“You’re not a mother—you’re a disaster!” The rows with her mother-in-law pushed Emily to her limit.
Emily stood by the stove, flipping veggie pasties, when her husband walked into the kitchen.
“Emily, Mum rang me today,” started James. “Says you’re keeping her from seeing little Alfie.”
“She complained?” Emily raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Says you keep making excuses. She hasn’t seen him in a month,” he added.
Emily wiped her hands nervously on her apron.
“James… This is hard to say,” she hesitated. “Your mum… said something you need to know.”
She told him everything. James went pale and dropped into a chair—he hadn’t expected *that*.
It started a month ago. That day, Margaret—his mum—showed up unannounced, as usual. The moment she stepped in, she scanned the hallway.
“What a mess! Toys everywhere! You can’t raise a child in this filth!”
Emily forced a smile, but inside, she was seething. Alfie had just fallen asleep, and the toys were right where he’d been playing. But for Margaret, it was just another excuse to vent.
“James!” she snapped. “Are you a man or what? You should teach your wife how to keep a proper home!”
“Mum, it’s fine,” James muttered, eyes glued to his phone.
“*This* is fine to you? Looks like a tornado hit, and you’re lounging like you’re on holiday!”
“Alfie’s just energetic,” Emily said calmly, though her voice was taut.
“Energetic! You should be watching him, not letting him run wild!”
And just like that, the conversation spiralled into how *perfect* James was as a child—raised under a microscope, never a hair out of place. Emily nodded silently, but her resentment grew with every word.
“Margaret,” she finally said, “I’m raising my son my way. He’s two. He’s *learning*.”
“Learning? Next it’ll be scrapes and bruises, and you’ll just say ‘he’s learning’!”
“That’s what kids do. They explore, make mistakes, figure things out.”
“No! That’s your negligence. What if he gets seriously hurt?”
“Mum—” James tried, but Margaret only got louder.
“If you can’t be a proper mother, I’ll have to think about who *can*!”
The next day, she came again—barging in with her usual sharp knock.
“Why the delay? I thought you weren’t home!” she snapped.
“I was busy,” Emily said evenly.
“Toys *again*! Do you ever clean?”
“Of course. But Alfie’s playing. That’s normal.”
“Normal? When James was little—”
“Yes, I know. He was *perfect*. Not a speck of dust. Too bad he still can’t fry an egg.”
“What’s *that* supposed to mean?”
“That you raised a man who can’t survive on his own.”
“He works! Pays the bills! While *you* sit around!”
“I raise our child. And I want him to be independent—not helpless like his father.”
Just then, a smash and a wail came from the living room. Emily rushed in—Alfie stood by broken glass, his hand bleeding.
“Oh god—” She scooped him up. “It’s alright, love, it’s alright!”
“See?” Margaret hissed. “I *warned* you! You’re not a mother—you’re a disaster! I’ll go to social services!”
Emily froze. This wasn’t just an insult—it was a *threat*.
“Fine. Bring an inspector. But right now—*leave*.”
From then on, Emily changed. She didn’t slam doors—she just stopped opening them to Margaret without a reason. There was always an excuse: quarantine, doctor’s orders, repairs, Alfie being poorly…
Once, Margaret turned up unannounced. Emily peered through the gap.
“Oh, did you not get my text? So sorry—the doctor says Alfie’s immune system’s fragile. No visitors.”
“I’m not a stranger!”
“I know, but… doctor’s orders. We’ll catch up soon!”
Margaret left in a huff.
That evening, James approached her.
“Mum says you’re keeping her from Alfie. Why?”
“Because I’m *scared*. She threatened social services.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You really think she won’t report me if she’s angry again?”
He went quiet. Emily took his hand.
“He’s *our* son. His safety comes first.”
“You think she’d actually hurt him?”
“She doesn’t see boundaries. Her ‘care’ is dangerous.”
James sighed. “Alright. I won’t push it.”
Emily smiled, relieved. Margaret had crossed the line—and now, the game had new rules.
