On the day of her golden jubilee, Imogens motherinlaw abruptly demands the return of the gold earrings she gave her at the wedding.
The earrings! Margaret Whitfield snaps. The ones I gave you on your wedding day. Take them off right now.
Margaret, I I dont understand, Imogen starts, her voice trembling. Why are you
Just remove them, Margaret cuts in. Theyre my earrings. Ive changed my mind about giving them to you, and I want them back.
Imogen stands in the boutique holding two dresses a modest creamcoloured one and an emeraldgreen gown with offtheshoulder sleeves and a thin waist belt. Mirrors on either side reflect her bewildered expression, tired eyes and a faint edge of irritation curling at the corners of her mouth.
Her motherinlaws fiftieth birthday is fast approaching. Margaret plans a lavish celebration: a restaurant in central London, live music, a photographer, a host everything befitting a woman of influence.
Imogen is the deputy headmistress, wife of a respected man, mother of a son with promise. And, of course, she has a motherinlaw who can make even a casual How are you, Imogen? sound like a judgment.
Imogen has learned to read Margarets tone, glance, and appraisal. Every detail appearance, manners, hairstyle, even the choice of dish at the banquet falls under Margarets watchful eye.
James never says outright, You must look perfect, but his silence whenever Margaret drops a cutting remark says enough.
Can I help you choose? a shop assistants gentle voice pulls Imogen from her thoughts.
No thank you, Im just looking, Imogen replies, turning back to the dresses.
The emerald gown looks spectacular. In it she would feel like royalty, but it costs almost half her monthly salary. The cream dress is modest and far cheaper. If she chooses the cream one, Margaret will say Imogen embarrasses the family; if she picks the emerald, Margaret will accuse her of trying to outshine her.
She recalls a previous family gathering New Years. She dared to wear a red, figureflattering dress, not scandalous but eyecatching. Margaret inspected her and joked sharply:
Imogen, you know red isnt for everyone. And youd better have a perfect figure to pull it off.
That night Imogen felt like she were under a spotlight, every gesture scored on a tenpoint scale. She even hesitated to eat.
She takes a deep breath, looks in the mirror again, and wishes, for once, not to bend to anyones expectations, to choose simply what she likes.
Ill take this, she tells the shop assistant, handing over the emerald dress.
The celebration is noisy. The restaurant glitters with lights, waiters glide by with trays, guests laugh and toast the birthday lady. Margaret, in a goldsequinned outfit, receives gifts and compliments like an actress on stage.
When Imogen enters, conversations at the neighbouring tables pause for a heartbeat. She wears the very dress she chose simple in cut but elegant, highlighting her eyes and sunkissed skin. She smiles, though her stomach knots with nerves.
Imogen, dear! Margaret turns, scanning her from head to toe. Well, look at you, all dressed up. Trying to steal the show? her tone bears a lighthearted tease that the other guests take as a joke.
Imogen replies,
Oh, Margaret, I just wanted to make you happy. Its a special day, after all.
Margaret narrows her eyes, unaccustomed to such confidence. James, standing beside his mother, nods:
It suits you. Very pretty.
That very pretty feels like a tiny victory for Imogen. She spends the evening dignified, dancing, smiling, chatting with guests, trying not to think she must please everyone, especially Margaret. She simply is herself.
The night flows almost too smoothly. Imogen begins to believe the evening will pass without the usual sharp comments Margaret loves to slip in. Margaret receives congratulations, laughs, and lets out her usual barbs, but they come across as harmless. Guests eat, dance, and waiters bustle.
Imogen sits beside James, chatting quietly with his cousin Anne, when Margaret approaches. A strained smile hangs on her lips, but her eyes glint with something ominous.
Imogen, she whispers low enough that nearby diners turn, take off the earrings.
Imogen blinks, thinking she heard wrong.
Excuse me?
The earrings, Margaret repeats, a little louder. The ones I gave you at the wedding. Remove them now.
A few people at the table freeze. Someone chuckles, assuming a joke. Margarets lips are tight, her jaw trembling with tension.
Margaret, I I dont understand, Imogen begins, feeling a cold wave of anxiety rise in her chest. Why are you
Just take them off, Margaret interrupts. Theyre mine. Ive changed my mind and I want them back.
James, who had been quietly sipping wine, slams his glass down.
Mum, what are you doing? irritation sharp in his voice. Thats over the line.
