In a quiet town on the outskirts of the Yorkshire Dales, where the wind whistled through the cobbled streets, Emma and her husband Oliver tried to build their life together. Yet the shadow of her mother-in-law, Margaret Holloway, loomed over them like a storm cloud.
“Your toaster is quite stylish! I’d love one just like it for my place,” Margaret remarked with a faint smile, her tone sharp enough to make Oliver stiffen.
“Mum, we picked it to match the kitchen decor. Yours is a completely different style—it wouldn’t fit,” Oliver attempted to laugh it off, but he already knew the toaster would soon vanish into his mother’s flat.
Margaret was a woman who always got her way. A new blender, a fancy coffee maker, even curtains—if she so much as hinted at wanting something, Oliver, ever the dutiful son, would fetch it without question.
“You can buy yourself another one, love. I’m retired now—I can’t afford these things. After all I’ve sacrificed for you, working my fingers to the bone! You wouldn’t deny your own mother, would you?” Margaret’s words dripped like honeyed poison, impossible to refuse. Oliver always surrendered.
He never argued with her. If she left the gifts untouched, he shrugged it off: *Maybe she’ll use them later.* How could he say no to the woman who never let him forget how much she’d given up for him?
Oliver had grown up in a home where his mother’s word was law. Failing to secure a place at university on merit, Margaret insisted on enrolling him in a paid business course.
“This is the sensible choice, darling! You’ll earn a proper living,” she declared.
But by his first term, Oliver knew business wasn’t for him. He dreamed of graphic design, of creativity—until he phoned his mother to share his doubts.
“I’ve already paid for three semesters! Why didn’t you think of this sooner? I’m working two jobs to put you through school, and this is how you repay me? Finish your degree, then intern at Aunt Lucy’s office—I’ve arranged it.”
Aunt Lucy, Margaret’s friend, ran a department at a local firm. After lectures, Oliver endured endless rambles about life, rarely about work.
“Mum, I don’t want to keep going there—it’s not for me,” he finally admitted after six months.
But by then, Emma had entered his life. A girl from a nearby class, she charmed him with her warmth and dreams. They started dating—strolling through snowy parks, ice-skating, sipping hot chocolate in cosy cafés. Caught up in romance, Oliver skipped his internship, dozed through lectures—until Aunt Lucy complained to Margaret.
“I’ve given you everything, and how do you repay me? Flunking your studies, gallivanting with some girl! You’ll work part-time now and give me the money. Have you seen food prices? No more frivolities!”
Oliver quietly agreed, keeping just enough for dates with Emma while handing the rest to his mother. Margaret would sigh:
“It’s time you stood on your own two feet. I deserve to enjoy my retirement—my health isn’t what it used to be. You wouldn’t want me to go before my time, would you? You love me, I know.”
After graduation, Margaret surprised them with a gift—keys to a flat. “Here, make a home together!”
Emma was stunned. Oliver embraced his mother, calling her the best.
“Saved every penny for you,” Margaret said proudly.
But the flat was a tired one-bedroom with peeling wallpaper. Emma remained optimistic: “We’ll renovate, make it lovely!”
Yet their joy faded quickly. Margaret lived nearby and soon asked Emma to “pop by with groceries,” “scrub the oven,” or “tidy the storage room.” Though exhausted from work, Emma obliged—until Margaret’s latest request shocked her.
“I need a new sofa for the lounge. We’ll take apart the old one—no cost to you. Lucky I’ve got you, Emma, with your knack for things.”
“I don’t mind helping, but Oliver and I have plans this weekend. I’m already over every evening,” Emma countered.
“So that’s how it is? I raised my son, bought you a home, and you begrudge me this?” Margaret snapped.
After that, Margaret stopped asking. Emma relished the peace—until Oliver dropped a bombshell:
“Mum needs a spa retreat—it’s pricey. You earn well; let’s help, yeah? I’ll transfer the funds.”
Emma realised then why she alone covered groceries, petrol, and bills. She’d assumed Oliver was saving—but it all went to Margaret.
“She never offered! Mum gave us a flat—no mortgage!” Oliver argued when Emma confronted him.
“Maybe a mortgage would’ve been better? Paid off in years, instead of you funding her forever?”
Oliver refused to listen. Emma felt their marriage crumbling under Margaret’s weight.
When Margaret visited and took their brand-new toaster—painstakingly chosen to match their kitchen—Emma snapped.
“How are we supposed to make breakfast now?”
“I’ll bring the old one from work. Could I really say no to Mum?”
“And if she fancies our bed next? The telly?”
“Funny, given we live in *her* flat.”
“Are we indebted for life over a one-bedroom? Enough!” Emma marched to Margaret’s.
Inside, she froze: boxes of new gadgets, designer shopping bags, takeaway from upscale restaurants.
“Margaret, when we have children, am I to support them alone? Stop taking everything! You don’t even *use* half of this!”
“Cross that bridge later. Oliver’s *my* son—he’s always given me his wages. Don’t like it? Leave!”
“Does your son have no dreams? No fishing trips, no car—because you drain him dry!”
“Know your place, girl. One word from me, and he’ll drop you. Now run along—I’ve floors to mop.” Margaret smirked. “*He loves me more.*”
Emma refused to yield. She played Oliver the recording. Hearing it, he paled, gripping his phone like he might crush it.
“Mum would never say that. You’re exaggerating.”
But he tested her. “Lost my job—spa’s off.”
“*Off?* Emma can pay! My heart’s not what it was!”
A doctor’s visit confirmed Margaret was in perfect health. “Eat well, stress less—you’ll live long,” the GP said.
Buoyed, Oliver announced their move to another city—and plans for children.
“Find a place near *me*—how will I cope alone?”
“We’ve already chosen. No help needed—mortgage comes first.”
“Your mother can’t live on *pension*!”
“We’ll rent our flat out. But you love me—you understand, right?”
Margaret had no retort. Emma and Oliver began anew, free of her grip—proof that setting boundaries, however hard, is the first step to true peace.
