Completely Out of Hand
Emily, have you just stopped hoovering altogether? My eyes are streaming from all this dust. Take a look, its lying on the rug…
I clenched my fists under the table as I watched Margaret, my mother-in-law, make her usual rounds as if she was Chief Sanitary Inspector. She halted at every corner, peering at the shelves with a critical look, wrinkled her nose at the dust on the window ledge, and tsked disapprovingly at the toys scattered about. Three years of these visits had turned each one into an ordeal I could hardly bear.
I cleaned and hoovered just yesterday, I tried to sound calm. The kids were playing this morning.
You mustnt tidy when you have a free moment; it should be done when its needed. In my day…
Margaret sank into the armchair with the air of a queen deigning to speak to her servant. Her fingers absently traced the armrest, searching for dust.
Back then, the floors gleamed so much you could touch up your lipstick in the reflection. The children were always perfectly turned out, not a crease in their frocks. And the order in the house! My dear Tom, rest his soul, could inspect the house at any time, and not find so much as a speck of dust. Thats how it was!
I just listened in silence, gritting my teeth. The story of her gleaming floors Id surely heard it fifty times, perhaps more; Id lost count.
And what did you make for the childrens lunch today?
Vegetable soup.
Is it in the fridge? Margaret was already rising, making her way to the kitchen. Let me have a look.
She pulled out the pot, sniffed it, prodded it with a spoon, and tasted it as if sampling poison.
Far too much salt. And youve put in too many carrots. Children arent rabbits, why all the carrots? I cooked soup very differently for Adam when he was little, and he cleaned his bowl every time, even asked for seconds.
I didnt argue. There was truly no point.
And what do you give them for breakfast? Those dreadful cereal boxes again? How many times have I told you only real porridge! Take my Louise, Richards wife: every evening she soaks proper oats, and cooks them gently in the morning. Her children are never ill.
Ever the perfect Louise. Louise the exemplary mother, with her faultless porridge and immaculate home.
Margaret, oats are a natural product as well.
Oh, dont make me laugh! That dreadful fast food of yours… In my day, we didnt even have the word. Everyone cooked from scratch, with love, spending hours over the hob.
She started a mental inspection of the childrens room, her critical eyes missing nothing.
And what time do you have bedtime? I called at nine last night and Sophie was still up.
Usually half past nine.
Too late! Routine, Emily, is sacred. When Adam was young, he was in bed by eight. Never made a fuss, never whinged. He understood discipline. You lot just mollycoddle and pander…
I bit my lip. I wanted desperately to say that times had changed, that parenting advice was different now, that my children were not Adam thirty years ago. But what was the point? Margaret only ever cared to listen to herself.
And all these fancy classes you sign up for clay modelling, painting… Pure silliness. I sent Adam to swimming and chess club. Thats development for you! Painting can be done at home, waste of money to pay for classes.
Sophie loves her art class. Shes talented.
Talented! Margaret sniffed. Thats just what these studio types say to get money out of you. What talent has a four year old?
Margaret sat again and folded her hands on her knees.
Listen here, Emily. Mothers these days have really gone to pot. Always on your phones and the internet, meanwhile the house is a tip, children run wild, husbands go hungry. Look at Louise, Richards wife she works, keeps a pristine house, and raises three children. Youve only got two and even thats too much!
Louise again. Saint Louise, haloed in starched bedlinen.
I work too, Margaret.
I know, I know. Sitting all day at that computer, shuffling papers. Is that work? At your age I had three children, a vegetable patch, chickens and everything ran like clockwork. And I respected my mother-in-law. Never spoke a word out of turn.
I tried to explain that my work was demanding, that I managed complex projects, but my words crumpled up and died against Margarets patronising smile. She shook her head like some all-knowing mentor forced to tolerate a hopeless pupil.
Every visit was an exam I was doomed to fail from the start. Margaret found fault everywhere: the towels folded wrong, tea too hot, droopy flowers on the ledge, curtains in need of a wash. After three years, I was at my wits end, but I kept my silence. For Adam. For peace at home.
That day, Margaret was in a particularly foul mood. She marched straight to the kitchen and tutted over a frying pan in the sink.
George, my four-year-old, was having a strop at the table, poking at his soup.
I dont want it! Its yucky!
There you go! Margaret cried triumphantly. See? The child wont eat your soup because you cant cook. Let me teach you how to make proper childrens soup. First, start with real chicken, not this rubbery supermarket rubbish…
Something snapped, quietly but unmistakably, inside me. Years of snubs, humiliations, endless comparisons with paragon Louise, sly remarks about my failings it all boiled over, inescapable and final.
