The Feather Bed’s Burden
“So, this time, I do hope you’ll stay longer than three days? Stay properly? Eleanor, why so quiet?”
“Happy birthday again, Cynthia! Please take care of yourself! William and I will call as soon as we finalise plans.” Eleanor hurriedly ended the call.
“Brrr,” she thought, putting the phone down, “the conversation was pleasant, my mother-in-law unusually welcoming, the occasion joyful – her birthday! Yet, from the first word, I craved its end.”
The thought of spending her long-awaited, much-deserved holiday – finally coinciding with William’s – at her mother-in-law’s filled her with dread. Millions of places felt more appealing than Cynthia Taylor’s cottage for the Taylor family getaway. She’d hinted mightily to William: perhaps this summer, they could finally choose somewhere else? But William, raised on duty – respect elders, honour parents with visits, it’s simply proper – remained unmoved.
* * *
“Ellie, I only see them once a year! You want us to skip visiting on holiday too? The boys will forget they have grandparents in Cornwall!” William argued.
“Darling, how to put this gently… Doesn’t it sometimes feel these visits are just for your sake?” Eleanor ventured.
William frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That your parents are quite settled in their distant life from yours, from our family. They’re content. They don’t pine for the grandchildren or much time. Her letters only ever demand photos or videos of the baby. Nothing about how they truly are at school or health. Just pretty pictures for her neighbours. A perfect façade. What lies beneath? She shows no interest in our challenges.”
“I disagree. Distance is the issue. They can’t babysit Toby, collect Oliver and Samuel from school. Nearby, it’d be different.”
“My mum lives miles away too, William,” countered Eleanor. “But it never stops her. Like Batman and Robin! She’s taken leave or time off countless times this year, hopping the train at our first call. Seen such zeal from your parents?”
“Ellie, your mother *is* wonderful. I’m endlessly grateful,” William conceded. “She’s our rock.”
“Precisely! When we stay with her, she lives for the boys – walks, cycling, river swims, hide-and-seek, football. She adores them, and they her. That’s family. Warmth, care, love.”
“What do you want, Ellie?” William sighed. “People differ. Your mum’s a firecracker. Mine are older, different temperaments. Must we never visit?”
Eleanor bit her lip, hesitating. Not now. “It feels wrong there. For me, for the boys. Uncomfortable, strained. I can’t quite name it.”
“How? Their cottage is perfect! Separate rooms, clean, cosy. What more?”
“William, there’s a saying: ‘The feather bed makes hard waking.’ That perfectly captures it for me with Cynthia.”
“Why speak only now? I always thought you all loved it there! A perfect holiday – see my parents, rest yourselves. What’s wrong?”
“Everything! From the moment we tumble into their orderly, quiet world, we shatter it. You’re often busy helping them, occupied with chores, pleasing them. You miss it. I see it all – Cynthia’s barbed comments, Bernard’s sharp looks. Pleasant? We’ve been married ten years, yet I swear Cynthia resents my role. Or resents *us*.”
“Ellie!” William snapped, eager to stop this.
“Let’s go,” Eleanor pressed. “But observe closely what unfolds there. Then you’ll understand, without thinking me petty.”
They agreed.
* * *
Packing for Cornwall, Eleanor worked to lift William’s evident gloom. The four-hour journey was spent singing car songs, playing with Toby. His hurt was clear, but her silence had ended.
Long had she smiled sweetly at his parents, swallowing every slight – towards her or the boys – avoiding conflict. Futile. Sensing power, Cynthia never missed a dig. Constant disapproval.
Boys too loud? Eleanor’s poor parenting. William too thin? Eleanor’s poor cooking. Skirt too short for her age. Faults were ever found. Exhausted by the pressure, Eleanor resolved this time would differ.
“Hello, darlings!” Cynthia beamed at the door, radiating welcome. “Come in, come in! We’ve waited ages!”
William shot a glance: See? What tales you spun! Look how happy Mum is!
“William, take bags straight upstairs to your room. No clutter,” Cynthia ordered. William obeyed, lugging cases.
“Why *pack* so much every time, Eleanor? Can’t you pack sensibly? All this extra! Poor William shifts it all. He works tirelessly to keep you all fed, barely eats himself – skin and bone again,” Cynthia tutted.
“Cynthia, really!” Eleanor replied, loud enough for William descending the stairs. Cynthia blinked; the usual silent daughter-in-law suddenly answering, sharply.
“William eats well and balanced,” Eleanor stated firmly. “He’s thin like Bernard. Look at Bernard! Did you never notice the resemblance? How well do *you* feed *your* husband? And we’ve no extra kit. There are *five* of us. Especially boys needing clean clothes – no proper laundry here. Not my doing.”
Cynthia gaped, speechless. William, overhearing all, felt an unpleasant stir. Barely arrived, and criticism began.
“Come to table,” Cynthia recovered, “you must be famished.”
Bernard entered from the garden. “Ah, you’ve arrived. Alright, lads? Broken anything yet? Or not had time? Gran hid the vases and paintings yesterday. Nervous about her things!” He chuckled. The boys, romping in the living room, quieted.
“My children have never broken anything here,” Eleanor said coldly. Bernard scowled and slunk to the table.
“Oliver, sit straight! Samuel, mind your table manners. Toby, eat neatly!” Cynthia fussed throughout dinner. Finally, Eleanor snapped.
“Oh, stop nagging them! They’re children! They don’t sit still or eat like ladies! Be patient, Cynthia.”
Cynthia flushed, anger darkening her cheeks, but she held her tongue before William.
The boys, freed, raced off. Noise filled the house, drowning out adult talk.
“Eleanor!” Cynthia finally snapped. “For heaven’s sake, quiet those boys! How much longer? I can’t bear this racket! It’s intolerable!”
“They’re children. They play. Yes, they’re noisy. What did you expect? Three sitting quietly reading? That’s cinema! It lasts precisely one week. Until we leave. Try joining them, Cynthia. It’s fun.”
“Ridiculous! I recall no such thing! Honestly, Eleanor, you’re very odd today. Quite unrestrained.”
“Believe me, I’m showing remarkable restraint,” Eleanor said, a dangerous sweetness in her voice.
William watched silently, realisation dawning. His mother’s constant displeasure – towards Eleanor, the boys – he’d truly missed. While Eleanor smoothed things over, it had been bearable. Not this time.
Eleanor rose for more roast, picking up the serving spoon. Cynthia shrieked.
“Stop! That’s for *soup* only! I never use it for meat! Helpless! Who taught you housekeeping? How William endures you…” Cynthia, wound tight by Eleanor’s defiance, forgetting her son was there, exploded. “How often must I say it? Don’t touch *anything* in *my* house! I manage *my* kitchen! Your place is *not* here!”
“What – not eat? Not feed my children until *you* permit? What jail is this?” Eleanor retorted.
“At *your* house, wreck whatever you please! Not here! Insolent girl!”
“Enough! Stop!” William roared, silencing the nightmare. “Mum, just answer me
The engine hummed steadily as they left the old pressures behind, watching rolling green fields blur past the window, each mile dissolving tension and stitching their little family tighter with the quiet certainty that genuine warmth blooms where it’s freely given, not forcefully tended.
Smooth Words, Hard Truths
