Motherinlaw, you keep calling me MrsMargaret, as if we were at a Conservative Party conference, not at a family dinner, Kate snapped, her voice barely containing the fury. She pressed a napkin to her lips, still dusted with crumbs from the birthday cake, and deliberately pushed her tea cup away.
A heavy silence settled over the table. The guestsa stern aunt from York, a cousin with a demanding toddler, and a neighbor brought in for the sake of numbershung motionless, waiting for the next blow. Andrew, Kates husband, buried his face in a bowl of potato salad, pretending the ingredients fascinated him. He always did that when a storm loomed, ducking his head under the sand while the women wrestled with their oldlady business.
Kate set her fork down, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and finally met Margarets gaze. Margaret sat at the head of the table, upright as a flagpole, dressed in her finest silk dress, radiating an expectation of obedience.
MrsMargaret, I address you by name and title out of respect. Its polite and fits our relationship, Kate said, keeping her voice even.
What relationship? Margaret huffed. Were one family now! I gave you my son, my blood. Im a second mother to you. And you call me you, like a stranger. Thats not how we do things. Look at Val, my sisters daughtershe called me Mum at the wedding and theyve been close ever since. You keep your distance, and thats arrogant.
My mother is VeraAndrews, Kate replied firmly. There can be only one mother, biologically and morally. You are my husbands mother. I respect you, I value you, but I wont call you Mum. If that hurts you, Im sorry, but I cant be hypocritical.
Margaret clutched her chest theatrically, rolled her eyes, and scanned the table for allies.
You heard that? Hypocritical! Im the one whos giving everythingbaking pies, giving adviceyet she turns up her nose! Andrew, say something! Youre hurting your mother in her own home!
Andrew gulped, flushed, and managed to stammer, Kate, honestly it would please her. Its just a word. Its tradition.
Kate stared at him, her look heavy with fatigue from endless demands, disappointment at his spinelessness, and a warning that this time she would not yield.
For me it isnt just a word, Andrew. Mum is a sacred concept. Its the person who carried me, who stayed up with me when I was sick, who loves unconditionally. Margaret is a wonderful woman but she isnt my mother. Lets drop this and not ruin the celebration. Who wants more cake?
The dinner was ruined. Guests slipped away, the tension thick in the air. Margaret, seeing them out, whispered loudly to the neighbour, Modern daughters have lost all sense of gratitude.
Later, Kate washed the dishes with a fierce vigor. At thirty she was a successful architect, independent, yet in Margarets presence she sometimes felt like a naughty schoolgirl caught out. Margaret wielded passive aggression like a blade; she never shouted, but her concern cut deep enough to make one want to howl.
The next day Kate hoped the incident was behind them, but she knew Margarets siege had just begun.
Saturday morning, as Kate and Andrew tried to sleep in after a brutal work week, there was a persistent knocking at the door. It lingered, the knocker never resting.
On the doorstep stood Margaret, dragging a massive wheeled suitcase.
Still asleep? she chirped, rolling into the hall without waiting for an invitation. I was at the market, bought fresh cottage cheese. Thought Id swing by, make some scones for the kids. I know youre both busy, always working, never finding time to feed a husband.
Kate, in a rumpled pyjama, hair a mess, sighed deeply.
Good morning, MrsMargaret. We arent hungry and we had plans.
What plans could beat a hot breakfast from Mum? Margaret shouted, already rummaging through cupboards, clanging pans together. Andrew! Get up, son! Mums here!
At breakfast, the scones were indeed delicious, and Andrew smiled blissfully. Margaret launched into a second tirade.
See, Kate, this is how I look after you. I got up at six, trudged to the market, lugged this suitcase. My back aches, my legs are throbbing, yet Im here. Would a stranger do that? Only a mum would. So why is it so hard for you to call me Mum? Is your tongue stuck?
Kate set her fork down.
Thank you for the breakfast, Margaret, but care isnt bought with scones, and Mum isnt awarded for delivering cottage cheese.
What else earns it, then? Being held in the delivery room? I took Andrew in. Were family now. I want warmth, a proper family feel. Youre cold as a fish. I called Vera yesterday, complained.
Why did you call my mother? Kate asked, ice in her voice.
To tell her how you act. I thought shed sway you. She said, Kate, youre an adult, you decide yourself. Thats all she said. Thats parentingletting go.