Over the line is when a daughterinlaw arrives at my jubilee in an expensive, offtheshoulder dress and draws all the attention as if it were her celebration! Margaret snaps. I feel youre trying to outshine me.
Silence falls. Music drifts from somewhere distant, but the air at their table feels thick and sticky. Imogen goes pale, words sticking in her throat.
Mum, stop, James says, standing, leaning toward his wife and quietly, let me handle it.
He gently lifts the gold earrings from Imogens ears and places them in Margarets hand.
Satisfied now? he asks.
Margaret, as if the shocked guests were invisible, straightens her shoulders and smiles thinly.
Satisfied, she says coldly. Thats how it should be, Imogen. Let the joy leave your eyes.
Imogen feels an empty void inside, wanting to disappear from the restaurant, from the family, from this absurd scene.
James watches his motherinlaw with a puzzled stare, then says softly,
Were leaving.
They head for the exit, when the MC jumps on the microphone:
And now the most touching moment of the night: the motherson dance!
Applause erupts. Margaret, as if nothing had happened, grabs Jamess hand.
Come on, James, dont embarrass me in front of everyone.
He tries to protest, but her grip is ironclad. She drags him to the centre of the hall as the band swells. Imogen stands by the door, feeling dozens of eyes on her. She turns calmly and walks out.
The night air is crisp and sobering. Even a warm coat cant chase away the chill. Imogen hails a black cab straight away, determined not to wait for James.
The cab glides through the illuminated streets of London. Lights from shop windows flash past, occasional pedestrians scurry by, traffic signals blink a continuous ribbon of bright colour. Imogen stares out the window, unblinking, as if she cant breathe.
She cant believe a respectable adult could behave like this snatching earrings in front of everyone on his mothers own jubilee. Her phone buzzes; its James.
She looks at the screen, lets it ring, then presses decline, pulls the bag tighter, and whispers to herself,
Just give me a moment to collect myself
James stands outside the restaurant, watching the departing taxi, angry at himself for missing the chance to leave with Imogen. He knows he should have run away with her instead of being trapped by his mothers grip, her old mantra of whats best for everyone.
Fool, he mutters, opening the rideshailing app.
While the cab drives, he calls Imogen repeatedly.
Imogen, please answer
When she finally picks up, her voice is quiet and steady:
Im home. Dont worry, Im fine. I just need some alone time.
No, James says firmly. Im on my way. And dont lock the door.
He stops at a 24hour florist. The shop assistant, seeing his dishevelled state, hands him a lavish bouquet of red roses without asking.
Someones really had a bad day, huh? she smiles.
James nods.
Absolutely.
He returns to their flat. The hallway is silent. A soft lamp glows from the livingroom. Imogen sits on the sofa in a plush robe, phone in hand.
She looks up as James enters, her eyes calm, a hint of sadness.
I didnt mean to steal the spotlight, she says before he can start. I just wanted to look nice. Its my birthday, after all, and Im only twentysix. Is that wrong?
James hands her the roses and sits beside her.
No, its not. You looked gorgeous. Mother she just went too far. Im still shocked. She usually keeps herself in check, but tonight she overreacted.
He speaks gently, trying not to rush.
Im ashamed of her, Imogen. I really am. I have no idea whats gotten into her.
Imogen nods.
I dont know either, she whispers. Maybe she never liked me because Im young and pretty.
James sighs, takes her hand.
Listen, Ill fix this. I promise. It wont happen again.
I hope so, Imogen replies. Because tonight I felt completely out of place.
James glances at her ears; the tiny gold earrings with little stones still glint the ones he gave her for her birthday last year.
Youre still wearing those? he asks, surprised.
She touches the earlobe.
Yes. I wish I hadnt swapped them for the ones your mother gave me. Maybe the whole drama could have been avoided. But I thought Margaret would like them.
James pulls her into a hug and whispers,
Youre my best gift.
After the jubilee, Margaret remains unsettled. She strips off her evening dress, hangs it carefully, and, without changing fully, walks to the bedroom. On the dresser lie the same small, diamondset earrings, now dull in her hands.
Well, look at that, she mutters, pinching the earrings between her fingers as if they were a nuisance. I wore them like a star at my own party. How cheeky!
She opens the wardrobe, climbs to the top shelf and tosses the earrings into a box of old belongings.
Thats where they belong.
Her husband, Thomas Whitfield, appears in a housecoat and glasses, looking weary.
