**Cracks and Reconciliation**
Family storms are a tricky business. Before marriage, Emily—née Jones—had no inkling that living with her in-laws could be such an ordeal. Coming from a close-knit family where rows were rare, she assumed she’d be spared such dramas. Colleagues’ horror stories about mothers-in-law? Pure exaggeration—surely nothing like that would happen to *her*.
After the wedding, Emily and William settled in with his mum, Margaret, in her cosy but cramped two-bed flat in a quiet Lancashire town. Margaret had welcomed Emily warmly, and for the first few months, all was smooth. Kids weren’t on the cards yet—the newlyweds were saving for their own place.
William worked for a big tech firm, his salary paving the way for future plans. Emily, on the other hand, earned less as a local primary school teacher. Margaret was sweet but had a habit of dispensing advice—harmless at first, but gradually slipping into something bossier, sharper.
One day, Emily bounced in, grinning, with a shiny new blender.
“Now we can do proper smoothies for breakfast—healthy *and* tasty!” she announced, plonking the box on the kitchen counter.
Margaret eyed it like it had personally offended her.
“What d’you need *that* for? Waste of money. Normal folk have porridge in the mornings, not all these fancy gadgets that’ll rot your insides. Mark my words, you’ll regret it.” With that, she flounced off.
Emily, gritting her teeth, called after her:
“Your son *hates* porridge! He grabs toast and tea and bolts out the door!”
Margaret froze in the doorway, turning with icy precision.
“If you were a proper wife, you’d be up early making him a decent breakfast instead of lazing in bed till noon!”
“I don’t sleep till noon!” Emily shot back. “My lessons start later—am I supposed to skip sleep just to prove a point?”
And just like that, the air between them turned frosty. The blender was just the spark—tension had been brewing for ages. Sipping tea later, Emily stewed:
*What kind of mother-in-law have I landed? Instead of being happy for me, she’s always nitpicking. It’s not my fault my job starts late. Will’s a grown man—he can butter his own toast. Why must I live by her rules?*
When the key turned in the lock, she perked up—William was home. Evenings were their only real time together.
“Alright, love?” He pecked her cheek. “Why the long face?”
“Was waiting to show you this.” She nodded at the blender. “Breakfast revolution starts tomorrow!”
“Brilliant!” He grinned.
Then, from down the hall:
“What’s there to celebrate? That contraption’ll ruin your digestion!”
“Mum, come off it,” William sighed. “Everyone’s got blenders now—it’s not the end of days.”
“How much did you waste on that rubbish?” Margaret snapped at Emily.
Quick as a flash, Emily halved the actual price.
“And that’s not too much?!” Margaret gasped. “Who brings the real money in? Will works his fingers to the bone, and you fling it about like confetti!”
“I *work* too!” Emily shot back. “And I’m not exactly twiddling my thumbs!”
“Pennies, that’s what you earn!” Margaret scoffed. “Will keeps this house afloat while you splurge!”
The row boiled over. William, sensing disaster, whisked Emily off to their room and shut the door.
“Christ, I can’t take much more of this,” Emily groaned. “Why does she *have* to meddle?”
She bit her tongue—it wasn’t William’s fault his mum was like this. Margaret blew her pension on her little garden shed: now the fence needed mending, now the roof leaked. William grumbled but always helped.
Next morning, while Emily slept, Margaret staged a breakfast intervention—proof of who *really* cared.
“Mum, why bother? I’m capable of toasting bread,” William said, baffled.
But Margaret was on a roll: Emily was lazy, ungrateful, a rubbish wife. William listened, hiding a smirk. He knew his mum was spinning yarns.
“Ta, Mum—gotta dash,” he said, escaping to work.
Margaret hovered, baffled. Emily breakfasted alone—Margaret was sulking in her room. That evening, the complaints started anew. Emily, overhearing, snapped.
“Grumbling about me *again*?” she hissed when William walked in.
He hugged her. “Don’t let her wind you up. She means well.”
“‘Well’ for *who*?” Emily groaned. “I’m sick of her policing every purchase! William, we *have* to move out.”
“And burn our savings on rent?”
“I’ll find a better-paying job, *then* we’ll go.”
“Alright, let’s not rush,” he soothed. “I’m on your side. Buy what you want. I’ll talk to Mum.”
After that chat, Margaret turned frosty, speaking only when necessary. Emily avoided the kitchen if she was there. William played peacemaker, tiptoeing between them.
Then came the birthday party for William’s colleague’s wife, Olivia, who was over the moon about her new dishwasher.
“Emily, it’s *genius*!” Olivia gushed. “Load it, press a button—done!”
“I want one!” Emily decided. “Not waiting for a gift—I’m buying it myself.”
She didn’t dawdle: picked a model, phoned William.
“Got a dishwasher! Liv raved about hers. Delivery’s tonight.”
“Nice one—more time for us,” he said, no quibbles.
When the delivery men hauled the box in, Margaret stormed out.
“What’s *this* now?”
“Dishwasher, love,” the bloke said cheerfully before leaving.
Emily braced for impact. Margaret went purple.
“A *dishwasher*?! Too lazy to wash a few plates? I’ve hand-washed all my life, and *she* plays lady of the manor!”
Emily, unboxing, tuned her out—mostly. “Will knows. Don’t act shocked later.”
Margaret snatched up her phone and vanished. When William got home, the tirade resumed—loudly, in front of Emily.
“Enough!” Emily exploded. “I can’t take your micromanaging! I’ve got a better job lined up. We’re *moving out*. Enjoy your solo reign!”
Margaret stomped off. Next day—Sunday—she stayed in her room. William went to tinker with the car. Emily, sipping tea, wondered:
*Was I too harsh? She wasn’t always like this. Maybe the dishwasher *was* overkill…*
Gathering a tray of tea and biscuits, she knocked.
“Margaret… fancy a cuppa?”
“I’d love one,” came the unexpectedly warm reply. “Come in, Em. Found a smashing apple pie recipe—fancy some?”
“*Love* apple pie!” Emily beamed.
That evening, William returned to find them chatting over tea and pie. The sight warmed him right through.
