“Let Nigel go on holiday, *you* get back to work!” snapped the mother-in-law.
When Emily heard the jingle of keys in the lock, her stomach dropped. She knew that authoritative click of heels down the hallway better than her own heartbeat. Eight months pregnant, every movement was agony, and now she had to face the one person she feared more than labour. The door swung open, and in stormed a whirlwind of disapproval in the form of Margaret Whitmore.
“What on earth is this!” her mother-in-law exclaimed instead of a greeting. “Why does my daughter-in-law look like shes attending a funeral?”
Margarets arrival was the last thing Emily wanted. Shed planned to rest after lunchher growing bump demanded constant breaks. Even simple chores felt like marathons. Her maternity leave was supposed to ease things, but those plans shattered in an instant.
“Welcome, Margaret,” Emily murmured, stepping aside.
“And wheres my Nigel?” Margaret scanned the room, as if expecting him to pop out of a cupboard.
“Working,” Emily said evenly. “Providing for our family.”
“Cant manage on your own, then?” Margaret dropped her surprisingly hefty suitcases and swept past, nearly knocking Emily over. “Grown woman about to be a mothertime to toughen up!”
Once inside, Margaret inspected every inch of the house like a drill sergeant. Emilys nerves prickled.
“Did you come for something specific?” she ventured. “Need to collect anything?”
Margaret turned, eyebrows raised. “Im moving in.”
Emilys knees nearly buckled.
“But”
“That wretched man I rented a room frominsufferable!” Margaret huffed. “Couldnt stand his cheek another minute. Packed up and left. Nigels got a houseno sense hunting for another. Ill stay here.”
The explanation only made Emilys heart sink further. Yes, their home was spacious, but did that give Margaret the right to barge in and claim it?
Too exhausted to argue, Emily retreated to the bedroom to wait for Nigel.
When he returned, little changedNigel pitied his mother. Margaret was a handful, but shed raised him, and he couldnt abandon her. Emily swallowed her frustration, hoping maybe Margaret would help around the house.
That hope died within days. Margaret seized control of everything, nitpicking relentlesslydirty floors, crumbs on the table, even a single unwashed mug.
“Margaret,” Emily sighed one evening, “I can barely bend over. My backs killing me, my feet are swollen”
“Oh, poor you!” Margaret folded her arms. “Women have always carried the load! So youre pregnantthats nature! Doesnt excuse slacking. Ive raised a sonyouve got everything to learn!”
Emily bit her tongue, refusing to argue.
One afternoon, supplies ran low. Grocery shopping couldnt wait.
“Fine, Ill come,” Margaret sniffed. “Wouldnt want you mucking it up.”
Emily wouldve preferred going alone, but lifting bags in her state was risky. The trip passed without incidentaside from Margarets endless griping.
“Hurry up, then!” Margaret snapped as they left. “Grab the bags and lets go.”
Emily blinked. “Youre not helping?”
“Dont be dramatic!” Margaret rolled her eyes. “Its barely anything!”
Emily obeyed, but after a few steps, dizziness hit. “I dont feel well”
“Honestly!” Margaret scoffed as Emily swayed. “Cant even carry shopping?”
A stranger rushed over. “Maam, are you alright? Need an ambulance?”
“No, Ill be fine,” Emily waved him off.
“Women these days,” Margaret muttered. “No stamina.”
Luckily, Emily recovered, and Margaretafter much grumblingtook some bags. They made it home.
When Nigel heard what happened, he raced back.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, holding Emilys hand, “why didnt you wait for me? Id have gone!”
“I thought I could manage,” Emily whispered. “Youre always workingI wanted to help.”
“Why didnt you ask Mum?”
Emily closed her eyes. “She made me carry them. When I nearly fainted she just shrugged.”
Nigel froze. “*Mum* did that?”
A heavy silence followed. Emilys shoulders shook with quiet sobs.
“Ill handle it.” Nigel kissed her forehead and marched to Margarets room.
Emily barely caught the shouting match, but the tone was clear. She prayed Margaret would back offor at least soften.
Then little Sophie arriveda bright, crying bundle. Nigel wept holding her, and Emilys heart swelled. Surely life would improve now.
But motherhood was brutal. Sophie fussed all night; Emily barely slept. And Margaret? Still critiquing.
“Call yourself a mother?” shed snipe, even as she refused to lift a finger.
After Nigels confrontation, Margaret only grew nastier. But one evening, Nigel came home grim-faced.
“Lost my job,” he said flatly.
Emilys stomach twisted. Then Sophie wailedduty called, despair or not.
“Well manage,” Nigel promised.
Emily nodded, forcing a smile before trudging off.
The next day, as they brainstormed solutions, Margaret barged in.
“Heard you plotting,” she sneered. “Why must *my* son slave away? Why cant *you* work?”
Emily gaped. Even Nigel looked stunned.
“What?”
“Dont play daft!” Margaret crossed her arms.
“Let Nigel take leave*you* get a job!”
Emilys heart plummeted. She was drowning in exhaustion, and this woman wanted her to *leave her newborn*?
Nigel snapped.
“Mum, how *dare* you?” he roared. “Emilys raising our child, running this housewhile you do *nothing* but torment her!”
Margaret stiffened. “I care about *you*!”
“Then stop making my wife miserable!” Nigel took a breath. “Start flat-hunting. Youre leaving.”
Margarets jaw dropped. “Youd throw out your own mother?”
“Gladly.”
The next days were tense. Margaret hunted for flats while hurling insultsbut Nigel shielded Emily.
“Cant stand you!” Margaret finally spat. “Id rather room with that insufferable bloke I left!”
“Dont let the door hit you,” Nigel said.
Two days later, Margaret was gone.
Peace at last. Nigel found work; Emily grew more confident with Sophie. And Margaret? Radio silence.
No loss. Better no grandma than one who made motherhood a battlefield.