Ill ask you not to bother my mother with your complaints, Kate replied, voice sharp. She has blood pressure; she cant be stressed.
And I have no pressure? My heart isnt hurting? Margaret snapped. Im here for you, Im trying!
Andrew intervened hurriedly. Mum, dont start. Kate appreciates, really. She just needs time to adjust.
Its been three years already! Margaret snapped. Fine, if you dont want it nicefine. Ill keep coming, helping, until you realise who truly wishes you well.
From then on Margarets visits became routine. She inspected whether the sons shirts were clean, rearranged pots because its more convenient, critiqued curtains, wall colours, even the brand of laundry powder, always adding, A mum never gives bad advice.
Kate endured. She was polite but erected boundaries where she could. She refused to hand over spare keys (despite Margarets request for a fireescape copy), kept her out of financial matters. Still, the tension rose.
The climax hit in November. Kate was struck down by a vicious flu: temperature neared forty, body aches, sheer weakness. Andrew, unlucky, was on a business trip in Manchester and wouldnt return until Friday.
Kate lay in bed, drifting in fevered dreams. She tried calling her own mother, Vera, but Vera was in hospital with a hypertensive crisis; Kate didnt want to alarm her, so she said it was just a cold.
Wednesday afternoon the front door rattled. Andrew had left a spare key set with Margaret, just in case the plants need watering. Kate had forgotten all about it.
The hallway filled with the clatter of bags and Margarets booming voice: Anyone alive in here? Andy called, said youve gone completely off the rails. Im here to save the day.
Kate mustered a weak whisper, MrsMargaret dont come in its contagious
Margaret barged into the bedroom still in her coat, eyes scanning the messhalfempty teacups, pill packets, crumpled tissues. The room felt stifling.
Great atmosphere! Even a hatchet would feel at home, she declared. And such a mess. Even when youre sick you should be proper, Kate.
She flung the window open. A blast of icy November air hit Kates flushed face.
Close it, please Im shivering, Kate whispered, pulling the blanket tighter.
Ventilation clears germs. Youll survive. I brought broth. Get up, go to the kitchen. Lying here is like keeping a pigsty.
My head spins, I cant stand, Kate croaked.
Dont lie. Movement is life. Get up. Ive trekked through the whole city for this.
Margaret stormed out, clattering dishes. Kate staggered to the bathroom, then the kitchen, hoping for at least a cup of tea.
In the kitchen Margaret dumped the contents of her suitcase, but instead of offering tea she launched a full inspection of the fridge.
Lord, a mouse! Sausages, expired yoghurts what have you been feeding Andy before he left? Poor lad, he could develop gastritis.
MrsMargaret, Im ill could I just have water? Kate asked, slumping onto a chair.
Water? Do it yourself, youre not broken. Look at your stovegrease everywhere. While youre sick Ill do a deep clean; otherwise Ill be ashamed in front of guests.
She began rattling pots, moving chairs, scrubbing cupboards with a harsh chemical. The smell of bleach mixed with Kates fever, making her retch.
Please, no cleaning I need peace, Kate pleaded, voice trembling.
Thats it! Im a mother, Im here to help! I didnt measure my blood pressure, yet Im already cleaning. You should thank me.
Thanks, Kate whispered, but I need medication I cant fetch. Did you buy what Andy asked for?
Oh dear, the list Margaret clapped her forehead. I forgot. But I did buy beetroot! Ill make borscht. Its the best remedy. You can peel the veg, Ill simmer the broth. Well get it done faster together.
Kate shot her a feverblurred stare. You want me, running around with a thirtynine degree fever, to peel beetroot?
Exactly. Work heals. When I was ill I dug in the garden and survived. No fuss.
At that moment Kates phone buzzed. It was Vera.
Kate, love, how are you? My voice sounds awful. Ive just been discharged, cant stay in bed while youre ill. Im at your flat now, Ill be there in minutes.
Five minutes later Vera staggered in, pale but determined.
Mum Kate sobbed, relief flooding her.
Vera ignored Margaret, rushed to Kates side, feeling her forehead, gasping. Oh dear, youre burning up! We need a doctor, fast.
She efficiently helped Kate into bed, fetched a damp cloth, and produced the medicines shed bought on the way, a thermos of cranberry juice and a tin of chicken broth.
