Nastya stood by the stove, flipping sizzling pasties, when her husband entered the kitchen.
“Emily,” David began, “Mum called today. She says you’re keeping her from seeing our boy.”
“Complaining again?” Emily frowned, wiping her hands on her apron.
David sighed. “Says you keep making excuses. She hasn’t seen Tommy in weeks.”
Emily hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter. “David… there’s something you need to know.”
She told him everything. His face drained of colour as he slumped into a chair—stunned.
It had started a month ago. Margaret, his mother, had barged in unannounced, as usual. Her sharp eyes scanned the hallway with disapproval.
“What a mess! Toys everywhere! You can’t raise a child in this filth!”
Emily forced a smile, though her chest tightened. Tommy had just fallen asleep, his toys strewn where he’d been playing. But to Margaret, it was proof of neglect.
“David!” Her voice cut like ice. “Are you a man or what? You should be setting your wife straight!”
“Mum, it’s fine,” he muttered, barely glancing up from his phone.
“Fine? The place looks like a tornado hit it, and you’re lounging about!”
“Tommy’s just energetic,” Emily interjected, though her tone wavered.
“Energetic? You should be watching him, not letting him run wild!”
The lecture continued—how David had been the perfect child, raised under constant scrutiny. Emily nodded silently, but resentment coiled inside her.
“Margaret,” she finally said, “I’m raising my son my way. He’s two. He’s learning.”
“Learning? Next it’ll be scrapes and broken bones, and you’ll still be calling it ‘learning’!”
“Children explore. They make mistakes. That’s how they grow.”
“No! That’s laziness. What if he gets seriously hurt?”
“Mum—” David tried, but Margaret only grew fiercer.
“If you can’t be a proper mother, I’ll have no choice but to report you!”
The next day, she returned—knocking sharply, impatient.
“What took so long? I nearly left!”
“I was busy,” Emily replied calmly.
“Still a mess! Do you even clean?”
“Of course. But Tommy plays. It’s normal.”
“Normal? When David was little—”
“Yes, I know. Flawless. Not a speck of dust. Yet he still can’t boil an egg!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you raised a man who can’t survive on his own.”
“He works! He provides! While you sit at home!”
“I raise our child. And I want him to be independent—not helpless, like his father.”
A crash—then Tommy’s wail. Emily rushed in to find him clutching a bleeding finger by shattered glass.
“Oh God—” She scooped him up. “It’s alright, love, it’s alright!”
“See?” Margaret hissed. “I warned you! You’re not a mother—you’re a disaster! I’ll call social services!”
Emily froze. This wasn’t just cruelty—it was a threat.
“Fine. Bring them. But right now—you need to leave.”
After that, Emily changed. She didn’t slam doors—she simply stopped opening them to Margaret. There was always a reason: flu season, doctor’s orders, renovations, Tommy’s sniffles…
One day, Margaret arrived unannounced. Emily cracked the door.
“Didn’t you get my text? The doctor said no visitors—Tommy’s immunity’s low.”
“I’m family!”
“Yes, but… orders are orders. We’ll see you soon.”
Margaret left in silence, seething.
That evening, David confronted her. “Mum says you’re cutting her out. Why?”
“Because I’m scared. She threatened social services.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Are you sure she won’t do it next time she’s angry?”
He fell quiet. Emily took his hand.
“He’s our son. His safety comes first.”
“You think she’d actually hurt him?”
“She doesn’t see boundaries. Her ‘care’ is dangerous.”
“…Alright,” he relented. “I won’t push it.”
Emily exhaled. Margaret had crossed a line—and now, the game had changed.
