Eleanor Fairchild sighed as she ended the call. “Well, that was… something,” she murmured. Despite the pleasant birthday wishes exchanged with her mother-in-law, Margaret Worthington, an overwhelming urge to escape the conversation had gripped her the entire time.
The prospect of spending her precious summer leave at Margaret’s countryside cottage, coinciding with her husband Sebastian’s holiday, filled her with dread. A million better places existed for their family of five. She’d hinted as much to Sebastian, suggesting perhaps Cornwall or the Lake District instead, but he remained resolute. Respect for elders was ingrained in him – disappointing parents was unthinkable.
* * *
“Ellie, I barely see Mum and Dad once a year,” Sebastian argued. “You want us to skip visiting entirely? The boys will forget they have grandparents!”
“Darling,” Eleanor began gently, “never occurred to you these visits are mainly for *you*?”
Sebastian frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That your parents are perfectly content living remotely. They don’t pine for the boys. Everything they want is a few pretty photos for the neighbours. The struggles behind the scenes? They don’t ask.”
“Ellie, that’s harsh! Mum asks for photos.”
“She asks *me* for photos. Never ‘How are they doing? How’s school? Are they well?’ Just pictures. Your mum visits our problems? Hardly. Mine, though? In Birmingham, but she leaps on a train at the first sign of trouble, taking leave or sick days. Remember last year? She was here half a dozen times! Your parents? Never offered.”
“Your mum’s a gem, Ellie. A lifesaver. Always said so.”
“Exactly. When we visit *her*, she pours herself into the boys. Cycling, paddling, football, hide-and-seek. She adores them; they adore her. That’s family warmth.”
“So, what do you want?” Sebastian asked, exasperated. “All different, aren’t they? Your mum’s a dynamo. Mine’s… older. Different temperament. Stop visiting?”
Eleanor hesitated, then took the plunge. “It feels… wrong there. Uncomfortable. For me, for the boys.”
“How? The cottage is gorgeous! Separate rooms, spotless!”
“There’s a saying, Sebastian: ‘Fair words make fools fain.’ That sums me up at your mother’s.”
Sebastian looked surprised. “Never knew you felt this way! Seemed perfect – see the parents, you relax.”
“It’s everything,” Eleanor countered. “The moment our tribe descends, their peaceful little world shatters.”
“Nonsense! You’re imagining things.”
“You’re busy fixing taps and mowing lawns! You miss it: her constant barbed remarks, your father’s disapproving looks. Ten years married, Sebastian! Yet I feel she resents me being your wife. Maybe resents you having *us*.”
“Eleanor!” Sebastian snapped, growing agitated.
“Alright. We’ll go. But pay *attention*. Notice what actually happens there. You’ll understand.”
* * *
Eleanor packed for the week ahead while Sebastian brooded. Her words had stung.
The drive to Coventry took four hours. Eleanor worked hard to raise spirits, singing silly songs with the boys. She knew her honesty hurt Sebastian, but silence was worse.
For years, she’d been the obliging daughter-in-law – smiling politely, swallowing Margaret’s insults about her parenting (‘Boys are wild!’) or Sebastian (‘Barely a pick on him!’) or her clothes (‘Dreadfully common skirt’). To avoid conflict, she’d absorbed every snipe. No more. Margaret mistook kindness for weakness; this time, Eleanor wouldn’t yield.
“Hello darlings!” Margaret beamed from the doorway, radiating hospitality. Sebastian shot Eleanor a pointed look: *See? Told you.* He started carrying bags upstairs.
“And why must you bring *so much*?” Margaret tutted at Eleanor. “Can’t pack properly? Poor Sebastian hauling it all! Hardly eats enough, look how thin he is!”
“Really, Margaret!” Eleanor exclaimed loudly, ensuring Sebastian heard. “Sebastian eats perfectly well – takes after Alexander. Do *you* feed your husband badly? Five of us require luggage! Boys get muddy; no proper washing machine here. Faultless!”
Margaret gaped, stunned by this unprecedented retort. Sebastian, returning downstairs, heard every word. He said nothing, but discomfort flickered across his face.
Alexander came in from the garden. “Ah, the vandals arrived! Smash much yet? Gran spent yesterday hiding valuables!” The boys, playing tag in the hall, slowed uncertainly.
“My boys have broken precisely nothing,” Eleanor stated coolly.
Alexander scowled silently.
Dinner brought constant criticism: “Alfie, sit straight! Henry, manners! Tommy, careful!” Finally, Eleanor interjected: “Must you nit-pick? They’re *children*. Be patient!”
Margaret flushed scarlet but remained silent.
After tea, the boys’ noisy play resumed.
“Eleanor!” Margaret hissed. “Control them! This racket is intolerable!”
“They’re playing! Happy! How else should three boys be? Reading quietly? That only happens in films! It’ll last a week. Try joining them! It’s fun.”
“Play? Goodness, no! Eleanor, you’re behaving strangely today. Quite rude.”
“Believe me,” Eleanor smiled thinly, “I’m showing remarkable restraint.”
Sebastian witnessed it all silently. How had he missed his mother’s perpetual dissatisfaction? Eleanor’s silence had smoothed things, but not now.
Eleanor stood to serve herself more roast beef, reaching for a ladle.
“No!” Margaret shrieked. “That’s for soup only! Who taught you to run a home? How Sebastian endures your incompetence!” Years of resentment boiled over; her son’s presence forgotten. “Never touch *anything* here! I manage *my* house!”
“So I starve? Starve the boys? What sort of house is this?” Eleanor shot back.
“You want chaos? Go home!” Margaret snarled. “Ill-mannered girl!”
“Stop!” Sebastian’s voice cracked sharply. “Mum! Why invite us if we’re such a burden? I thought you *wanted* us. Needed pictures, not *us*.” He rose, walking towards his sons. “We shan’t trouble you again.”
The next morning, Margaret awoke to unusual quiet. Peeking into the guest rooms, she found them empty.
Sebastian drove towards the coast, finally granting Eleanor’s wish. Eleanor smiled, hugging her boys. Polite distance, he realised finally, could preserve familial bonds far better than forced closeness bristling with silent resentment.
