Chop it finer for the salad, said Margaret Thompson, and immediately caught herself. Oh, sorry, dear. There I go again
No, Emily replied with a smile, youre right. Tom really does prefer it finely chopped. Youll have to show me your method.
Her mother-in-law obliged.
Hello, Emily. Is Tom at home?
Margaret stood at the door, resplendent as always, her trusty fur-trimmed coat buttoned up, perfectly coiffed silver curls, immaculately pencilled grey-blue eyes, and lipstick matching the faded amethyst ring glittering on her right handa family relic if ever there was one.
Hes away on business, Emily answered. Didnt you know?
On business? Margaret frowned. He didnt mention it. I just thought Id pop round and see my grandchildren before New Year.
Just then, little Sophie bounded from the living roompale plaits, impish gap-toothed grin, and big brown eyes.
Grandma!
Margaret was already through the door, shrugging off her coat, peppering her granddaughters crown with kisses. Emily watched, her insides tightening in that now-familiar way. Six years. Six years of this supervision.
I wont stay long, Margaret announced, scanning the hallway for dust bunnies. Just here to see the children, then Ill be off.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
Two hours later, Margaret went outsideshe never smoked near the children, something Emily respectedand failed to spot the icy patch on the front step.
A shriek and a thud. Emily rushed out to find her mother-in-law crumpled on the path, pale as talc, clutching her leg.
Dont move, Emily urged. Ill ring for an ambulance.
The next four hours became a blur of hospital corridors, x-rays, waiting rooms perfumed with antiseptic. Broken ankle. Not life-threatening, but the doctor decreed a robust plaster cast and strict bed rest. Six weeks in a castno gentle strolls, and certainly no hopping on a train.
Shes not going anywhere, the young doctor told Emily, filling out charts. At least a week of restno exceptions. Then crutches, and no journeys for a while.
Emily nodded, silent.
The car ride home was one of brooding silence. Margaret twisted her amethyst ring and stared out the window. Emily drove, wondering when exactly her festive spirit had died a terrible, undramatic death.
Seven days. At minimum, seven days of being cooped up together. No Tom. Just the two of them. Well, four, if you count the kidsbut children hardly register in the terrifying dance of domestic tension.
On the thirty-first of December, Emily was up at six.
Salads to chop, a joint to roast, something fancy for the New Years table. Children would wake up, hungry. Margaret would rise, ready to correct.
And, right on cue:
Youre chopping far too large, Margaret said, hobbling to the kitchen table with her crutches. A salad needs finer cutting, otherwise its just bland. And youve drenched it in mayonnaiseeverything will drown! Oh, and Tom does like extra sweetcorn, you know.
Emily put the knife down.
MargaretIve made this salad for twelve years. I do know what Im doing.
I was only trying to help
Thanks. But no thanks.
Margaret pursed her lipsthe infamous look Emily could draw from memoryand went back to her room. The stark white cast flashed in the doorway; the crutches tapped their quiet rhythm across the floor. Emily grabbed her phone and retreated to the balcony.
Outside was silent; no fireworks anymorejust the flicker of fairy lights in the neighbourhood windows.
Anna, I cant do this, she whispered to her friend. Honestly, I cant. Shes here all week. And Toms just conveniently vanished. Six years Ive been holding on by the skin of my teeth. One more week of this and Ill grab the kids and bolt.
She didnt realise that, through the glass, Margaret sat at her armchair by the tree, listening to every word.
New Years came and went in silence.
Sophie and Oliver were asleep by eleven, nowhere near midnights magic. Emily and Margaret sat at the table: salads, nibbles, the telly humming away in the background, singers warbling quietly. They didnt meet each others eyes.
Happy New Year, Emily said, as the hands of the clock collided at midnight.
Happy New Year, Margaret replied.
Glasses clinked. A sip. Bed.
On the first of January, Tom phoned in.
Mum! How are you? Emily, is she alright?
Fine, Emily said. Cast. Shell rest a week, then well see.
Getting along alright?
Emily said nothing, looking at the closed living room door.
Were getting by.
Emily, I know this is hard
Youre away, Tom. Youre there, Im here. With your mother. Over the holidays. Lets not talk about it.
She hung up and cried. Quietly, so no one would hear. In the bathroom, lights full blast. Brown eyes ringed with tired shadows stared back from the mirror.
Thirty-two years old. Two kids. Six years married. And the sense she was somehow living a strangers, rather cold, life.
That afternoon, Margaret asked Emily to rummage for her passport and paperworkshe wanted to book a follow-up appointment at the GPs online.
Emily started rooting through the aged leather handbagreceipts, a notebook, passport and then, unexpectedly, a photograph. Automatically, thinking it some forgotten prescription, she pulled it free.
It was a faded black-and-white shot with bent corners. A young woman in a wedding dress. Twenty-seven, maybe. Beautiful with heartbreakingly swollen, tear-filled eyes. Mascara smudged, lips quivering.
On the back, in spidery ink: The day I realised Id never be accepted. 15 August, 1990.
Emily stared, transfixed. The year. Thirty-four years ago. Margaret was sixty-one now; shed have been twenty-five. A bride. Crying.
Found them yet? Emily jumped. Margaret stood in the doorway, balanced on her crutches.
I Emily tried to slip the photo away, but Margaret had already seen.
Her face changed. Something raw flickered in her normally frosty eyesfear, perhaps, or old shame.
Hand it over.
