Doubt That Tears You Apart
Emily sat at the kitchen table, elbows propped on the worn wood, staring into the black night through the window as if she could see something beyond the glass. Her eyes were weary, her face drained of colour. The door creaked softly, and in walked her mother-in-law, Margaret.
“Still up this late?” Margaret asked, reaching for the water jug.
“Just thinking,” Emily replied, barely above a whisper.
Margaret took a sip and turned to leave, but Emily suddenly lifted her head.
“Wait, please. We need to talk. Just close the door…”
Margaret paused, wary. “What’s happened?”
“Sit down. I… I need to tell you about James.”
Her mother-in-law sat, glass still in hand, as Emily began to speak. The more she said, the paler Margaret grew, as if the words had stolen her voice.
“No, Emily, I won’t throw you out in the dead of night. You’ll leave in the morning with the little one. I’ve got work—you can wake me then.”
“Maybe we could postpone the renovation? Oliver and I could go to the cottage this summer, but now it’s too cold… And James will be back soon—”
“Can’t. Prices will shoot up if we wait, and I won’t live in dust all summer.”
“There’ll be dust either way,” Emily pointed out carefully.
“And your things—I’ve told you, they need to go. Don’t play the victim. My son took you and that child in—you could at least keep quiet.”
“But he’s your grandson!” Emily burst out.
“Is he? James has a daughter from that woman he worked with. *She’s* my granddaughter. This one? That’s still up for proof.”
Emily froze. The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“He’s almost four. You’re only saying this now? And where exactly am I supposed to go with him?”
“Dunno,” Margaret shrugged. “Not my problem.”
Emily had met James five years ago. Not a looker, but steady. Neither was young or starry-eyed anymore—she a school cook, him a labourer often away for work. When she got pregnant, he offered to marry her straightaway. No fuss, just the registry.
They lived with his mum. Margaret hated having another woman—and a pregnant one—in her house. She liked quiet, order, routine. Now someone sang in the shower, trailed crumbs, and then a screaming baby. Worse, her son helped less with the allotment.
Most of all, she didn’t believe Emily loved him. Thought it was convenience. And that boy—was he really James’s?
Now she wanted renovations. Told Emily to move out early. Emily dug in—nowhere to go, though her aunt would take them. Margaret wouldn’t budge. She loathed it all—toys underfoot, the smell of baby food.
When James stopped answering calls, Emily panicked. He never did that. She didn’t ring late but next morning—his phone was off.
“He never turns it off,” she said, entering the kitchen. “Something’s wrong.”
“Probably asleep,” Margaret muttered. “Why the fuss?”
“We text every day. Never like this.”
“Call his work. Go on.”
Emily dialled. Two minutes later, she went pale.
“He’s in hospital. Collapsed… something’s wrong.”
*”What?!”* Margaret sagged. “Who found out?”
“His… ex-wife. She knew. They didn’t bother telling us.”
“I’m going!” Margaret shot up.
“No, you’ve got the builders. I’ll take Oliver to my aunt’s and go myself. I’ll find out.”
Three weeks later, Emily returned with James. He was frail—stroke damage. His left side clumsy, but he joked, tried.
Emily never left his side. Hunted specialists, booked rehab, slept three hours, raced to physio, injections, exercises. Like her whole life was about getting him back.
One night, as Margaret washed up, Emily said quietly,
“I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t tell him.”
And she did: James had gone to see his ex-wife and their daughter. A stranger opened the door. The girl? His double—blonde, same dimple. Then the ex admitted: that man was the real father. She’d clung to James back then, scared to be alone.
James sat on a bench—and his heart gave out.
“So,” Margaret breathed, “my granddaughter… isn’t?”
“Exactly.”
After that, Margaret watched Emily differently. Saw how she lived for James, massaged his hand at night, tracked his diet, researched, asked doctors. Where was that “gold-digger” now?
Once, as Emily hunched over her laptop, Margaret turned.
“Tell me honestly. Is Oliver really James’s?”
Emily didn’t answer at first. Then she looked up.
“The truth’s right in front of you. We got together under your roof. Maybe I didn’t love him madly, but I chose him. And I didn’t betray him. Do you really need a test to see that?”
Margaret broke—sobbed. Then hugged her.
“Forgive me. Silly old woman. Blind. Didn’t see who was right here.”
Emily teared up too.
“Forgive me as well. I’m not easy. But we’re family. Aren’t we?”
Just then, James walked in.
“What’s all this? Something wrong?”
“Happy tears, son,” Margaret smiled. “Because everything’s alright.”
“Women,” James chuckled. “Cry when it’s bad, cry when it’s good—”
“But we’re fun!” Emily hugged him.
Margaret winked. “And more importantly—solid.”
