Smooth Words, Hard Truths

I had a call from my mother-in-law this morning.
“Em, this time, I hope you’re not just coming for three days? Why not stay longer? Emily! Why are you silent?”
“Happy birthday, Margaret! Take care, and may you never be unwell. Tom and I will call as soon as everything is sorted.”
Emily dropped the phone quickly.
*Ugh, how strange. The conversation started nicely, Margaret was more cheerful than usual, and the reason for the call was her birthday. And yet, from the first word to the last, all I wanted was to end this call.*
Emily dreaded visiting Margaret in the holidays she had earned after finally aligning her summer break with Tom’s. She honestly believed there were countless other places they could spend time with the kids besides Margaret’s countryside cottage. She had tried to hint to Tom that perhaps this year they could choose somewhere else, but Tom remained resolute. It was how he was brought up: to love and respect elders, to never neglect showing one’s parents. To visit was a duty, not a choice.
* * *
“Em, I only see my parents maybe once a year. If we abandon visiting them in the summer holidays, the kids might forget they even have grandparents living in another county.”
“Honey, how can I say this gently… Don’t you ever feel these visits are only about you?”
“What do you mean?” Tom frowned, bewildered.
“I mean, your parents are perfectly content living far from us. They don’t suffer for not seeing their grandchildren daily or spending quality time with them. They manage well enough without us.”
“Em, what are you implying? Why this sudden thought?”
“Because Mother only ever asks for one thing in our messages—photos of the older kids or a video of Oliver, and that’s all. She doesn’t ask about their lives, their schoolwork, or if they’re unwell. She sees grandchildren only as a means to show off their pictures to friends or the neighbor. A pretty, perfect façade. She doesn’t care about our struggles or hardships.”
“I disagree. We live far apart. They can’t sit with Oliver, take him to the park, or meet the older boys after school. If we lived nearby, it’d be different.”
“You know, Tom… My mother also lives in another county, but that doesn’t stop her from leaping to help whenever we’re in trouble. Just last year, she took unpaid leave or used a sick note to get train tickets and rush here at the slightest request. I’ve never seen your parents match that.”
“All I’m saying, Em, is that my mother-in-law is a goldmine. I don’t deny it. I’ve told her time and again how grateful I am for her. She’s our go-to person.”
“Exactly. When we visit her, she always makes time for the boys. They cycle, swim in the river, play hide and seek, chase each other, kick the ball. She dotes on our children, and they reciprocate. That’s how family should be—warm, caring, and loving.”
“Em, what do you expect from me? People are different. Your mother is a lively spirit. She’s ever youthful, a natural leader. My parents are older, more reserved. So now, are we not visiting them at all?”
Emily paused, lips pressed tightly. She decided to speak up this time.
“I feel uneasy there, and the kids do too. Uncomfortable. I don’t even know how else to say it.”
“How so? The cottage is lovely. We get private rooms. It’s clean, convenient, comfortable. What else could we want?”
“Tom, there’s an old English saying: ‘Soft bed, hard dream.’ It perfectly sums up how I feel when we visit your mother.”
“Unexpected. Why didn’t you mention this before? I always thought you and the kids enjoyed staying there. Visiting my parents felt ideal to me—seeing my parents while you and the children have a good time. What’s wrong, Em?”
“Everything. The moment we all descend on their home with our large family, their peaceful, orderly world collapses.”
“I’ve never noticed. You’re imagining things, Em. You’re too sensitive lately.”
“Honey, while you’re occupied with chores at Mum and Dad’s, helping them, you rarely spend time with me or the boys. I see and hear everything that goes on. Your mother’s barbed remarks, your father’s disapproving glances. You think I enjoy this? We’ve been married ten years, and it feels like your mother still can’t accept me as your wife. Or perhaps she’s never welcomed us as her family.”
“What are you saying, Em!” Tom’s nerves frayed, wanting to end the conversation.
“Let’s go visit them, this time, but you must pay closer attention to what’s happening in their home. Then, I think everything will fall into place, and you’ll stop being angry with me, thinking I’m being finicky.”
Agreed.
