In the quiet town of Chester, tucked away in a cosy flat on the outskirts, a storm brewed within the walls of a small family home. Emma, a young mother of twenty-five, stood by the cradle of her son, her heart heavy with exhaustion and resentment. Her tale was the cry of a woman torn between motherhood, wifely duty, and the weight of family expectations.
“We had a terrible row,” Emma confessed, wiping weary eyes. “Yes, I’m not without fault, but I’m the one looking after our boy! Toby’s been fussy all day—probably teething. I’ve barely put him down, let alone had time to make supper.”
Little children are a trial not everyone can understand—but her husband, James, seemed unwilling to see it.
“He came home from work shouting that he was starving!” Her voice trembled with indignation. “Then he had the nerve to complain that I didn’t greet him at the door. I was rocking Toby to sleep! I hardly dared breathe, let alone run to welcome him with a smile.”
James didn’t seem to grasp what it meant to be the mother of an infant. Emma carried it all—the baby’s care, the house, the meals—while he simply “provided” and expected comfort, a hot meal, and spotless rooms as if she were some sorceress who could split herself in two.
She had tried her best to be the perfect wife, the devoted mother, the flawless homemaker. But Toby was restless, demanding her every minute, and sometimes she couldn’t even wipe the floors, never mind cook three meals a day. Her own parents were far off, busy with work, offering no help. And as for her mother-in-law, Margaret… well, their relationship was as tense as a bowstring.
“Margaret never approved of our marriage,” Emma recalled bitterly. “She thought we were too young, that we weren’t ready. Truth be told, she just didn’t want to let her Jamie go. She swore we’d be divorced within a year. Yet here we still are. Though… sometimes I wonder for how long.”
After Toby was born, Emma had tried to mend things with her mother-in-law. For a moment, the ice had cracked—Margaret had even smiled once or twice, bought the baby a rattle. But warm relations were as distant as the moon.
“And then James had the gall to say I’m obsessed with the baby!” Emma fought back tears. “He claimed I only care about Toby, that there’s no time for him. He wants us to go to the shopping centre on Saturday and leave our son with his mother.”
Emma had never left Toby with anyone. The baby was breastfed, clinging to her like thread to a needle. Margaret had seen her grandson a handful of times—how would she manage? But James wouldn’t budge.
“My mother raised four children!” he’d snapped. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s got more experience than you.”
He’d even bought a breast pump, so Emma could leave milk for the baby. But the trouble was, Toby outright refused a bottle. He’d cry, turn away, as if he knew it wasn’t her.
James had laid down the law: if Emma refused to leave their son with his mother, there’d be hell to pay. Margaret, for her part, didn’t mind watching the boy for a few hours. Yet Emma couldn’t shake her unease.
“I don’t trust her,” she admitted. “Not because she’s cruel. It’s just… he’s my child. My Toby. What if he cries? What if she doesn’t understand what he needs?”
James insisted they needed time alone.
“We’re not just parents—we’re still husband and wife!” he’d thrown at her mid-argument. “Have you forgotten what it means to be a couple?”
Those words cut deep. She loved him, but his demands felt unjust. She hadn’t slept through the night in months—feeding, rocking, changing nappies, all without help. And he wanted romance, comfort, her smiles, as if she were a machine, not a person.
Now Emma stood at a crossroads: yield to her husband, swallowing her fears, or stand her ground and risk another quarrel. Her heart was torn. She feared for her son—yet her marriage was fraying at the seams.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, watching Toby sleep. “If I refuse, James will say I don’t value him. But if I agree… could I ever forgive myself if something happened?”
What was she to do? Swallow her dread and trust Margaret? Or fight for her right to stay with her child, even if it sparked another row? Was she making too much of it? Or was that gnawing worry the voice of a mother’s instinct—one she dared not ignore?
