Elizabeth sighed as her phone buzzed violently on the counter. “Margaret Winchester” flashed across the screen—her mother-in-law’s third call that morning. Steeling herself, she answered.
“Yes, Margaret?”
“Lizzie darling, why ever don’t you pick up?” The older woman’s voice dripped with disapproval. “I’ve been ringing and ringing!”
“I was making porridge for Charlotte—hands full,” Elizabeth lied. Truthfully, she couldn’t stomach another lecture on parenting flaws.
“Porridge again? Goodness, children need protein! My William thrived on roast beef—built him strong. Your Charlotte’s gone peaky, poor lamb. A stiff breeze might carry her off.”
Elizabeth counted silently to five. Their daughter was perfectly healthy—petite like her father’s side.
“She has meat too, Margaret. Today’s lunch is mini meatballs.”
“Splendid! That’s why I rang. I’ll pop round after lunch with proper chicken broth—bones boiled proper, just as William likes. And I’ve made proper rissoles, none of those continental meatballs—”
The disdain in her voice made Elizabeth wince.
“Really, we’ve plenty here—”
“Nonsense! A grandmother visiting her grandchild—you wouldn’t deny me that?”
Classic Margaret—phrasing it so refusal seemed monstrous.
“Of course, do come,” Elizabeth surrendered.
Hanging up, she pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane. Outside, November drizzle clung to bare branches.
“Mummy? Who was that?” Charlotte peered from the playroom, clutching her threadbare Paddington bear.
“Granny’s coming today,” Elizabeth forced brightness into her voice.
“Will she say I eat wrong again?” The girl frowned.
Elizabeth’s heart ached. Even a child noticed the endless critiques.
“She just loves you very much, darling.”
Charlotte looked unconvinced but nodded and vanished.
Elizabeth cleaned furiously. Their usual creative clutter would earn Margaret’s trademark sigh: “Honestly, Lizzie, this pigsty breeds germs.”
By noon, floors gleamed, dust vanished, and a Victoria sponge—Margaret’s sole culinary approval—cooled on the rack.
William worked remotely as a software engineer, but today’s client meeting took him to the London office.
The doorbell chimed at two sharp—punctual as Big Ben.
“Hello, darling!” Margaret swept in, arms laden with Tupperware, her chestnut bob impeccably set. “Where’s my angel?”
Charlotte shuffled out.
“Come here, poppet! Granny brought treats!”
The girl offered a stiff hand—a habit Margaret insisted upon: “Young ladies must learn decorum.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes unseen.
“Margaret, let me help with those.”
“Oh, to the kitchen, dear. William needs proper meals, not whatever you scrape together.”
In the kitchen, Margaret commandeered space.
“Lizzie, fetch the large pot—no, not that flimsy one! And bread in the fridge? Criminal! It dries out!”
Elizabeth obeyed silently. Six years of marriage had taught her: Margaret’s way was The Way.
“Charlotte’s frightfully pale,” Margaret remarked, unpacking homemade chutneys. “Does she get fresh air? Vitamins?”
“We walk daily if it’s not pouring. And the paediatrician’s multivitamin—”
“Paediatricians!” Margaret scoffed. “What do these young doctors know? In my day—”
Here we go.
“—children played outside rain or shine! William was out in all weathers—never coddled. Grew up sturdy!”
Elizabeth bit back mentioning William’s childhood bronchitis.
“I made sponge cake. Tea?”
“Lunch first. Where’s William? Late again?”
As if summoned, the door clicked.
“Ah, there’s my boy!” Margaret brightened.
William blinked at the shoe pile in the hall.
“Mum? You didn’t say you were coming.”
“I rang Lizzie this morning!”
Elizabeth mouthed a guilty “Sorry”—she’d forgotten to text him.
“Hullo, Mum.” He kissed her cheek. “How’re the knees?”
“Oh, mustn’t fuss. The arthritis flares, but we soldier on, don’t we? Not like young people visit anymore.”
Elizabeth recognised the routine: “Not complaining” preceded an ailment list, and “soldiering on” implied neglect.
“Change quickly—lunch is heating. Made your favourites.”
William shot Elizabeth an apologetic look. He knew these visits drained her.
Over roast beef, Margaret reminisced.
“William recited Shakespeare at four! Charlotte, do you learn poetry?”
The girl pushed peas around her plate.
