I awoke at five in the morning, when the first pale streaks of dawn had only just begun to lighten the sky. Beside me, James snored softly, one arm flung above his headthe habitual pose of a man who never quite caught enough sleep. Moving quietly, I slipped into the kitchen, flicked on the light, and retrieved everything I needed for the cake: sponge layers, fresh cream, strawberries. Today was Michaels fifth birthday, and I wanted it to be nothing short of magical.
“Bit early for this, isnt it?” came a voice from the doorway. James stood there, squinting against the light, his hair tousled.
“Go back to sleep,” I smiled, creaming the butter. “If I dont start now, Ill never finish before the guests arrive.”
He nodded but didnt leave. Instead, he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and rested his cheek against my neck.
“Sometimes I think I dont deserve you,” he murmured.
I chuckled and set the bowl aside.
“Is this about the promotion? So now youre the boss, and Im still just a primary school teacher.”
“Emily, stop,” he turned me to face him. “Well tell everyone today. Thatll be the best surprise.”
I nodded, swallowing my nerves. Six years of marriage, and his touch still made my breath catch. Though once, no one had believed wed make it.
By eleven, the cake was assembled, the bunting hung, the presents tucked neatly away. The doorbell rang. I took a deep breath, smoothed a loose strand of hair, and opened it.
“Margaret! Youre early!”
On the doorstep stood my mother-in-law, clutching an elaborately wrapped box. Her immaculate blow-dry (salon visits every week, without fail) and flawless makeup stood in stark contrast to my dressing gown and messy bun.
“Emily dear,” she air-kissed my cheek, “I came ahead to help. You know how important it is that everything is just so.”
Silently, I took her coat and led her to the kitchen. “Helping,” in her mind, meant scrutinising my every move and pointing out every flawespecially if it concerned something she deemed beneath her standards.
“Oh, whats this?” She eyed the cake Id just taken from the fridge. “You made it yourself? Why not order from Harrods?”
“I wanted to do it myself,” I said evenly, setting out plates. “Michael loves it when I bake.”
“Hes only little, what does he know?” She wrinkled her nose. “And the guests? What will they think? Emily, dont take this the wrong way, but Harrods is class. This is just homemade.”
I said nothing, focusing on laying the table. Six years of these remarks. Six years of hints that I wasnt quite the daughter-in-law shed envisioned.
“Wheres James?” She glanced around. “Still in bed? His father was the same.”
“He took Michael to the park. Theyll be back soon.”
She opened the cupboard, pulled out a mug, and grimaced.
“Still using these cheap things? I gave you that Wedgwood set at Christmas. Didnt you like it?”
The set that cost nearly a months wagesI saved it for special occasions. Today, with children running about, wasnt the day.
Every celebration was the same. Every visit, a trial.
I remembered our weddingsmall, quiet. Margaret had leaned into James and whispered, “Couldve done better.” She thought I hadnt heard.
Six years on, had I grown used to it? No. But Id learned to swallow the hurt, like bitter medicine, chasing it down with a smile. For James. For Michael. For peace.
The front door burst open, and laughter spilled in.
“Mum, look!” Michael charged into the kitchen, waving a kite. James followed, arms laden with bags.
“Granny!” Michael launched himself at Margaret. She beamed, scooping him up.
“My darling! How big youve grown! Heres your present from Granny.” She nodded at the box.
“Wow! Can I open it now?”
“After the candles, love. Thats the rule.”
“But Mu-um!”
“Emily, must you be so rigid?” Margaret cut in. “When James was little, I always let him open gifts straight away.”
James cleared his throat.
“Mum, lets stick to tradition. Michael, patience. Guests will be here soon.”
The doorbell rang again, cutting off the debate. The flat filled with familiar faces: my parents with a homemade pie, friends, Jamess colleagues and their children. My mother drifted into the kitchen to help; my father settled in the corner with his paper. Quiet, unassumingthe polar opposite of Margaret, who seemed to occupy every inch of space with sheer force of presence.
“Susan, hows your blood pressure?” Margaret asked my mother loudly. “At your age, its so important.”
Mum smiled politely. She was fifty-fivethree years younger than Margaretyet the latter never missed a chance to highlight the gap.
“Fine, thank you,” Mum murmured, chopping vegetables.
“Youre still at the factory? Must be hard work?”
My parents had spent their lives as engineersordinary, steady. Not like Margaret, with her “connections” and airs.
The party hummed along. Children darted about; adults chatted over cake. I flitted between rooms, ensuring everyone had what they needed. James helped but was mostly deep in conversationhis promotion was a real achievement, though wed agreed to announce it later.
“Emily, change the boys clothes,” Margaret caught my arm. “I saw a lovely outfit in John Lewis yesterday. If youd taken me along, Michael would look like a proper birthday boy.”
I looked at my son. Jeans, a shirtcomfortable, practical, chosen together.
“Hes fine, Margaret.”
“Fine isnt the same as proper,” she snapped. “In my day”
“Mum, enough,” James intervened. “He looks great.”
Margaret pressed her lips together and stalked off. I mouthed a thanks to James, but he was already engrossed in conversation.
“Mum, why is Granny always cross?” Michael tugged my sleeve.
I froze, salad tongs in hand. Behind me, Margarets laughter rang out as she held court, lamenting the difficulty of finding “decent help these days.”
“Shes not cross, sweetheart,” I crouched to his level. “She just likes things done a certain way.”
“What way?”
A good question. If only I knew.
“Cake time!” I announced, checking the clock. “Michael, come make a wish.”
Everyone gathered round. James hit play on his phone. I emerged from the kitchen with the caketwo tiers, chocolate ganache, raspberry filling, Michaels favourite.
“Whoa!” His eyes lit up.
“Bit plain,” Margaret muttered, just loud enough. “Harrods wouldve done figures, sparkles”
I swallowed the sting. Today wasnt about her. Today was Michaels.
“Make a wish and blow, darling.”
The room erupted into “Happy Birthday.” Michael screwed up his face, inhaled, and extinguished all five candles in one go. Cheers followed.
“Nowpresents!” James declared.
Michael tore through the gifts: Lego from my parents, books from friends, a toy garage from us. Finally, the grandestMargarets.
“A tablet!” He brandished the sleek box. “A real one! Thanks, Granny!”
Margaret glowed, as though shed won a prize.
“Only the best for my grandson,” she said pointedly. “Some cant afford such things, but I believe in keeping up with the times.”
Mum looked down, her humble gift suddenly inadequate. My hands shook slightly as I sliced the cake.
“Whod like to say a few words?” James raised his glass.
“I will,” Margaret stood, smoothing her dress. “Today, we celebrate five wonderful years of Michaels life. Im so proud of the boy hes becoming.”
She paused, savouring the attention.
“I raised James alone. No husband. Did everything myself. And look at him nowrespected, successful. All because of how I brought him up.”
Her voice quiverednot with emotion, but performance.
“Now, watching my grandson grow it brings me joy. But not everything does.”
The room tensed.
“Certain choices trouble me,” she fixed me with a stare. “The way hes being raised. The corners cut. Ive always told James: it matters who stands beside you, who shapes your child.”
“Margaret, please,” I whispered. “Not today.”
“Today is the perfect day,” she raised her voice. “Six years Ive held my tongue. Six years watching someone take advantage of my sons kindness.”
Guests shifted uncomfortably.
“Emily, you may resent me, but to me, you are NOBODY! Just a woman who stumbled into our family. And I wont let you ruin
