23April2025 Diary
My mother, Margaret Smith, has had enough of my wife, Emma Clarke. Your wife spoils every celebration we have, she told me over the phone yesterday, her voice as sharp as a winter wind.
Emma, ever the optimist, suggested we meet tomorrow at a new eatery shed heard about. Lets try the new place in Shoreditch, she said brightly through the video call.
Good idea, Mother replied calmly, but let Emma pick the venue herself so we dont end up changing the plan at the last minute while ordering.
I assured them wed already chosen a spot. Theres a brandnew bistro that just opened on Bishopsgate; well try it tomorrow, I said, trying to sound relaxed.
Fine, send me the address and tell us what time we should arrive, Mother said, resignation in her tone.
Consider it done, I replied, then hung up.
Mom soon received a text with the address and a proposed time of 7p.m. She has two daughtersinlaw and a soninlaw, and most of her relationships are smooth, except for Emma.
She never meddles in Emmas affairs; she actually tries to keep her distance. The problem is Emmas lack of table manners and her peculiar sense of propriety. A few months ago we all dined out and, instead of a pleasant evening, we endured Emmas endless complaints.
Sometimes she disliked the dish, other times the waiters smile seemed insufficient, and on one occasion she found the menu too sparse, forcing us to change restaurants twice in one night.
Even then she found something to nitpick. She ordered a salad and asked for no onion. When the plate arrived, the waiter placed a sprig of dill on top.
Whats that on my salad? Emma asked, pointing with a manicured nail.
Its just a garnish, the waiter replied, puzzled.
Did I ask for dill in my salad? she pressed, pursing her lips.
If youd like, I can remove it; theres no dill in the salad itself, he offered, thinking hed solved the matter.
Take the whole salad away! Youve ruined my appetite. Bring me a milkshake instead, Emma snapped, turning dramatically toward the window.
All her whims were accommodated, and none of the staff complained. Naturally, the evenings atmosphere was ruined.
Emma sat with puffedup cheeks and a hurt expression while the rest of us ate and chatted, making any outing with her feel like a chore. Even family gatherings were not spared from her tantrums; her capriciousness poisoned every meal.
At my aunts funeral, Emma managed to cause a scene.
Who cooked these scones? Theyre as tough as shoe leather! she shouted loudly during the memorial.
Darling, you dont have to raise your voice; just dont eat them, Mother tried to calm her, noticing the sideways glances of relatives.
Id rather feed my dog. The booze and juice are cheap enough anyway. Ugh, Emma retorted, making a face of disgust.
Were here to remember the departed, not to argue over food. Please show some respect, Mother whispered.
Exactly! Were invited to remember, but theres nothing worth remembering, Emma muttered gloomily.
It seemed the awkward episode had passed, but it was only a lull.
Later, several relatives called Mother, upset that Emma had complained about the food at their houses. Embarrassed, Emma swore she would never accompany them to such events again.
Mothers birthday was approaching, and Emma and I planned to attend the family dinner. Knowing this, Mother announced she felt ill and postponed the celebration indefinitely. She was counting on the fact that I was due to leave for a work trip at the end of the montha perfect excuse.
She had devised a clever plan to celebrate without Emma. As soon as I called her from the train station in Birmingham, she sent out invitations to the other children, deliberately leaving Emma out of the loop.
The birthday went off in a jovial setting with no disgruntled guests. No one had to endure complaints about the roast or the pudding. For the first time in two years, Mother truly relaxed with the grandchildren.
But the calm was shortlived. The next day a cousin posted photos of the party on Facebook, and Emma saw them.
Hello, Margaret. Did you have a birthday party? she asked, her voice tinged with hurt.
Yes, we did. It was a few weeks ago, Mother replied, trying not to sound defensive.
Why wasnt I invited?
Well, Ilya was away on business, and I thought youd be bored on your own
Im never bored with you, you just assumed. Why didnt you wait for Ilyas return? Emma pressed.
Because his wife spoils every celebration with her sour face, Mother blurted, then instantly regretted the remark.
What? Im the one ruining things? I thought you were kind, but youre a snake, Emma sobbed, hanging up.
A few hours later I called Mother, my voice edged with frustration.
Why are you treating my wife like this? What have we done to you? I demanded.
Nothing, but Emma constantly ruins celebrations, and you never set her straight, she replied.
How does she ruin them? I asked, bewildered.
Her constant nitpicking and complaints make it impossible to go out to a restaurant or even sit at the same table at home. Shes never satisfied, she finally vented.
Emma is just straightforward and honest, unlike you, and she treats you like a mother, I retorted.
Straightforwardness and rudeness are not the same. If she wants to be like a daughter to you, she should behave appropriately, not like a petulant child! Mother snapped.
Fine, Ill keep an eye on her and explain how to behave. In return, promise youll always invite Emma to future celebrations, I suggested, lowering my tone.
Agreed, but only if you take responsibility. Well see how it goes at the next gathering, she said, though her heart seemed heavy.
Emma didnt improve; she tried to be restrained but still caused scenes. Mother learned to brush off Emmas antics and not let them dominate her thoughts. I no longer wanted to argue with Mother, so I chose the lesser of two evils.
Looking back, I realize that trying to control someones temperament only fuels more resistance. The best way forward is to accept peoples flaws, set clear boundaries, and focus on the moments that bring genuine joy.
Lesson learned: patience and humility keep family ties from fraying, even when the tempers flare.
