Emma stood by the window, watching the rain drum against the sill. Behind her, she could hear the quiet footsteps of her husband, James, pacing the flat with his phone in hand. He’d been murmuring into it for hours, too softly for her to make out the words.
“James, what’s going on?” she finally asked, turning to face him. “You’ve been on edge all day.”
He stopped mid-step, guilt flashing across his face. His phone screen still glowed with unread messages.
“Em, I need to tell you something,” he began hesitantly. “Just—don’t panic straight away, alright?”
Her stomach dropped. After eighteen years of marriage, she knew his every tone. This one only ever preceded bad news.
“Just say it,” she said, sinking onto the sofa.
“Mum’s coming back.”
“Coming back?” Emma stared at him. “From where?”
“Birmingham. From Sarah. They’ve had a row, and now she wants to come home. To us.”
A cold shiver ran down Emma’s spine. Margaret, her mother-in-law, had moved in with her youngest daughter six months ago after yet another family blow-up. Emma had thought—hoped—she’d finally have peace in her own home, free from constant nitpicking.
“James, no,” she said firmly. “We agreed. Remember what happened last time?”
“Em, she’s my mum,” James sat beside her. “She’s got nowhere else to go.”
“She has her own flat!”
“It’s rented out till the end of the year. She signed a long-term lease when she left.”
Emma closed her eyes, steadying herself. She remembered those endless months when Margaret had lived with them—the constant remarks about her cooking, cleaning, parenting. The criticism of every choice she made.
“What happened with Sarah?” she asked.
“Not entirely sure. Mum just said she couldn’t stay there anymore. Clashed with Sarah’s husband.”
“And how long does she plan to stay?”
“Till her flat’s free. End of the year.”
Emma stood abruptly, pacing. Four months. Four months living with a woman who’d never thought her good enough for her son.
“James, I can’t,” she said, stopping in front of him. “I can’t do this again.”
“Em, please,” he took her hands. “She’s changed. Six months living with strangers must’ve taught her something.”
“Your mother doesn’t change. She’ll always blame me for everything wrong in this family.”
James was silent. He knew she was right. His mother had never accepted Emma, always finding fault where none existed.
“When does she arrive?” Emma asked wearily.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Emma’s voice shot up. “James, are you mad? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“She only called today. Said she’d already bought the ticket.”
“Brilliant,” Emma muttered. “So she wasn’t even going to ask. Just drop it on us.”
“What was I supposed to do? Tell her to sleep at King’s Cross?”
“She could’ve stayed at a hotel. Or with friends.”
“She can’t afford a hotel. And friends… you know how she is.”
Emma did. Margaret had managed to fall out with every neighbour, every acquaintance. Never satisfied, always criticising.
At dinner, they broke the news to the kids. Fourteen-year-old Tom shrugged—Grandma was just Grandma to him, sometimes giving him pocket money, sometimes scolding. But eleven-year-old Lily frowned.
“Is she going to tell me I’m doing my homework wrong again?”
“Lily, Grandma means well,” James tried.
“Then she can mean well from far away,” Lily muttered, and Emma had to bite back a smile.
The next morning, Emma woke early, making sure breakfast was perfect. Maybe if Margaret saw order, she’d hold her tongue. But she knew it was pointless—Margaret would always find fault.
At half ten, the doorbell rang. James rushed to answer while Emma stayed in the kitchen, scrubbing already-clean plates.
“Jamie, my boy!” Margaret’s voice carried from the hall. “Oh, I’ve missed you!”
“Mum, come in. How was the journey?”
“Awful. Train was stuffy, air con broken. And some drunk in our carriage caused a scene all night.”
Emma took a deep breath and stepped into the hall. Margaret stood surrounded by suitcases—enough for a permanent move.
“Hello, Margaret,” Emma said politely.
Her mother-in-law turned, eyes sweeping over her critically.
“Hello,” she replied coolly. “You’ve lost weight. Been ill?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Strange. You look peaky. Probably those fad diets. No wonder James doesn’t notice you anymore.”
Emma clenched her jaw. Here we go.
“Mum, not now,” James cut in. “Let’s have tea. Tell us how you’ve been.”
“Been? Awful,” Margaret marched into the kitchen, eyeing everything. “Your sister’s lost her mind. Living with that man who won’t let me through the door.”
“What d’you mean?” James asked.
“Exactly that. Says there’s only one head of the house. That I ‘interfere too much’.”
Emma privately thought Sarah’s husband was a wise man.
“Can you believe it?” Margaret continued, sitting. “He told me not to correct their children. Said grandparents should spoil, not discipline.”
“Maybe he’s got a point?” James ventured.
“James!” Margaret gasped. “How can you say that? I’ve every right to speak my mind!”
“You do,” Emma said. “But every family has its own rules.”
Margaret fixed her with a frosty stare.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back. Knew I wasn’t welcome.”
“Mum, don’t say that,” James protested. “You’re always welcome here.”
“Welcome as a guest,” Margaret repeated bitterly. “A guest in my own son’s home.”
Emma set a teacup in front of her and turned back to the stove, tension thickening the air.
“Where are the children?” Margaret asked.
“At school,” James said. “Lessons till three.”
“I see. Hope they’re doing well? Not like last year when Lily struggled with maths.”
“They’re fine,” Emma said. “Tom even competed in the school maths challenge.”
“Competed or won?” Margaret pressed. “Anyone can enter.”
“He came second.”
“Second isn’t first. Children should aim higher.”
Emma’s blood boiled. Even the kids’ achievements weren’t safe.
After breakfast, James helped his mother unpack in what had been his study. Emma watched as Margaret arranged her things—clothes in the wardrobe, photos on the shelves, pills on the bedside table.
“She packed enough for a year,” Emma thought grimly.
The kids returned at lunch. Lily gave a polite “Hello” before vanishing to her room. Tom lingered.
“Gran, why’re you back? Aunt Sarah poorly?”
“No, darling. We just didn’t see eye to eye.”
“Oh,” Tom nodded. “You staying long?”
Margaret blinked. “Don’t you want me here?”
“‘Course,” Tom said quickly. “Just… Mum’s got a lot on. Works hard.”
Emma, stirring soup, felt warmth spread through her chest. He’d noticed. Understood.
“Your mother hardly works,” Margaret sniffed. “Half-days at school, home by three. Other women work proper jobs.”
“She marks books at home,” Tom argued. “And does all the house stuff.”
“That’s not work. That’s laziness.”
Emma bit her tongue. She taught English at the kids’ school—taken part-time to be there for them.
That night, once the kids were in bed and Margaret was glued to the telly, Emma and James whispered in the kitchen.
“James, this isn’t working,” Emma said. “She hasn’t changed. Same as before.”
“Give her time, Em. She’s upset.”
“She’s always upset. With me, at least.”
“Maybe you’re too sensitive?”
Emma stared. “So it’s my fault?”
“No! Just… try patience?”
“James, I’ve been patient for eighteen years. How much longer?”
He had no answer.
The next day, life with Margaret resumed. Up at dawn, rearranging the kitchen, criticising breakfast, lecturing the kids.
“Lily, your schoolbag’s a mess,” she’d say. “Books separate from exercise books.”
“This way’s easier,” Lily would reply.
“Easier isn’t proper. When your father was little—”
“Dad got Cs,” Tom pointed out.
“But his bag was tidy,” Margaret shot back.
The kids started coming home late, hiding in their rooms. The flat felt smaller.
Emma bore the brunt. Her cooking was scrutinised—soup too salty, roast dry. Cleaning nitpicked—dust in corners, smudged mirrors.
“A home reflects the woman,” Margaret lectured.
