“So soft the bed, yet sleep so strained.
‘Well, this time, Emily, surely you’re not just visiting for three days? Do stay longer! Emily! Why are you silent?’
‘Margaret! Happy birthday once more! Don’t catch cold, mind your tea! Daniel and I will sort it all and ring you soon.’
Emily hung up the phone with haste.
‘Ugh, how does this happen?’ she muttered, placing the phone down. ‘A cheerful chat, a surprisingly kind mother-in-law, a joyful reason—her silver wedding anniversary—not to mention a sunny forecast. Yet from the first moment, I just *ached* to end this call.’
Emily had *no* desire to spend her long-awaited holiday at her in-laws, especially after syncing with Daniel’s annual leave. She *truly* believed there were a million better places for her, Daniel, and the kids to enjoy. She’d tried hinting, oh so subtly, that maybe this year’s summer could offer something besides a trip to Margaret’s Cotswolds cottage. But Daniel was as stubborn as his father’s old walking stick. ‘Respect the elders!’ he’d say. ‘Parents deserve your visits!’ ‘It’s *rude* to ignore them!’
***
‘Em, I see my parents once a year! You want us to stop? The kids won’t know their grandparents in Oxfordshire!’
‘Darling, how do I phrase this gently… Do you ever feel these visits only serve *you*?’
‘What d’you mean?’ Daniel frowned, bewildered.
‘You know, Margaret only texts for one thing: photos of the boys or videos of the toddler. Just that. She never asks how they’re doing, how school is, if they’re unwell. The grandchildren are her *social media trophies*. She’d rather show them to her bridge club than care about their struggles.’
‘Don’t be absurd. We’re far apart. They can’t babysit Thomas, fetch William from school. If we lived nearby, it’d be different.’
‘…My mom also lives in a different city. Yet she’s flown to London seven times last year, took leave, bought trains, and rushed over at a moment’s notice. Margaret? Not seen in a crowd.’
‘Yes, Em, my mother-in-law is *pearls and pearls*. I’ve thanked her endlessly. She’s our own personal fairy godmother.’
‘Oh, she is. When we visit *her*, she spends hours with the boys—cycling, homemade puddings, hide-and-seek, football. She adores them. They adore her. That’s *family*: warmth, care, love.’
‘Em, why blame them? Your mom’s a sprightly bird, young at heart. My parents? They’re… older. Less sprightly. Should we boycott them, then?’
Emily clamped her lips, holding back a retort. Not today.
‘I feel icky there. Unsettled. Uncomfortable. I don’t even know how to say it.’
‘How so? Margaret’s cottage is lovely, we get private rooms, clean sheets, Wi-Fi—what more do you want?’
‘You know that saying: “Softly strews, but hard to sleep”? That’s my holiday at Margaret’s.’
‘Aye, but you never said. I thought you loved the cottage! Family time! You’re grumping over nothing.’
‘Daniel, from the moment we arrive, your parents’ “peaceful, orderly world” collapses under our big family. Margaret’s calm? That shattered teacup.’
‘Nonsense! You’re imagining things. You’ve turned into a hypocondriac.’
‘Daniel, you’re often off helping Dad fix the garden. You barely speak to me or the kids. I *see*, I *hear*: clipped remarks, Margaret’s thin-lipped stares. Ten years married, and to me, Margaret still acts like she hasn’t accepted I’m your wife. Or us… your *family*.’
‘What nonsense, Emily—!’
‘Here’s the deal. We visit. You pay attention to what happens. Then… maybe we’ll find our peace.’
‘Fine.’
***
Emily packed for the family, while Daniel stomped off grumpily. The four-hour drive to the Cotswolds: Emily sang to the boys in the back, tried to jolly things up. She knew Daniel felt offended by her honesty—she’d kept her peace for *years*. Smiled at Margaret’s barbs about her ‘unfashionable’ skirts, her ‘poor’ cooking. But this time, enough.
‘Welcome, love! Come in, come in, we’ve been aching for you!’ Margaret beamed at the door.
Daniel shot Emily a ‘told-you-so’ look.
‘Son, drag the bags upstairs. This isn’t a market stall!’
‘You bring too many! Can’t you pack sensibly, Emily? Daniel’s poorer for it. Thin, too. You’re not feeding him properly.’
‘Margaret, Daniel eats well. He takes after your husband—look at Mr. Jonathan! And we bring five of us, not a solo holiday. The boys muck about here; washing machines are scarce. Must’ve been *your* idea.’
Margaret’s eyes popped. Words unspoken for a decade, now spilling.
Daniel came downstairs, overheard it all. Uncomfortable.
‘Right, time for tea! You must be famished,’ Margaret said, backtracking.
Jonathan strolled in from the garden, grinning. ‘Bit of chaos, then? Any broken vases yet? She hides them in the bookshelf last time,’ he chuckled.
The boys fell silent.
‘The kids haven’t broken a thing. Stop inventing,’ snapped Emily.
Jonathan grunted and slouched to the table.
‘William, sit *properly*. Thomas, no slurping. Nikita, don’t drop your peas!’ Margaret scolded through lunch.
‘Cut it out! They’re *children*, not bloody vicars,’ Emily snapped.
Margaret flushed crimson but held her tongue.
Eventually, the boys were off, footfalls echoing. Margaret snapped:
‘Emily, command those boys! This *noise* is murder!’
‘Let them be boys! You want them wisdom-filled at seven? In films, only. We’re leaving in a week. Try *playing* with them instead of criticising!’
‘Play? I haven’t played since the 1970s! You’re *snappish* today.’
‘I’m snapped only *because* you try to play the queen of clipclops.’
Daniel watched, aghast. How had he missed all this?
Emily reached for the sauceboat.
‘What d’you think you’re doing? That’s for soup, not meat! Who taught you to cook with one teaspoon?’ Margaret exploded, fists shaking.
‘And who taught you to run a home like a tyrant?’
Daniel stood. ‘Mum, one question: Why *invite* us if you can’t tolerate us?’ He walked off to the boys. *Emily was right*.
***
Morning came, quiet. Margaret wandered the cottage, empty. The boys? Gone. Daniel’s truck? Gone. Emily, cradling the toddler, waved from the car.
‘Ta, Margaret! Next time… we’ll visit your library. For silence.’
The cottage was still. Margaret sipped lukewarm tea, stared at the garden—then grumbled: ‘So many empty vases…’
