**”To Me, My Daughter-in-Law Is Nobody!”**
I woke at five in the morning, just as the first hints of dawn crept through the curtains. Beside me, James snored softly, one arm thrown over his headhis usual posture, the mark of a man forever short on sleep. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I flicked on the light and pulled ingredients from the fridge: sponge cakes, fresh cream, strawberries. Today was Olivers fifth birthday, and I wanted it to be nothing short of magical.
“Bit early, isnt it?” James stood in the doorway, squinting against the light, his hair mussed.
“Go back to bed,” I smiled, creaming butter into sugar. “If I dont start now, Ill never finish before the guests arrive.”
He nodded but didnt leave. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his cheek against my neck. “Sometimes I think I dont deserve you,” he murmured.
I chuckled, setting the bowl aside. “Is this about the promotion? Fine, youre the big boss now, and Im still just a primary school teacher.”
“Emma, stop,” he turned me to face him. “Well tell everyone today. Best surprise ever.”
I nodded, swallowing the flutter in my chest. Six years married, and his touch still made my breath hitch. Though once, no one had believed wed last.
By eleven, the cake was assembled, streamers hung, gifts tucked discreetly into the cupboard. The doorbell rang. I smoothed a loose strand of hair and opened the door.
“Margaret! Youre early!”
My mother-in-law stood on the doorstep, clutching an elaborately wrapped box. Her immaculate blowout (weekly salon visitsnon-negotiable) and flawless makeup contrasted sharply with my worn dressing gown and tangled hair.
“Darling,” she air-kissed my cheek, “I came early to help. You understand how important it is to get things *just right*.”
Silently, I took her coat and guided her to the kitchen. “Help,” in her mind, meant critiquing every choiceespecially those that couldve been improved by her superior taste and budget.
“Whats this?” She eyed the cake Id just pulled from the fridge. “Homemade? Why not order from Harrods?”
“I wanted to make it myself,” I said evenly, setting out plates. “Oliver loves when I bake.”
“Hes a childwhat does he know?” She sniffed. “Guests will judge, Emma. No offence, but Harrods is *class*. This is… well, *homely*.”
I bit my tongue, focusing on the table settings. Six years of these remarks. Six years of silently falling short.
“Wheres James?” She glanced around. “Still asleep? His father was the same.”
“He took Oliver to the park. Theyll be back soon.”
She opened a cupboard, pulled out a mug, then wrinkled her nose. “Still using this cheap set? I gave you Wedgwood last Christmas. Dont you like it?”
The setworth nearly my monthly salarywas saved for special occasions. Today, Id opted for practicality.
Every gathering was the same. Every visit, a test.
I remembered our weddingsmall, quiet. Margaret had leaned into Jamess ear and whispered, *”You couldve done better.”* She hadnt realised Id heard.
Six years on, had I grown used to it? No. But Id learned to swallow the hurtfor James, for Oliver, for peace.
The front door burst open, laughter tumbling in.
“Mum, look!” Oliver dashed in, waving a kite. James followed, arms laden with shopping bags.
“Granny!” Oliver hurled himself at Margaret, who lit up instantly.
“My darling! Look how big you are! This is from me,” she nodded to the box.
“Wow! Can I open it?” Oliver spun to me.
“After cake, love. Tradition.”
“But Mu-um!”
“Honestly, Emma,” Margaret cut in. “James always opened gifts straight away.”
James cleared his throat. “Mum, lets stick to tradition. Ollie, patienceguests will be here soon.”
The doorbell rang again. The flat filled with friends, my parents (bearing a homemade pie), Jamess colleagues. Mum slipped into the kitchen to help; Dad settled with a newspaperquiet, unobtrusive, the polar opposite of Margaret, who dominated every room.
“Susan, hows your blood pressure?” Margaret asked my mother loudly. “At your age, its *crucial*.”
Mum smiled politely. At fifty-five, she was three years younger than Margaret, who never missed a chance to highlight it.
“Fine, thank you,” Mum murmured, chopping vegetables.
“Still at the factory? Must be exhausting.”
My parents had worked there their whole livesordinary engineers. Not like Margaret, the former department head with “connections.”
The party hummed along. Kids raced about; adults chatted. James mingled with colleagues, glowing from his promotionnews wed share later.
“Emma, change Olivers clothes,” Margaret grabbed my arm. “I saw the sweetest little suit in John Lewis. If youd shopped with me, hed look *proper*.”
I glanced at Oliverjeans, a T-shirt, perfectly happy.
“Hes comfortable, Margaret.”
“Comfortable isnt *presentable*,” she snapped. “In my day”
“Mum, enough,” James interrupted. “He looks fine.”
Margaret pursed her lips and stalked off. I mouthed *thank you* to James, but he was already deep in conversation.
“Mum,” Oliver tugged my sleeve. “Why is Granny always cross?”
Behind us, Margaret laughed loudly, complaining about “useless help these days.”
“Shes not cross, sweetheart. She just… likes things a certain way.”
“What way?”
Good question.
“Cake time!” I announced, checking the clock. “Oliver, make a wish!”
Everyone gathered. James hit *record* on his phone. I carried out the caketwo tiers, chocolate ganache, raspberry filling, Olivers favourite.
“Wow!” His eyes shone.
“Bit… *plain*,” Margaret muttered just loud enough. “Harrods does *marvellous* sugar work…”
I clenched my jaw. Today wasnt about her.
“Make a wish, darling.”
We sang. Oliver blew out the candles. Applause erupted.
“Presents!” James announced.
Oliver tore into gifts: Lego from my parents, books from friends, a toy garage from us. ThenMargarets grand offering.
“An iPad!” Oliver shrieked. “Thank you, Granny!”
Margaret beamed. “Only the best for my grandson.” She eyed my parents. “*Some* people cant afford quality, but children need *technology*.”
Mum looked at her lap. My hands shook as I sliced the cake.
“Toast?” James raised his glass.
Margaret stood, adjusting her dress. “Today, we celebrate Oliverfive years old! Im so proud.”
She paused, relishing the attention.
“I raised James alone. Look at him nowsuccessful, respected. All because of *my* sacrifices.”
Her voice waverednot with tears, but performance.
“Now, I watch my grandson grow. But some things… worry me.”
The room tensed.
“His upbringing. The *cutting corners*. James, Ive always said: its not just who *you* are, but who you *marry*.”
“*Mum*,” James warned.
“No. Six years, Ive stayed quiet. Six years, watching someone take advantage of you.”
My parents exchanged glances. Guests studied their plates.
“Margaret, not today,” I said softly. “This is Olivers day.”
“*Exactly*!” Her voice sharpened. “And Ill say this: to me, Emma, you are *NOBODY*! Just some woman who stumbled into *my* family. And I wont let you ruin them!”
The room froze. Oliver gripped my hand.
James stood, his voice steel. “*What did you say?*”
He moved toward hernot the easygoing man I knew, but someone ready to fight. *For us.*
“You called my wifeOlivers *mother**nobody*? If shes nobody, then so are we.”
Margaret paled. “James, you misunderstood”
“I *understood*.” He pulled me close. “Apologise. Now. Or youre not welcome here again.”
Silence.
Margaret swallowed. “I… spoke in anger. Emma, Im sorry.”
It wasnt perfect, but it was a start.
James turned to the guests. “Nowanother reason to celebrate. Ive been promoted. Head of Development.”
The mood lifted. Glasses clinked. Margaret sat stifflysmaller, somehow.
Later, as we tidied, James sighed. “I shouldve stood up for you sooner.”
“Why