I got up slowly from the table and looked at Margaret with a gaze she had never seen cold and resolute.
Margaret. Whose home do you think this is? Did you bring your husband to your own house, or did you go to his?
She froze with her spoon mid-air, as if shed forgotten how to breathe.
What…?
I mean, when you married, did your husband move in with you, or did you move in with him?
I moved in with him, of course… but whats that got to do with anything…?
I brought Adam to this flat. This three-bedroom flat. Which I bought. With my own money. Earned, by the way, doing that shuffling papers job at the computer.
Margarets face went pale.
So, in this house, I decide what soup to cook, when my children go to bed, and which clubs they attend, I continued, voice level and clear. Another thing: just how much did you ever earn? Or did you always live off your husband while managing his house?
Margaret flushed crimson.
How dare you… how could you… How dare you speak to me like that?
Im not insulting you, Im asking. For your information: my salary is one hundred and eighty thousand pounds a year. Double Adams. So next time you want to give me a lesson, remember that.
The silence in the kitchen was so heavy you couldve cut it with a butter knife. Even George stopped poking at his soup, staring from me to his grandmother.
The front door banged. Adam was home from work, hesitating on the threshold as the tension in the air hit him.
Mum! Margaret rushed to him Adam, do you know what your wife has just said to me?! She humiliated me! Insulted me!
Wait. Adam held up a hand. Hang on, Em, what’s going on?
I told him quietly, my voice tired. I spoke about three years of visits. Continual comparisons, criticism at every turn, relentless hints about my supposed incompetence as a wife and mother, the constant meddling in how we raised our children.
Adam listened in silence. I saw his face change confusion, then real comprehension, then something like shame. His jaw clenched; he pinched his nose as if only just realising something unpleasant about himself.
Adam, youre not seriously listening to her, are you? Margaret spluttered. Im your mother! I raised you, fed you, never slept a night!
Mum, Adams voice was flat, new, firm Is it true youve been on at Emily for three years?
Me? On at her? I was only trying to help! She…
Always with the advice. Soup, clubs, bedtime, dust. Every visit, yes?
Margaret opened her mouth, but Adam wouldnt let her interrupt.
Ive noticed, you know. I knew Emily was never herself after your visits. Thought maybe she was just tired. Turns out shes been enduring all this, saying nothing, just to keep the peace between us.
Adam!
Mum, he sighed heavily If you keep picking on my wife, youre not welcome here.
Margaret froze. Her fingers clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white.
You… youre not serious? Over her? Over this woman…?
Over my wife, Adam corrected her. The mother of my children. The woman, by the way, who bought this home. Whos held her tongue while you insulted her, so as not to upset me. So yes, Mum. Im absolutely serious.
For a few seconds, Margaret stared at Adam like she was seeing him for the very first time. Then she snatched up her bag, stormed to the door, and before she left, looked back, lips trembling with anger and hurt. But something in Adams face silenced her. She only waved a hand unfortunately, I couldnt tell if it was a farewell or a dismissal and swept out of the flat.
The quiet that followed was so deep, I could hear the kitchen clock ticking and George, abandoned by both soup and drama, fiddling in his seat.
Adam pulled me gently to him. Burying my forehead in his chest, I realised how tense my shoulders were it felt like Id been carrying something impossibly heavy for years.
Why didnt you tell me sooner? Adams voice rumbled above my head, his hand soothing my back. Three years, Em. You let all of this pile up.
I didnt want to cause trouble. Shes your mum.
Silly thing, he squeezed me tighter, and I felt the dry warmth of his kiss on my temple. You and the kids are my family. Mum… Mum will have to accept that. Or not see the children at all.
I glanced up at Adam. I wanted to laugh: for the first time in three years, my chest wasnt tight, for the first time I could actually breathe.
Mum! piped George. Has Grandma gone? Does that mean I dont have to eat the soup?
Adam and I looked at each other and burst out laughing, both of us, big and free the way we hadnt in ages.
Youll still need to eat your soup, I said, stroking Georges hair. But tomorrow, Ill make you a different one. The kind you like.
If theres anything Ive taken from today, it’s this: sometimes, keeping the peace can cost you far more than speaking up. The weight of silence is heavy. But the freedom that comes with honesty, and being true to yourself and your family thats worth more than I ever imagined.
