“If you argue, my son will throw you out onto the street,” declared the mother-in-law, forgetting whose house this truly was.
“Emily, bake a shepherd’s pie for dinner tomorrow,” Margaret declared, marching into the kitchen and settling at the table. “I haven’t had a proper meal in agesyou’re always cooking those foreign dishes.”
Emily turned from the stove where she was frying sausages for supper. Her mother-in-law sat with her usual pinched expression, tugging at her familiar navy cardigan.
“I can’t eat lamb, Margaret,” Emily replied evenly, flipping a sausage. “I won’t make it.”
“What do you mean, you wont?” Margarets voice turned shrill. “Ive asked politely, and you refuse? Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that? In my day, daughters-in-law knew their place!”
“This isnt about respect,” Emily said, moving the pan aside. “If I cook lamb, Ill have an allergic reaction. Make it yourself if you want it so badly.”
“Make it myself?” Margaret shot up from her chair. “Im not your servant! Youre the lady of the houseyou should cook what I ask! And this allergy nonsense is just an excuse. You cant be bothered to handle pastry!”
“Margaret, what has laziness got to do with it?” Emily turned to face her. “I cook daily, clean, do the laundry. But I wont make a shepherds pie because I physically cant.”
“Cant or wont?” Margaret stepped closer, narrowing her eyes. “You think because my son married you, you can order me about? Well see whos really in charge here!”
Keys jingled in the hallJonathan was home. Margarets face instantly softened into a wounded expression.
“Jon, darling,” she rushed to him. “Thank goodness youre here. Your wife has become impossible! I asked for a simple pie, and shes been horribly rude!”
Jonathan hung up his coat and gave Emily a weary glance as she stood stiffly by the stove.
“Emily, whats going on?” he asked, rubbing his temples. “Why wont you do as Mum asks?”
“Im allergic to lamb, Jon,” Emily said quietly. “Ive explained this to Margaret.”
“Allergy? What allergy?” Jonathan waved a hand dismissively. “Mum, dont fret. Emily will make the pie tomorrow. Wont you, love?”
Emily looked at her husband, then at Margaret, who smirked triumphantly. Her chest tightened with hurt.
“No, I wont,” she said firmly, removing her apron. “You two can sort your own dinner.”
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door. Muffled voices drifted through the wallJonathan and his mother chatting comfortably over their meal as if nothing had happened. As if her distress meant nothing.
The next morning, Emily rose early. Margaret still slept, and the house was eerily quiet. Jonathan sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone with a mug of tea.
“Jon, we need to talk,” Emily said, sitting across from him. “Properly.”
He glanced up, brow furrowed.
“About what?”
“About your mother,” she took a steadying breath. “Im tired of the constant criticism. Margaret nitpicks everythinghow I cook, clean, even dress. I wont be ordered about in my own home.”
“Emily, dont be dramatic,” Jonathan set his phone down. “Mums fine. Shes just set in her ways.”
“Her ways?” Emilys voice sharpened. “Is that what you call belittling me? Jon, perhaps its time she found her own place? A little flat nearby? Were youngwe need space.”
Jonathan slammed his mug down.
“Are you suggesting we kick her out?” His voice turned icy. “She asked to live with us, and you want to toss her aside?”
“Im suggesting independence,” Emily reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “We could help with rent”
“Enough,” he stood abruptly. “Mum stays. End of discussion.”
The front door slammed behind him. Emily sat alone, staring at his half-finished tea. The bitterness of the argument lingered like the dregs in his cup.
An hour later, Margaret swept into the kitchen, her hair perfectly set, her dressing gown cinched tight. Her lips pursed in disapproval.
“Well, what a tantrum you threw,” she sniffed. “Did you really think my son would take your side?”
Emily sipped her tea, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Today, youll deep-clean this house,” Margaret commanded. “Polish the windows, scrub the floors, make the loo sparkle. You swan about like royalty, but this place is a pigsty!”
“Its not a pigsty,” Emily muttered.
“Not?” Margarets voice rose. “I saw dust on the mantel yesterday! The hall mirrors streaked! If you argue, Ill tell Jonathan youre disrespecting me!”
Something in Emily snapped. Years of swallowed words erupted at last.
“No!” Her voice rang clear. “I wont do it! Ive obeyed you too longcooking your meals, enduring your scorn, biting my tongue. No more!”
Margaret gaped, then spluttered, “How dare you speak to me like that?”
“I dare,” Emily stood tall. “Im a person, not your maid. And I wont tolerate your bullying another day.”
“If you argue, my son will throw you out!” Margaret shrieked.
And then Emily laugheda sharp, liberating sound.
“Youve forgotten whose house this is. Mine. Bought before I ever met Jonathan. You live here rent-free, yet you dictate terms? From today, youll show respector leave.”
Margarets face purpled. “Ill tell Jonathan!”
“Tell him,” Emily shrugged. “But remind him whose name is on the deeds.”
Margaret stormed off, slamming her bedroom door. Not long after, Jonathan barged in, furious.
“How could you threaten Mum?” he roared.
Emily merely opened the front door wide.
“Pack your things. Both of you.”
Jonathan stared, stunned. “Youre joking.”
“Dead serious,” she said. “Youve taken me for granted too long. Now chooselive with her, or grow up.”
As the door closed behind them, Emily exhaled. The weight of years lifted at last.
Sometimes, setting boundaries is the kindest thing you can dofor yourself, and for those whove forgotten how to respect you.