Emily passed the photo silently. Margaret held it, staring for a very long time, then slipped it into her dressing gown pocket.
Passports in the side pocket. On the left. And she left.
On the night of January third, Emily woke to an odd rustle. Oliver lay beside herhed taken to clambering into her bed since Tom left. Sophie snored in her room. The sound came from the lounge.
Emily tiptoed out. In the glow of the blue string lights on the Christmas tree, Margaret sat, cast-propped leg outstretched, clutching the photograph.
Cant sleep? Emily asked softly. Margaret jumped.
My leg aches she said quietly. And other things
Emily sat beside her, perching awkwardly on the arm of the chair. The room smelled of clementines and pine needles. The fairy lights blinkedblue, yellow, blue.
Thats you in the wedding dress, isnt it?
A long silence.
It is.
What happened that day?
Margaret didnt answer straight away. Her voice came out faint, distant, as she gazed beyond the tree.
My mother-in-law. Victors mother. She she broke me. Tore me apart in three years flat. Emily held her breath.
She hated me from day one. I wasnt their sort. Just a girl from the outskirts, and they were cultured folk. Victor chose me, and she could never forgive either of us. Every daycriticism, corrections.
Everything I said. Everything I did. I made soup all wrong. I ironed shirts incorrectly, raised Tom to her disapproval. She told me I wasnt good enough for her son. Said it in front of him. In company. To neighbours.
Emily listened, recognising herself in every word.
After three years, I ended up in hospital. Nervous breakdown. Swallowed calming pills by the handful. My hands shook so much I couldnt even ladle out soup. The doctors told Victor: she goes, or your wife will never recover. Victor chose me. He issued an ultimatum to his mother. She left.
And after that?
She was gone half a year later. Heart failure I didnt get to to forgive her, or say goodbye. She left me only this ring. In her will: To the daughter-in-law who stole my son. Ive worn it for thirty years. Every day. To remember.
Remember what? Margaret finally turned to look at Emily. Her eyes glistened in the festive light.
I swore, thennever to become her. Never to torment my sons wife. Never to wreck his family out of jealousy.
She hung her head.
And I never noticed when I became even worse.
The power block of the fairy lights fizzed quietly. The silence was deep.
I heard what you said, Margaret whispered. On the balcony. That night. You said youd leave. Take the children. Because of me. Emilys breath caught.
Margaret
No, dear. I understand. For six years, Ive come over and ruined your life. Nagging, interfering, poking around where I shouldnt. I thoughtIm helping! I can see whats best! Im the mother! But really, Im just scared. Im scared Tom will pick you, forget me. Like Victor picked me and forgot his own mother. And that fear makes me rush it along even faster.
Emily stayed quiet. What could she say?
In that photograph, Im crying because, right before, my mother-in-law said: Youll never belong in this family, youll always be an outsider. Did I ever say that to you?
Emily looked down.
Not with words. But
But I made you feel it.
Yes.
Margaret nodded, slow and heavy.
Forgive me, Emily, my dear girl. I didnt mean it. Truly. I wanted to be different. But I didnt see how fear was turning me into a clone.
They sat through to dawn. Talked. Fell silent and talked again. Margaret spoke of Victor, who died seven years back.
Of how dreadfully lonely a flat feels once you suspect your only son has moved on, stopped calling
Emily confided about her exhaustion. How invisible she felt in her own home. How striving to be good only ever backfired.
At sunrise, as the sky paled behind the window, Margaret confessed:
Do you know my biggest worry? That one day, Sophie will marry, and Ill become the monster mother-in-law for her husband too. Its like an illness; it runs in the blood. My mother-in-law did it to me, I did it to you. Its time to break the chain.
Emily squeezed her hand. For the first time in six years.
Then break it.
Ill try, love. Ill try.
By 5 January, they were cooking together.
Chop those cucumbers finer, Margaret ventured, then caught herself. Oh, sorry, dear. At it again
No, youre right, Emily smiled. Tom really does prefer it that way. Show me.
Margaret showed her how to season, how to mix so the veg stayed crisp and not soggy. Sophie hovered, pinching sweetcorn from the tin.
Oliver played next door.
Grandma, Sophie piped up, why didnt you ever stay this long before?
Margaret glanced at Emily. She smiled warmly.
Grandma was just very busy, darling. Now shell visit much more. Wont you?
Absolutely, said Margaret.
If I get invited.
Well invite you! Every time!
That evening, Margaret called Emily over.
Sit down, dear.
Emily sat on the sofa. Margaret slipped off her faded amethyst ring, twisted it between her fingers.
This was my mother-in-laws ring. The only thing she left me. Thirty years, I wore it as a memory of hurt. Of feeling like I was foreign.
She took Emilys hand and slid the ring onto her finger.
Now its yours. But let it remind you of something better. That things can changethat old hurts can be let go.
Margaret
Call me Mum, if you like. Or donttotally up to you.
Emily tried to say something, but her voice quavered. She simply hugged Margaret tightlyfor the first time in six long years.
Outside, snow fell softly; rare magic for an English Christmas. The tree twinkled away. Laughter trickled in from Sophies bedroom.
And Emily realised: the holidays werent ruined at all. In fact, theyd only just truly begun.
Funny thing, life: sometimes you need to slip on an icy step to finally stumble into someones heart. The hardest knots unravel not with force, but with a genuine Im sorry.
Happy New Year, dear readers! Wishing us all peace and love.
And tell ushave you ever found common ground with someone, just when you were sure it was impossible?
