Emily, have you stopped hoovering altogether? My eyes are streaming with all this dust. Look, its lying on the floor like a blanket…
Emily clenches her fists under the table, watching as Mrs. Graham, her mother-in-law, once again inspects the flat with the keen eye of a health and safety inspector. Mrs. Graham pauses at every corner, scrutinising shelves, wrinkling her nose at invisible specks on the windowsill, shaking her head at the sight of scattered childrens toys. After three years of these visits, Emily knows every knock at the door means a fresh ordeal.
I cleaned yesterday, hoovered and dusted, says Emily, her tone calm. The kids played this morning.
Well, you shouldnt just clean when it suits you, but when it needs to be done. When I was your age…
Mrs. Graham lowers herself into the armchair like a queen indulging a commoner. Her fingers run along the armrest, searching for dust.
In my day, the floors shone so much you could fix your lipstick in the reflection. The children were always immaculate, not a crease on a dress. And the tidiness! My late husband could inspect any moment, wouldnt find so much as a crumb. Thats how it was!
Emily grits her teeth, listening in silence. This story about gleaming floorsshes heard it fifty, maybe sixty times. Shes lost count.
And what did you make for the childrens lunch today?
Vegetable soup.
Is it in the fridge? Mrs. Graham is already heading to the kitchen. Let me have a look.
She removes the pot, gives it a sniff, ladles some soup, and tastes it with a look that suggests shes sampling poison.
Too much salt. And all that carrotchildren arent rabbits, why put so much in? I made very different soups for Peter when he was young. He always finished the lot and asked for seconds.
Emily bites back a response. No point arguing.
And what do you give them for breakfast? Those processed cereals again? Ive said it beforeproper porridge oats only! Look at Louise, Toms wifeshe always soaks oats overnight and cooks a fresh pot in the morning. Her children are never ill.
Forever Louise. Saintly Louise with her perfectly-soaked oats and perfect children.
Mrs. Graham, porridge oats are just as natural.
Oh, dont make me laugh! Its all that fast food nonsense these days… In my day, no-one even heard the word fast food. We cooked everything from scratch, with care, standing at the stove for hours.
Now shes inspecting the childrens room with a critical eye.
By the way, what time do you get them to bed? I rang at nine yesterday, and little Sophie was still awake.
Usually half nine.
Too late! Routine is everything for children. Peter was in bed by eight, never complained. Thats discipline. But youre all too soft now, pandering to them…
Emily bites her lip. She wants to say things have changed, psychologists have new advice, her children arent Peter from thirty years ago. But Mrs. Graham only listens to herself.
And these modern after-school clubspainting, clay modelling… all a waste of time. I took Peter swimming, and to chess. Thats real development! Drawing can be done at home, no need to waste money.
Sophie likes her art classes. Shes talented.
Talented! Mrs. Graham snorts. Thats just what the studios say to get your money. What talent does a four-year-old have?
She sinks into the chair, hands clasped in her lap.
Ill tell you something, Emily. You modern mums have let standards slip. All you know is your phones and the internet. The homes neglected, children run wild, husbands go hungry. Louise, nowToms wifeworks, keeps her home immaculate, and their three are always spotless. But youjust two, and youre struggling.
Louise again. Saintly Louise, haloed in freshly-ironed sheets.
I work too, Mrs. Graham.
Yes, yes. Sitting in front of a computer all day, shuffling papers. Is that work? When I was your age… Mrs. Grahams eyes grow dreamy, three children, a garden, and a household to run. Still kept everything together. And I respected my mother-in-law, never spoke out of turn.
Emily tries to explain: that her job is challenging, she manages big projects, needs focus but all her words bounce off Mrs. Grahams patronising smile. Mrs. Graham shakes her head like a wise teacher forced to put up with a foolish pupil.
Each visit is another exam, and Emily knows she is destined to fail. Mrs. Graham finds fault in everything: the towels arent folded right, the teas too hot, the houseplants look droopy, the curtains need a wash. Three years of this has pushed Emily to the edge, yet she remains silentfor Peter, for the sake of peace at home.
Today, Mrs. Graham is particularly sharp. She makes a beeline for the kitchen, tsks at the unwashed frying pan in the sink.
Four-year-old George sits at the table, poking his spoon into his soup.
I dont want this! Its yucky!
