Emma was frying fish and chips in the kitchen when there was an unexpected knock at the door. Standing on the doorstep was Margaret Whitmore—her mother-in-law, as stern as ever, her lips unsmiling and her gaze unyielding.
“I didn’t come for tea,” she declared flatly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I have important business.”
“What is it?” Emma wiped her hands on a tea towel and forced a stiff smile.
“Sophie and James have been staying with me since the wedding. The flat’s too small for three. Your grandmother’s old place—it’s sitting empty. Let them move in.”
“No. After everything—absolutely not,” Emma said sharply, crossing her arms.
“What have I ever done to you?” Margaret asked, seemingly genuine in her confusion.
Emma could still remember the weeks leading up to her sister-in-law’s wedding, agonising over what gift to buy. She and Sophie had always been on good terms, almost like friends. She’d been certain they’d be among the first invited—especially since Sophie had borrowed five thousand pounds from them for the celebration.
“Bet they won’t invite us at all,” her husband, William, had muttered with a bitter laugh.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re her brother—of course they will,” she’d replied, forging ahead with hope.
She’d even taken her best dress and heels out of the wardrobe early, waiting, expecting.
But as the wedding approached, no invitation came. Not from Sophie, nor from Margaret. Three days before, the truth settled heavily in Emma’s chest—they’d been deliberately left out.
Tears slid down her cheeks as she put the dress back. William, as ever, took it in stride. “I’d rather have a lie-in on the weekend,” was all he said.
Days later, Margaret called, announcing she’d drop by. Emma decided to confront her directly.
“Why weren’t we invited?”
“Well… we only wanted young people. You’re over thirty,” Margaret mumbled unconvincingly.
Emma almost believed her. But later, bumping into Margaret’s sister at the shops, she heard the truth—older relatives, distant cousins, all had been there. Age had nothing to do with it.
“Why weren’t you there?” the sister asked, puzzled.
Shame burned through Emma—not for herself, but for those who should have been family.
At home, she told William everything, and he suggested calling his mother.
“Margaret, be honest—why weren’t we invited?” Emma demanded. “No lies. I just spoke to your sister. She told me who was there.”
“Sophie and I only wanted people who… mattered,” Margaret said calmly. “Those who could give something valuable or help in the future.”
“And the five thousand we lent Sophie—that wasn’t valuable?”
“You’ll ask for it back, won’t you? If you’d given it as a gift, that would’ve been different.”
Emma barely recognised this woman. Were they really nothing to them?
Two weeks passed. Margaret returned, unannounced, unapologetic.
“That flat’s just sitting there, and the young ones are cramped at mine,” she said with false concern.
“It’s not yours. Let it stay empty. It’s not costing you anything,” Emma snapped.
“What’s gotten into you? We’re family.”
“Family? You only remembered us when it was inconvenient for you. Before that, we were nothing,” Emma said, her voice trembling with fury.
“What did we ever do to you?”
“You truly don’t understand? You humiliated us, ignored us, and now you want the keys? Does Sophie even plan to pay us back?”
“Refuse us, and you’ll never see that money,” Margaret retorted. “Think carefully.”
Emma lost her temper—grabbed a glass of water and threw it in Margaret’s face.
“William, say something!” Margaret gasped, dabbing at her blouse.
“Ask the people you *did* invite for help,” William said evenly.
Without another word, Margaret turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
And so Emma learned: some people only cherish bonds when they stand to gain. True family would never treat love as a transaction.
