Emily scrubbed the stubborn stains on the stove, her fingers raw from the effort. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had left another mess—boiled-over milk, burnt porridge, all hardened onto the enamel.
“Emily!” Margaret’s voice rang from the sitting room. “Must you take all day? I’d like my tea!”
Emily sighed, rinsed the sponge, and filled the kettle. It was already nine in the evening. She’d just come home from work, while Margaret had been home all day—yet couldn’t be bothered to make her own tea.
“Coming, Margaret!” she called back, forcing cheer into her voice.
In the next room, Simon lounged in front of the telly, barely glancing up as she passed with the tray. Same as every night. He’d come home, eat, and park himself in front of the screen. The house, his mother, the chores—all Emily’s burden.
“You forgot the sugar!” Margaret snapped when Emily set down the cup. “And where are the biscuits? One can’t have tea without biscuits.”
“We ran out yesterday,” Emily murmured. “I’ll buy more tomorrow.”
“See? You don’t keep track. In my day, a proper housewife always knew what was in her cupboards. I raised Simon alone, kept the house spotless, and still managed work. You young women—shopping and gossiping on the phone, that’s all you’re good for.”
Emily bit her tongue. Arguing was pointless. Margaret always found fault—the soup too salty, dust in the corners, the telly too loud or too quiet. Sometimes she wondered if her mother-in-law invented grievances just to scold her.
“And you left Lily at nursery again,” Margaret went on, sipping her tea. “The teacher called, asking where her mother was. Quite embarrassing, honestly.”
“I asked you to fetch her—I had a meeting till seven,” Emily tried to explain.
“And what am I, a nanny? I have my own affairs. Women in my time worked and raised children without help!”
Emily retreated to the kitchen, hands shaking as she washed dishes. Lily had waited at after-school club till half seven, crying because all the other children had gone home. And Margaret, who’d spent the day watching telly, couldn’t be bothered.
In the bedroom, a stack of Lily’s drawings lay on the desk. She brought something home every day—a painting, a craft—eager to show her mum.
“Mum,” she’d asked once, “why doesn’t Grandma look at me? I show her my pictures, and she turns away.”
How could she explain that her grandmother saw her as a nuisance? That since they’d moved in with Margaret, the old woman complained constantly—about noise, about Lily touching things, breaking things.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Simon first brought Emily home, Margaret had been warm, asking about her job, her family. “Lovely girl,” she’d said. “Well-mannered. Marry her, Simon—it’s time.”
Their wedding had been small but merry. Margaret helped with the food, flitting about, glowing. Emily thought they’d been blessed with the perfect family—a mother-in-law who’d be like a second mum.
When Lily was born, Margaret doted at first. A granddaughter! Beautiful, clever! She helped with nappies, cooked soups, ironed clothes. Emily worked part-time, juggling home and baby.
But slowly, things changed. First, petty complaints: nappies weren’t fastened right, porridge too runny. Then sharper criticisms.
“Don’t you know anything about children?” Margaret scoffed. “Simon was feeding himself at her age, and yours can’t even hold a spoon!”
“She’s only fifteen months,” Emily murmured.
“Exactly! Spoiled rotten. I raised Simon strictly, and look how well he turned out.”
Simon never intervened. He came home exhausted, ate, and zoned out in front of the telly. If Emily complained about his mother’s remarks, he’d shrug.
“Don’t take it to heart. Mum’s just fussy. She’ll adjust.”
But she never did. If anything, Margaret grew worse—especially after they moved into her house. Their one-bedroom flat had been too small for a family, and Margaret’s two-bedroom in a nice neighbourhood seemed the answer.
“Move in,” she’d said. “Why waste money on rent? And I’ll have company.”
At first, it was convenient. Lily got her own room; no more rent struggles. But soon, Emily realised they’d walked into a trap.
“This is *my* house,” Margaret reminded them at every opportunity. “*My* rules. Don’t like it? Leave.”