Margaret, cant you calm down? Its night, the partys over, everyones gone happy except you.
She whirls around.
Didnt you see how Imogen turned up? Like shed stepped off a magazine cover! Perfect hair, makeup, the whole lot! Men were staring, even my colleagues! And Im just a backdrop!
Thomas sighs.
Let them be young! Youre still the prettiest woman I know. Honestly, Imogen did nothing wrong. She just came to celebrate.
Just came? Margaret sneers. She planned everything: the earrings, the smile, the eyes She wanted to look better than me!
Margaret! Thomas says firmly, stop looking for enemies where there are none. Shes a good girl, loves our son. Did you see how he looks at her?
Loves! she parodies. Well see how long that lasts. I only want my son not to be swindled by a pretty, independent woman.
Thomas raises an eyebrow.
What, a pretty and independent woman? Maybe youre just jealous?
Margarets lips press together.
Thats nonsense! she says coldly. Im done with her. I wont see her at any more family gatherings.
Weeks pass. Winter blankets London in snow, shop windows glow with festive lights. New Years approaches, and Margaret begins planning the traditional family dinner. She calls everyone in early December.
Son, she says cheerfully, how about New Years? Ive got everything sorted: roast duck with apples, salads, champagne.
Great, Mum, Imogen and I will be there, James replies.
James, Margarets tone softens but firm, Im only expecting you, not her. Dont ruin the mood.
James pauses, stunned.
Mum, are you serious?
Absolutely. I dont want to spend New Years with anyone except those I love most.
But Imogen is my wife
Enough, James! Margaret snaps. If you want to come, come alone.
He hangs up, his hand clenched around the phone. Imogen notices his tension and asks,
Whats wrong?
Mum invited me to New Years just me. No you.
Imogen smirks bitterly.
I figured as much. Honestly, I wasnt planning on going anyway.
James looks at her,
It still hurts.
It does, she admits, but maybe its for the best. Just the two of us.
Two weeks later, Imogen takes a pregnancy test; two lines appear. She sits on the edge of the bed, crying tears of joy, fear and surprise. She tells James, who embraces her and says,
This is the best thing that could happen to us.
A few days later, Margaret calls again.
Son, have you thought about New Years?
Well stay home. Imogens pregnant, she needs rest,
Pregnant, is it? Good. Let her stay in, she shouldnt be stressing herself,
Thanks, Mum, James replies, his voice flat.
Silence hangs on the line, then Margaret adds with a faint grin,
Shell be a right mess soon enough. Then well see
She hangs up, smiling to herself as she boils a pot of coffee. James remains bewildered, unable to grasp why his mother harbours such resentment.
Nine months later, Imogen gives birth to a healthy baby boy with rosy cheeks and wheatgold hair.
At the hospital discharge, everyone gathers: James, his mother Anne, friend Lily with a bouquet of white roses, and even Margaret, who cant miss such an event.
Imogen spots Margaret across the courtyard, standing a short distance away in a sharp suit, holding roses, her expression a mix of curiosity and disdain.
When Imogen emerges, radiant with the newborn, everyone gasps she seems to glow. A gentle flush, soft waves of hair, eyes full of love. Even the nurses smile warmly.
James cradles the child, leans in to kiss Imogens cheek and whispers,
Youre my miracle.
Margaret approaches, her smile tight, eyes saying everything.
Congratulations, she says dryly, a boy is nice.
She adds, almost as an afterthought,
I hope youll have less time to dress up now.
No one reacts. Thomas Whitfield, seeing the tension, gently guides Margaret away to ease the situation.
Imogen holds her son, feeling an unexpected calm. She no longer feels the need to prove herself or win anyones approval. She looks at Margaret and, for the first time, feels only pity.
Margaret, she says softly, all I want is for our child to grow in love. You can be part of that love, or you can stay apart. Its your choice.
Margaret flinches as if slapped, but says nothing, turning away.
A week later, Imogen sits by the window, rocking the cot as rain patters outside, marking the end of summer. James comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her and kisses her forehead.
Thank you for getting through all this, he whispers.
Imogen smiles.
Ive learned theres no point fighting for the affection of those who dont deserve it. Its better to direct my energy where its returned.
She gazes at the sleeping baby, feeling true happiness.
Margaret never calls again, but Imogen doesnt need it. She always has Anne, James, and little Peter by her side.