See! Mrs. Graham exclaims. I told you! Hes not eating because you cant cook proper soup. Let me show you how its done. You start with a proper chicken, free-range, none of this supermarket rubbish…
Something snaps inside Emily. Quietly, without fuss, but she knows its broken, a taut string finally given way.
Years of slights, of being belittled, of endless comparisons to perfect Louise, of hinted worthlessness and head-shaking disapprovalall of it boils over, definite and final.
Emily stands slowly. She gives her mother-in-law a look shes never given beforecold and unflinching.
Mrs. Graham. Did you move into your husbands home when you married, or did he move in with you?
Mrs. Graham freezes, spoon mid-air. For a moment, she seems to forget how to breathe.
Pardon?
I askedwhen you married, did you bring your husband to your home, or did he bring you into his?
Wh-well, I moved in with him… of course… Mrs. Graham blinks in confusion. But what does that have…
I brought Peter here. To this three-bedroom flat. Which I bought. With my own money. Earned, by the way, from all that paper-shuffling at my computer.
Mrs. Grahams face turns pale.
So, I decide what soup to cook, what time the children go to bed, and which after-school clubs they do, Emilys voice is calm and steady. Tell me, how much did you actually earn in your time? Or were you always at home, living off your husband, running the house?
Mrs. Graham flushes scarlet.
How dare you… How dare you speak to me like that?!
Im not being rude, Im just asking. For the record: my salary is £4,000 a month. Thats twice what Peter makes. Next time you want to lecture me, remember that.
The silence in the kitchen is almost physical. Even George stops fiddling with his soup, eyes wide, glancing from his mum to his gran.
The front door slams. Peter returns from work, and pauses, sensing the cold tension.
Peter! Mrs. Graham rushes over. Peter, do you know what your wife said to me? She insulted meIm your mother!
Stop. Peter raises his hand. Wait. Em, whats going on?
Emily speaks quietly, her voice weary. She explains: three years of this, the constant comparisons, the criticism of every move, the never-ending hints that shes not a good enough mum or homemaker, the intrusion in how they raise the kids.
Peter listens in silence. Emily sees his face changefrom confusion to understanding to something like shame. He clenches his jaw, rubs the bridge of his nosea gesture of someone whos just realised something uncomfortable about themselves.
You dont believe her, do you? Mrs. Graham splutters. Im your mother! I raised you, stood by you, never had a good nights sleep because of you!
Mum, Peter looks at her, and Emily sees, for the first time, a hardness in his eyes. Did you really nag Emily for three years?
Me? Nag? I only gave advice! But she…
Advice, Peter nods slowly. About soup. About clubs. About bedtime. About dust. Every time, right?
Mrs. Graham opens her mouth, but Peter doesnt let her speak.
Id noticed. Emily was always different after your visits. I thought she was just tired. Now I see she’s just been enduringall of this, in silence, so we wouldnt argue.
Peter!
Mum, he exhales if you keep criticising my wife, you are not welcome in this home.
Mrs. Graham goes rigid. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table.
Youyoure serious? Over her? Over this?..
Over my wife, Peter corrects. The mother of my children. The woman who bought this home, and put up with your belittling for three years to keep the peace. Yes, Mum. Im entirely serious.
For a few seconds, Mrs. Graham stares at him as if seeing him for the first time. Then she snatches her bag and storms to the door. On the threshold, she looks back, lips trembling with anger and hurt, but something in Peters face silences her. She merely waves her handwhether in farewell or dismissal, Emily cant telland is gone.
In the deep stillness that follows, the ticking of the kitchen clock and Georges little noises fill the silence.
Peter wraps his arms around Emily, pulling her close. As she presses her forehead to his chest, she realises how tired her shoulders areas if shes carried a huge burden for three years.
Why didnt you say something? Peters voice rumbles into her hair as his hand strokes her back. Three years, Em. You kept all this in.
I didnt want to cause arguments. Shes your mum.
Silly girl, he hugs her tighter, and Emily feels his lips brush her temple. You and the kids are my family. Mum will just have to accept that. Or she wont see her grandchildren.
Emily meets Peters eye. Suddenly, she wants to laugh. For the first time in three years, the weight in her chest lifts, and breathing becomes easy again.
Mum, mum! George pipes up. Has Granny gone? Does that mean I dont have to eat my soup?
Peter and Emily glance at each other before bursting into laughter together, properly, for the first time in ages.
Soup still has to be eaten, Emily says, but tomorrow, Ill make your favourite.
