Emily stood by the window, watching the rain drum against the sill. Behind her, she could hear her husband James pacing quietly around the flat, phone glued to his ear. He’d been whispering into it for nearly three hours—too softly for her to make out the words.
“James, what’s going on?” she asked finally, turning to face him. “You’ve been on edge all day.”
He stopped mid-step and gave her a guilty look, the phone still clutched in his hand, its screen blinking with notifications.
“Em, I need to tell you something,” he began hesitantly. “Just… try not to worry straight away, alright?”
Her stomach dropped. After eighteen years of marriage, she knew his every tone. This particular one only ever preceded serious conversations.
“Just say it,” she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“Mum’s coming back.”
“Coming back?” Emily stared at him, baffled. “From where?”
“From Manchester. From Claire’s. They’ve had a row, and now she wants to come home. To us.”
A chill ran down Emily’s spine. Margaret, her mother-in-law, had moved in with her younger daughter six months ago after yet another family blow-up. Back then, Emily had hoped she’d finally have peace in her own home—no more unsolicited opinions on everything from her cooking to her parenting.
“James, no,” she said firmly. “We agreed. Remember what happened last time?”
“Em, she’s my mum,” James sighed, sitting beside her. “She’s got nowhere else to go.”
“She has her own flat!”
“It’s rented out. She signed a long-term lease when she left. It’s tied up till the end of the year.”
Emily closed her eyes, trying to steady herself. She remembered those endless months when Margaret had lived with them—the constant criticism of her meals, her housekeeping, her children’s upbringing. No decision she made was ever good enough.
“What happened with Claire?” she asked.
“Not sure exactly. Mum just said she couldn’t stay there any longer. Didn’t get on with her son-in-law.”
“And how long does she plan to stay with us?”
“Till the lease is up. End of December.”
Emily stood and paced the room. Four months. Four whole months living with a woman who’d always considered her unworthy of her son.
“James, I can’t,” she said, stopping in front of him. “I can’t go through that again.”
“Em, please,” he took her hands. “She’s changed. Six months living with strangers has taught her a thing or two.”
“Your mother will never change. She’ll always blame me for every problem in this family.”
James stayed quiet. He knew she was right. His mother had never accepted Emily, always finding fault where there was none.
“When’s she arriving?” Emily asked wearily.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Emily nearly jumped. “James, are you mad? Why didn’t you warn me sooner?”
“She only called today. Said she’s already bought the ticket.”
“Brilliant,” Emily muttered, shaking her head. “So she wasn’t even going to ask. Just dropping it on us.”
“Em, what was I supposed to do? Tell her to sleep at the station?”
“She could’ve booked a hotel. Or stayed with friends.”
“She can’t afford a hotel. And friends… you know what she’s like.”
Emily knew all too well. Margaret had managed to fall out with every neighbour, every acquaintance. Never satisfied, always criticising.
At dinner that evening, they broke the news to the kids. Fourteen-year-old Tom shrugged—to him, Grandma was just Grandma, someone who occasionally gave him pocket money and occasionally scolded him. But eleven-year-old Lily frowned.
“Is she going to tell me I’m doing my homework wrong again?” she asked.
“Lily, Grandma just wants what’s best for you,” James tried to explain.
“Then she can want it from far away,” Lily muttered, and Emily had to bite back a smile.
The next morning, Emily got up early to make breakfast. She wanted Margaret to see the house in perfect order, to prove she was a good homemaker. Even though she knew it wouldn’t matter—Margaret would still find something to nitpick.
At half ten, the doorbell rang. James rushed to answer it while Emily stayed in the kitchen, furiously wiping already-clean plates.
“James, my boy!” Margaret’s voice carried from the hallway. “I’ve missed you so!”
“Mum, come in. How was the journey?”
“Awful. The train was stifling—air conditioning broken. And some drunkard in our carriage caused a scene all night.”
Emily took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway. Margaret stood surrounded by suitcases and bags. There were so many, it looked like a permanent move.
“Hello, Margaret,” Emily said politely.
Margaret turned and gave her a once-over.
“Well, hello,” she replied coolly. “You’ve lost weight. Been ill?”
“No, not ill.”
“Odd. You look peaky. Probably those fad diets again. No wonder your husband stops noticing you.”
Emily clenched her jaw. Here we go.
“Mum, let’s not start,” James cut in. “Come have tea, tell us how you’ve been.”
“Oh, it’s been dreadful,” Margaret sighed, sweeping into the kitchen and eyeing everything critically. “Your sister’s lost her mind. Living with a man who won’t even let me through the door.”
“What do you mean?” James frowned.
“Exactly that. Says there’s only one head of the household. That I meddle too much.”
Emily privately thought Claire’s husband sounded like a wise man.
“Can you believe it?” Margaret went on, sitting at the table. “He’s forbidden me from correcting their children. Says grandparents should spoil grandchildren, not parent them.”
“Maybe he’s got a point?” James ventured carefully.
“James!” Margaret gasped. “How can you say that? Don’t I have a right to my opinion?”
“Of course you do,” Emily said. “But every family has its own rules.”
Margaret turned a frosty gaze on her.
“Exactly why I didn’t want to come back. Knew I wouldn’t be welcome here either.”
“Mum, don’t say that,” James protested. “You’re always welcome.”
“Welcome as a guest,” Margaret said bitterly. “In my own son’s home, I’m just a guest.”
Emily set a cup of tea in front of her and returned to the stove. The tension in the room was thickening by the minute.
“Where are the children?” Margaret asked.
“At school,” James said. “Lessons now.”
“I see. Hope they’re doing well? Not like last year, when Lily struggled with maths.”
“They’re fine,” Emily said. “Tom even competed in the school Olympiad.”
“Competed or won?” Margaret pressed. “Anyone can compete.”
“He came second.”
“Second isn’t first. Children should aim higher.”
Emily felt her blood boil. Even her children’s achievements were twisted into criticism.
After breakfast, James helped his mother unpack in what had been his study. Emily watched as Margaret hung up dresses, arranged framed photos, lined up medicine bottles.
“She packed enough for a year,” Emily thought grimly.
The kids came home at lunch. Lily gave a polite hello before darting to her room, but Tom lingered in the kitchen.
“Grandma, why’d you come back?” he asked bluntly. “Aunt Claire ill?”
“No, dear. We just didn’t see eye to eye.”
“Oh,” Tom nodded. “You staying long?”
Margaret looked startled. “Don’t you want me here?”
“Course I do,” Tom said quickly. “Just… Mum’s got a lot on. She’s tired.”
Emily, stirring soup at the hob, felt a rush of warmth. Her son had noticed. Understood.
“Your mother hardly works,” Margaret sniffed. “Part-time at the school, home by lunch. Other women work proper hours.”
“Mum works at home too,” Tom argued. “Marks books, plans lessons. Does all the house stuff.”
“That’s not work. That’s just life.”
Emily gritted her teeth and kept cooking. She taught English at the kids’ school—gone part-time to be with them more.
That night, once the kids were in bed and Margaret was settled in front of the telly, Emily and James talked in hushed tones in the kitchen.
“James, this won’t work,” she said. “She hasn’t changed. Same as always.”
“Em, give her time. She’s upset.”
“She’s always upset. At least with me.”
“Maybe you’re overreacting?”
Emily stared at him. “So it’s my fault now?”
“No! Just… try to be patient?”
“James, I’ve been patient for eighteen years. How much longer?”
He stayed silent, worn out by the endless clashes between his wife and mother.
The next day, life with Margaret resumed. Up