* * *
In the next days, Emily packed for the big family. Tom, however, walked around moodier than a thundercloud. His wife’s words had struck him.
The four-hour drive to Tom’s parents was unchanged. Emily tried to inject cheer. Sang songs, played with the younger sons in the back. She knew Tom disliked the confrontation but couldn’t stay silent any longer.
She had long been the ideal daughter-in-law, always smiling, never retaliating to biting remarks. But the silent weight of Margaret’s tyranny had worn her out. This time, she vowed, it’d be different.
“Welcome, dears!” Margaret greeted, radiant at the door. “Come in, we’ve been waiting ages.”
Tom gave Emily a sidelong glance, *how could you be so harsh on her? Look how genuinely glad she is.*
“Son, bring your things up to the spare room. Stop creating a mess.”
Tom dutifully hauled the suitcases upstairs.
“Why do you always bring so much stuff? You can’t even pack properly, Em. You drag unnecessary items, and Tom has to cart them around. You should’ve thought of your husband. He works Saturday and Sunday to feed you all, and now he’s thinning again.”
“Margaret,” Emily replied loudly, ensuring Tom could hear.
Margaret froze. In other situations, she’d have stayed quiet, but today, Emily dared to answer back.
“Tom eats well, balanced. His looks run in the family. Look at Mr. Smith—do you see the resemblance? Do you feed your son properly, Margaret? And it’s not too much luggage. We’re five people, remember. The boys get dirty here; there’s no proper laundry. Of course, we bring extra clothes. You expect no faulty logic here.”
Margaret gaped. Tom descended the stairs, having overheard everything. He stayed silent but felt uneasy. They’d barely stepped through the door, and already complaints.
“Come to the dining room. You must be hungry after the drive.” Margaret composed herself.
Dad entered.
“Ah, you’ve arrived. Boys, trouble yet? Something broken? Or will you at least delay it until tomorrow?” Margaret had hidden her valuables last night.
The boys, who’d been playing in the hall, grew quiet.
“Tom and I have never broken anything. Stop making things up,” Emily cut in.
Dad’s face crumpled, retreating to the table without a word.
“Vince, sit straight. Sasha, behave at the table. Oliver, eat neatly.” Margaret scolded the boys throughout dinner.
Finally, Emily snapped.
“Stop nagging them. These are children, Tom. They’re not adults yet. Be kinder, Margaret.”
Margaret reddened with anger but stayed silent.
The boys finished, fleeing outside. Laughs and joy echoed. Adults struggled to chat.
“Emily!” Margaret snapped. “You must control your children. How much longer will this noise continue? I can’t endure it anymore.”
“They are children, Margaret. They play and laugh. How was this supposed to be? Quietly reading books in a corner? Only in films. This will last a week. Then we leave. You should join them. It’s fun.”
“What nonsense! I haven’t played like that in years. And Emily, you’ve been acting out of sorts all day.”
“Pardon me, but I’ve been very composed,” Emily said, a chill in her voice.
Tom watched silently, realising how blind he’d been. While his wife had been patient before, this time was different.
Emily stood to serve herself meat from the shared platter, taking the ladle. Margaret exploded:
“What are you doing! This ladle is only for soups. I never used it for meat. What sort of housewife are you? Who taught you this? How does Tom still put up with you?”
She ignored the son’s presence. “So many times I told you: don’t touch my cutlery. I handle everything exactly as I please. You’re not part of my household!”
“Why, is it a prison? Won’t you let us eat or feed the kids until you permit it?” Emily lashed out.
“You’ll stay home and do what you please. I won’t allow you to mess up my home!”
“Enough!” Tom stood. “Mother, a single question: why bother inviting us every year if our presence is so hard for you? Yes, I have a big family. I thought you loved us. But显然, not. We won’t bother you again.”
Tom left to play with the boys. Margaret and John showed no interest in their grandchildren. Emily had been right.
The next morning, Margaret woke to a quiet house. She found no one around—the family had left.
Tom fulfilled his wife’s wish, taking them for a real holiday. Emily, hugging the boys, smiled, finally at peace.