**The Mother-in-Law Who Became a Friend**
*”How dare you speak to me like that?”* Margaret’s voice trembled with indignation. *”My son was perfectly fine before he met you!”*
*”And now he isn’t?”* Emma stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes glistening with tears, gripping a tea towel. *”Would you mind explaining what exactly the problem is?”*
*”The problem is that Daniel has lost two stone! Look at him—you’ve run him ragged!”*
Daniel sat at the table, staring at his half-finished bowl of vegetable soup, wishing he could disappear. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded schoolboy.
*”Mum, honestly, enough,”* he muttered, not looking up.
*”No, it’s not enough!”* Margaret turned on him. *”Have you seen yourself lately? Hollow cheeks, dark circles—she’s not feeding you properly!”*
*”Not feeding him?”* Emma snapped. *”I cook every single day! I made this soup from scratch this morning!”*
*”Soup!”* Margaret scoffed. *”Water and carrots. Where’s the meat? The proper gravy? A man needs substantial meals!”*
Emma’s chest tightened. Six months of marriage, and every visit from Margaret ended in a row—the soup was wrong, the shirts weren’t pressed properly, the flat wasn’t clean enough.
*”Margaret, I’m doing my best,”* she said quietly. *”But I have work, and my distance-learning course—”*
*”Work!”* Margaret threw her hands up. *”A woman’s place is at home with her husband! Instead, you’re off who-knows-where while my boy starves!”*
Daniel finally lifted his head. *”Mum, I’m not starving. I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”*
*”The gym?”* Margaret blinked as if he’d said something outrageous. *”Whatever for? You’re perfectly fine as you are!”*
Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She walked out. Sitting on the bed, she finally let the tears fall. She was exhausted from the constant criticism. Nothing she did was ever good enough.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Daniel first introduced her, Margaret had seemed warm—chatty over tea, asking about Emma’s family, even complimenting her. But the moment they announced their engagement, everything changed.
*”Emma, love, where’d you go?”* Daniel peeked in. *”Mum’s left.”*
*”Thank goodness,”* she sniffed.
He sat beside her and squeezed her shoulder. *”Don’t let her get to you. She’s just set in her ways.”*
*”What ways? The fact you lived with her till you were thirty-two?”*
Daniel sighed. This was a sore subject. *”She’s been on her own since Dad passed when I was fifteen. She’s done everything for me.”*
*”I get that. But I’m your wife now. Can’t we find a middle ground?”*
*”We will. Just needs time.”*
Time. Emma had heard that a hundred times already. How long before Margaret accepted her as family?
The next day, Emma decided to act. After work, she bought ingredients and prepared a proper three-course meal—roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, creamy mash, and steamed greens. She set the table with their wedding china.
When Daniel came home, he froze. *”Blimey! What’s the occasion?”*
*”No occasion. Just wanted to spoil my husband.”*
*”This smells just like Mum’s cooking!”*
Over candlelight, he praised every bite. Emma’s heart lifted. Maybe if she tried harder, Margaret would soften.
But the next visit, Margaret marched in with new accusations.
*”Daniel, you look exhausted! Were you up late?”*
*”Half-eleven, Mum. Perfectly reasonable.”*
*”Half-eleven! And up at seven? That’s no way to live!”*
Emma realised then—it wasn’t about food or sleep. It was about her. She’d *stolen* Margaret’s only son.
So she tried a different approach.
*”Margaret,”* she said during the next visit, *”would you teach me how to make that beef Wellington Daniel loves so much?”*
Margaret narrowed her eyes. *”Why?”*
*”I want to make him happy. You know his tastes best.”*
After a pause, Margaret shrugged. *”Fine. But don’t expect it to taste like mine.”*
So they tried. Margaret dictated the recipe, Emma scribbled notes, then they went to the butcher’s together.
*”See, you want this cut—not too fatty, not too lean,”* Margaret instructed, jabbing a finger at the counter.
Back home, they cooked side by side.
*”Chop the onions bigger,”* Margaret corrected. *”And don’t cry—ruins the seasoning.”*
*”How do I *not* cry?”*
*”Rinse the knife in cold water. And breathe through your mouth.”*
Gradually, the tension eased. Margaret shared stories of Daniel’s childhood—how he’d once eaten three servings of trifle and nearly made himself sick.
*”He doesn’t eat much these days,”* Emma mused.
*”Work stress,”* Margaret said knowingly. *”Difficult clients lately.”*
Emma blinked. Daniel never shared work details with *her*.
*”He tells you everything, doesn’t he?”*
*”Course. Always has—school, friends, girls he fancied.”* Margaret’s voice turned wistful. *”Suppose he tells you now.”*
*”Not really,”* Emma admitted. *”He’s not much of a talker.”*
Margaret gaped. *”Daniel? Not a talker? He used to chatter my ear off!”*
Emma realised then—six months of marriage wasn’t enough to truly know him.
The Wellington turned out brilliantly. Daniel was stunned.
*”Tastes just like Mum’s! How’d you manage?”*
*”Margaret taught me,”* Emma said.
Margaret actually blushed. *”Oh, I only helped a bit.”*
After that, cooking lessons became routine. They started with Daniel’s favourites, then branched out. One day, Emma shared her nan’s scone recipe.
*”She passed at sixty,”* Emma said quietly. *”Cancer.”*
Margaret softened. *”I’ve had heart troubles myself. Blood pressure.”*
Then, unexpectedly: *”I… worry something’ll happen to Daniel. He’s all I’ve got.”*
*”Nothing will. We’ll look after him,”* Emma promised.
*”We,”* Margaret repeated—and for the first time, smiled at Emma like family.
They grew closer. Margaret stopped nitpicking; Emma learned her mother-in-law had been a primary school teacher, devoted to pupils she’d never had herself.
*”Raised dozens of children,”* Margaret said, flipping through old class photos. *”Only had the one of my own.”*
*”And you raised him wonderfully,”* Emma said.
Margaret also knitted. When she spotted Emma struggling with a unravelled scarf, she took over.
*”Let me show you. Winter’s not done yet.”*
Evenings now involved tea, knitting needles, and chatter about work, neighbours, and holiday plans.
*”You’ve got a cottage, right?”* Emma asked.
*”In the Cotswolds. Small but cosy. Daniel practically grew up there.”*
*”Why not go now?”*
*”Lonely on my own. And the upkeep’s hard these days.”*
*”What if we helped? Daniel misses it.”*
Margaret’s face lit up. *”Truly? He said that?”*
*”Of course. Talks about planting potatoes with you.”*
So they went—all three. Daniel was giddy, showing Emma his childhood haunts. *”Built a den here. Had bonfires there—when Mum allowed.”*
Margaret watched them, smiling. For the first time in ages, she saw her son genuinely happy.
*”You know,”* she told Emma privately, *”you’re good for him.”*
*”Am I?”*
*”Yes. He’s… lighter with you. Laughs more.”*
Emma’s heart swelled. True approval, at last.
The cottage brought them even closer. Margaret taught Emma to garden—planting herbs, pruning roses, making jam.
*”Courgettes must be picked daily,”* she’d say. *”Or they turn bitter.”*
Emma noticed how Margaret softened outdoors, in her element.
*”I feel more at home here than in London,”* Margaret confessed one evening on the patio.
*”I can see why. It’s magical.”*
*”So many memories. Daniel recited his first poem right here—*The Owl and the Pussycat* for school.”*
Then, quietly: *With the arrival of their baby boy, Thomas, the last walls between them crumbled, and Margaret, holding her grandson for the first time, whispered through happy tears, *”He has your smile, Emma—our little family is perfect.”*