But they couldn’t. Renting was too expensive; saving for their own place would take years. Simon dismissed the idea of moving.
“Why waste money? Mum’s right—this suits us fine.”
Suited *him*, maybe. He lived as he always had—mother cooking, cleaning, managing. Only now, Emily did it all.
“Margaret, could you fetch bread?” Emily asked once. “Lily’s poorly; I don’t want to take her out.”
“Am I your maid?” Margaret huffed. “Bread is *your* duty. I’ve done my share.”
Yet she found time daily to gossip with the neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, for hours. But fetching Lily from school or buying groceries? No, that wasn’t her concern.
It grew harder when Lily started school. She needed help with homework, attention. Margaret only grumbled.
“That child slams doors again! Gives me a headache!”
“She’s a *child*,” Emily defended.
“Child? Then why isn’t she *taught*? I raised Simon to be quiet, respectful. Yours stomps about like an elephant!”
Emily shielded Lily as best she could, but the damage was done. Lily heard everything. She grew withdrawn, unsure. At Margaret’s jabs, she’d duck her head, hide behind Emily.
“Mum,” she whispered once, “why doesn’t Grandma love me?”
Emily’s throat tightened. How could she explain that adults could be cruel? That age made some bitter?
“She *does* love you,” she lied. “She’s just tired, sweetheart.”
But she knew the truth. Margaret didn’t love her or Lily. She tolerated them—for cooking, cleaning, household labour. And because it suited Simon.
Emily tried talking to her husband, explaining her misery. But Simon wouldn’t—or couldn’t—understand.
“Don’t be dramatic. Mum’s kind—just set in her ways. Ignore her.”
“Simon, she called Lily a *dunce* to my face! Says I’m a bad mother!”
“So? Mum raised kids, worked in nurseries. She knows best. Maybe listen?”
Emily realised then—Simon would never take her side. His mother was sacred, infallible. His wife? Expected to endure.
And endure she did. She swallowed rage, blinked back tears, smiled through gritted teeth. She cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret when ill, bore every criticism.
Until the day her patience shattered.
Emily was late from work—a crisis, reports due by morning. She called home, begging Margaret to fetch Lily.
“Can’t,” came the reply. “Headache. Let her walk.”
“Margaret, she’s *eight*!”
“In my day, children walked alone at five. You’ve coddled her.”
Desperate, Emily rang the neighbour, Mrs. Carter, who agreed—but the shame burned. She couldn’t ask every day.
She returned late, exhausted. Lily had fallen asleep at Mrs. Carter’s; Emily had to carry her home.
“Mum,” Lily mumbled, “why didn’t Grandma come? I waited…”
“Grandma wasn’t well,” Emily lied again.
Then, the final insult: Margaret sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Wilkins, laughing over tea and cake.
“Oh, Emily! We’re just having a nibble. Mrs. Wilkins brought this delightful Victoria sponge!”
So she couldn’t fetch her granddaughter—but could entertain guests. Emily said nothing, tucked Lily in.
Morning brought the usual chaos—breakfast, school prep, reminders about homework and PE kits.
“Emily, what’s for lunch?” Margaret demanded. “The doctor said no fried foods. I’ve no idea what to eat.”
“I’ll make soup. Steamed fish.”
“And don’t forget my prescription. And bread. And milk. You forgot last time.”
Emily nodded. Work, errands, cooking, cleaning—an endless cycle. When had she last seen a film? Met friends?
The day blurred—work crises, a snappish boss, lunch spent dashing to shops and pharmacy. She raced home, threw soup on the hob.
“Emily! Where’s my pill? It’s past time!”
“Sorry, I forgot—”
“Forgot? I *told* you! My blood pressure’s through the roof!”
Emily handed her the pill, fled back to work. Her head throbbed.
Evening: fetching Lily, stopping for bread. Lily whined for ice cream