Margaret lingered in the doorway, lips pursed.
Im helping too, I was planning to clean and cook. You just came in after the hospital, Vera, and youre spreading germs.
Vera turned, voice calm yet steelstrong. Margaret, look at Kate. She needs rest and quiet. No cleaning, no borscht. She needs medicine and sleep. Why are you forcing her to get up?
Im trying to help, motherly style, to cheer her up! Shes lying like a sack of potatoes.
Kate, feeling the fever melt slightly after the medication, rose on her elbows. Anger, long stored, surged.
MrsMargaret, she said loudly, come here, please.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, then approached.
Listen to me. For half a year youve demanded I call you Mum. Youre offended, you manipulate, you complain to everybody. Today you showed exactly why Ill never call you that.
Why? Margaret asked, huffing. I came, I brought food
Because Mum isnt groceries or a spotless kitchen, Kate interjected. Look at my mother. She barely stands, she rushed from the hospital just to give me water and a blanket. She doesnt ask me to peel beetroot when Im dying. She doesnt criticize a greasy stove while Im burning up. She simply loves, quietly, without expectation.
Vera squeezed Kates hand, her eyes soft.
You came here not to help, but to assert yourself. You wanted to play house, poke me with your nose, show how heroic you are. You forced me to stand, knowing I was ill, because your pride in being the saintly mum mattered more than my health. A real mum protects, feels the childs pain as her own, doesnt demand chores when the child is dying. Youre just a motherinlaw, a relative of my husband. Today you proved the gulf between those roles is a chasm.
A heavy silence fell. Margarets cheeks flushed, then turned ashen. Her usual confidence cracked.
I I only wanted to cheer you up a bit of a method a wedge
Leave, Margaret, Kate said, voice weary but firm. Take your beetroot and go. Put the spare keys back on the hall table. Do not come again without an invitation. I respect you as Andrews mother, but in this house, the place of Mum belongs to the woman whos cradled me since birth.
Margaret stared at Vera, who was gently dabbing Kates forehead with a damp towel, ignoring the intruder entirely. The pure, unguarded love in Veras eyes made Margarets cheeks burn with shame, maybe envy. She understood she had lost.
She slipped out, the key clinked on the table, the front door slammed shut.
Vera sighed, readjusted the pillow. All right, love, rest now. Im staying.
Kate drifted to sleep, dreaming of a small child being carried across a vast meadow, shielded from the wind.
Andrew returned on Friday. The flat smelled of chicken broth and medicine. Kate was on the mend, still weak but improving. Vera left for home, satisfied that her son had returned to duty.
That evening, over tea, Andrew asked quietly, Mum called she cried. She said youd thrown her out, called her a stranger. What happened?
Kate looked at him, no longer irritated, just composed. I didnt throw her out, I set things straight. I explained the difference between a mother and a motherinlaw in practice. When I was truly ill, your mum tried to make me peel beetroot. My mum brought the meds. Thats the difference.
Andrew stared, cup in hand, stirring slowly.
Shes complicated, I know. But she loves me.
Exactly. She loves you, not me. I owe her no love, just respect and distance. We took her keys, Andrew. No more surprise visits. If she wants to call you Mum, well keep it to MrsMargaret. No debate.
Andrew slipped his arm around Kate, hugging her gently. Im sorry I wasnt there. I should have defended you. You have a mum, and Margaret she can be just a granny to our future kids, if she stops making them wash potatoes at three.
Kate laughed, the first genuine laugh of the week.
Six months later, relations with Margaret were chilly but civil. She only came when invited, brought her famous pies, sat politely, chatted about the weather and the garden.
At a family gathering, the same aunt from York, now a familiar face, teased, Kate, why do you still call your motherinlaw by name and title? Isnt she family?
Margaret straightened, looked at Kate, then at the aunt, and said firmly, I dont claim that. Kate has a wonderful mum, VeraAndrews. Im Margaret. We each have our role, and theres no confusion. Respect is what matters, right, Catherine?
Kate smiled warmly. Exactly, Margaret. Absolutely right.
In that moment, calling Margaret by name and title felt less like an affront and more like a bridge of honesty. Because truth is the foundation of any relationship, and the word Mum is too precious to be tossed around for politeness. It should only be spoken when it is backed by genuine, sacrificial love, not by a sack of cottage cheese or a desire to control anothers life.
