When the sound of keys jingling in the lock echoed through the hall, Emilys heart sank. She knew that authoritative click of heels better than the rhythm of her own pulse. At eight months pregnant, every movement was an ordeal, and now she faced the one person she dreaded more than labour itself. The door swung open, and in stormed Margaret Whitmorea hurricane of disapproval wrapped in a tweed coat.
“What on earth is this?” her mother-in-law snapped instead of a greeting. “Why does my daughter-in-law look so miserable?”
Margarets arrival was the last thing Emily wanted. She had planned to rest after lunchthe weight in her womb demanded constant pauses. Even simple chores had become endurance tests. Finally, her maternity leave had offered some relief, but those plans shattered in an instant.
“Welcome, Margaret,” Emily murmured, stepping aside obediently.
“Wheres my Jonathan?” Margarets sharp eyes darted around, searching for her son.
“Working,” Emily replied evenly. “Providing for us and the baby.”
“Cant you manage on your own?” Margaret dropped her bulky suitcases with a thud and swept past, nearly knocking Emily off balance. “Youre a grown womansoon to be a mother. Time to act like one!”
Once inside, Margaret inspected every corner as if conducting a military review. Unease prickled Emilys skin.
“Was there a reason for your visit?” she ventured. “Did you forget something?”
Margaret turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, didnt I mention? Im moving in.”
Emilys knees buckled.
“But how?” she stammered.
“That intolerable oaf I rented from!” Margaret huffed. “Absolute cheek! I packed and left immediately. Jonathans fathers flat is tied up in paperwork, and finding a new place is impossible. So Ill stay here.”
Emilys dismay deepened. Yes, their house was spaciousbut did that grant Margaret the right to invade? She longed to argue, but exhaustion pinned her down. Silently, she retreated to the bedroom to wait for Jonathan.
His return changed little. Though Margaret was a force of nature, she *had* raised him. He couldnt abandon her. Emily yielded, trusting his judgment. Perhaps an extra pair of hands would help?
That hope died quickly. Within days, Margaret seized control of the household. Jonathan worked long hours, leaving Emily to navigate her mother-in-laws tyranny.
And tyranny it was. No act escaped Margarets scorn: unmopped floors, crumbs on the counter, a single unwashed cup.
“Margaret,” Emily pleaded one evening, voice frayed, “the babys weightmy back aches, my feet swell”
“Oh, spare me!” Margaret crossed her arms. “Women have borne children *and* kept homes for centuries! Youre no exception!”
Emily bit her tongue. Stress wasnt safe for the baby.
Then came the groceries. Supplies had run low, and Emilytoo unsteady to manage aloneasked for help.
“Fine, Ill *supervise*,” Margaret sniffed.
The market trip was bearable, despite Margarets constant critiques. But as they left, Margaret thrust the bags at Emily.
“Take these. Lets go.”
Emily blinked. “You wont help?”
“Good grief, its hardly a burden!”
Emily obeyedthen swayed, vision blurring.
“Maam?” A stranger steadied her. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No, Illbe fine,” Emily gasped.
“Pathetic,” Margaret muttered.
Jonathan rushed home that night, horrified. “Emily, *why* didnt you wait? Id have gone!”
“I didnt want to burden you,” she whispered.
“And Mum? Did she even?”
Emilys silence was answer enough.
The confrontation was explosive. Jonathan, for once, stood firm. “Shes raising *our child*, Mum! While you nitpick and *do nothing*!”
Margaret spluttered indignantlyuntil Jonathan delivered the ultimatum: “Find a flat. Move out.”
She left in a huff days later, cursing their ingratitude. Peace settled over the house. Jonathan found new work; Emily grew confident in motherhood. They never heard from Margaret againand didnt mourn it.
**Sometimes, cutting ties is the kindest actfor everyone, even the ones you let go.**