“She knows loads,” Elizabeth interjected. “Charlie, recite the one about the owl?”
“Don’t want to,” Charlotte mumbled.
“See?” Margaret tutted. “The child’s unsociable. She needs nursery—mix with others.”
“We agreed to wait till four,” William cut in. “No need to rush.”
“Rush? I sent you at two, and you flourished! She’s growing up wild—shy, picky…”
Charlotte shoved her plate away.
“May I play?”
“Not until you finish,” Margaret decreed.
“Eat up, sweetheart,” Elizabeth soothed, though she seethed inside.
Charlotte choked down a bite.
“Better,” Margaret nodded. “You spoil her. Children need structure. When I raised William—”
Cue the monologue on Perfect Parenting.
Post-lunch, Margaret insisted on “quiet time”—despite Charlotte having outgrown naps.
“Children need routine!”
William shook his head subtly: choose your battles.
As Margaret wrestled Charlotte into bed, Elizabeth brewed tea.
“Hopeless,” Margaret huffed, returning. “In my day, children obeyed.”
Elizabeth nearly retorted about corporal punishment but held her tongue.
“She’s just not tired,” William mediated. “Try the cake—Liz baked it special.”
Margaret eyed the slice suspiciously.
“Shop-bought mix?”
“All homemade. Your garden apples, actually.”
This mollified her.
“You’ve improved. Remember your dreadful scrambled eggs newlywed?”
Elizabeth stayed silent, though she’d cooked independently for a decade—just not “Margaret’s way.”
“William, pop by next week? The bathroom tap drips, and the pantry light’s gone. I daren’t climb ladders at my age.”
“Of course—Wednesday?”
“Nurse Brenda visits Wednesdays. Tuesday?”
“Client meeting Tuesday.”
“Oh well. I’ll manage,” Margaret sighed. “Always do.”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw. Ever the martyr.
“I’ll come tonight—fix the tap,” William caved.
Margaret’s smirk was fleeting.
“Lovely! And perhaps the hallway wallpaper? Five years is rather shabby.”
“Where’s Charlie?” Elizabeth interjected.
“In her room—tidying. I told her no mess.”
Elizabeth froze in the doorway. Charlotte was meticulously slicing pages from their brand-new Beatrix Potter anthology.
“Charlotte! What are you doing?”
The girl blinked up. “Granny said I could make a scrapbook. She gave me scissors.”
Elizabeth gripped the ruined book—a rare edition William had ordered special.
“Darling, this was new!”
Charlotte’s lip trembled. “Granny said…”
Elizabeth inhaled deeply.
“It’s alright, love. Next time, ask Mummy or Daddy first, yes?”
Back in the kitchen, Margaret was gossiping about a neighbour’s hip replacement.
“Margaret,” Elizabeth interrupted calmly. “You gave Charlotte scissors?”
“Of course! Crafting builds skills. We made scrapbooks constantly—unlike today’s screen slaves.”
“She’s ruined a £50 book we’d not even finished reading!”
“Oh, fuss over paper! She’s making art!”
William hedged.
“Mum, perhaps you could’ve asked—”
“So I need permission now?” Margaret erupted. “Am I a stranger to my own grandchild?”
“Nobody said—”
“Exactly what you implied!” Margaret stood abruptly. “I cook, I care—and this is my thanks? I know my place!”
From the hallway, Charlotte whispered, “Granny’s shouting.”
Instantly, Margaret softened.
“Come here, poppet! Granny’s just talking loudly. Let’s finish our project—”
“No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Charlotte will watch a film with Daddy. Margaret, we need to talk.”
Once William led Charlotte away, Elizabeth sat opposite Margaret.
“We know you love her. But William and I parent differently. Please respect that.”
“So I must watch poor choices silently?”
“You may advise—not override us. And don’t permit what we forbid.”
Margaret stiffened. “Like what?”
“Cutting books. Skipping naps. Sweets before meals.”
“Then what’s a grandmother for?”
Elizabeth exhaled. They spoke different languages.
“Love isn’t boundary-free. Discuss with us first.”
Margaret gathered herself.
“Thirty years a headmistress, raised William alone—now I’m barred from teaching my grandchild crafts!” She marched to the hallway.
The next time Margaret rang, Elizabeth handed the phone to William with a weary smile, knowing this dance would repeat—but for now, the house was blissfully quiet.
