Emily returned home late. The flat was suspiciously quiet—no sound of her husband, no familiar muttering from her mum.
“Mum? James?” she called, peeking into the rooms. Empty.
“James is probably tinkering in the garage,” she thought. “But Mum… Surely she hasn’t stormed off?”
She threw on her jacket and stepped outside. A warm yellow glow spilled from the slightly open garage door, voices drifting out. Stepping inside, she froze.
James and her mother, Margaret, were deep in work on an antique mirror. He was painting the frame while Margaret, a scarf tied over her hair and an old apron around her waist, was enthusiastically explaining something.
“Just look at how the wood grain’s come to life!” Margaret marvelled. “This is real craftsmanship, James!”
“Don’t overdo it, Margaret,” he chuckled. “Just messing about.”
“Messing about!” she huffed. “This is a masterpiece!”
Emily sank onto a stool, stunned. That morning, they’d been at each other’s throats…
It all began when Margaret moved in “temporarily” after the care home she’d lived in for the past two years closed for renovations.
“Mum’s only staying a few weeks,” Emily had assured James. “Just until they reopen.”
“A few weeks,” he’d grumbled. “Living with her, though.”
He paced the kitchen, fists clenched, then exhaled sharply. “Maybe we could rent her a B&B? I’ve got that bonus coming…”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Emily snapped. “So I can spend the rest of my life hearing how her own daughter kicked her out?”
The doorbell shattered the silence. Margaret, as always, had arrived an hour early—”just to check things over.”
From the doorstep, her inspection began. “Emily, love, these walls need a fresh coat… And this coat rack! James, at least tighten the screws!”
James had vanished into the bathroom without a word.
Within days, Margaret had rearranged the furniture, scrubbed the kitchen spotless, reorganised the cupboards—and by the week’s end, rifled through James’s paperwork.
“Margaret!” he’d snapped when he couldn’t find a folder. “Where are my documents?”
“Tossed the crumpled ones,” she’d said lightly. “Sorted everything into new folders—alphabetically!”
James had left without another word, the door slamming behind him.
Emily had tried to focus at work, but her mind kept drifting back home. Her mother, stubborn; her husband, proud—and caught between them, her.
After work, she hurried straight back. The flat was empty. At first, panic set in—until she heard voices from the garage.
And now here she was, watching in disbelief as the two people she’d mediated between that morning chatted about varnishes and stains, laughing like old friends.
“Mum?” she called hesitantly.
“Oh, you’re back!” Margaret beamed. “Look at James’s handiwork! And here I was, grumbling like a silly old bat…”
She lifted a plate of scones from the workbench.
“Made these to smooth things over—then we got sidetracked!”
“You’ve no idea!” James jumped in. “Your mum knows everything about antique furniture! I was stumped on the frame, and she just said, ‘try linseed oil’—and it transformed!”
“Mum?” Emily stared. “But you worked in a furniture department your whole career…”
“Oh, just a hobby,” Margaret waved it off.
“Nonsense!” James held up a painted trinket box. “Look at the detailing! I’d never have thought of this.”
“You’ve got more of this back in the country?” he asked eagerly.
“Barn’s full of it! Dressers, mirrors, shelves… Come down—you’ll see for yourself!”
“We will!” He turned to Emily. “Let’s visit this summer! Imagine what we could restore!”
Margaret clasped her hands. “Really? You’d come?”
“Absolutely!”
They settled around a makeshift table covered with a chequered cloth, laden with scones, a teapot, and a jar of jam.
“After this, I’ll show you another trick,” Margaret winked. “I’ve an idea for that frame.”
Emily watched them—so different, yet so familiar—and her chest tightened. Who’d have thought? Happiness sometimes hides in the most unexpected places—like an old garage, smelling of paint and sawdust, where mother-in-law and son-in-law found common ground.
