t feed him too much! He’s like a horse. We took him in from care, and he’s always eaten like a pig. Even stole from his sisters!”
Margaret stared between David and Emily. So did Emily, who clearly hadn’t known either.
“You never told me that,” Emily said.
“You see?” David’s mother cried. “Ungrateful! We gave him a home, while we sacrificed for our girls. When he ran off to study, we brought him back. Reminded him who paid for his future. Then he worked, helped us raise one daughter, now we come for another!”
Margaret sent the guests home at dusk. She waited till Emily tucked Sophie in, then called David.
“So you left school because of them?” she asked coldly.
“I didn’t mean to think bad of ’em,” he stammered. “They gave me a home. I never had such good meals until I met you!” He paused. “Though, honestly, your cooking’s better than theirs.”
“You really didn’t want to study?” she pressed.
“I did! But I had to help my sister first. Now it’s Emily and Sophie.”
Margaret nodded and returned to her room.
After that, David’s dinners tasted as fine as Emily’s. A week later, she mentioned casually:
“David, I’ve arranged for you to be a computer tech here. Can you set these up?”
“I—I can try,” he said.
“Good. In return for the job, I have one condition.”
“I’ll do it! Anything!”
“You resume your studies,” she said.
Emily threw her arms around Margaret.
“You’re the best, mum!”
“You cook even better now,” David agreed.
Margaret shrugged, pretending she hadn’t planned it. No, David wasn’t as bad as he seemed.
“Cheerio, grief!”
A Mother-in-Law’s Unbearable Challenge
