April 5, 2023
Today, I suppose I should admit that my new son-in-law isn’t entirely the ogre I once imagined. He’s not a gentleman, no—far from it. Paul’s a lorry driver with the manners of a stray dog and a passion for first-person shooters. Yet, for all his rough edges, he managed to clinch Emily’s heart with that most ruthless weapon of all: a baby. Oh dear Lord, if only I’d watched more romantic dramas and fewer cookery shows, I might have planned better. But hindsight is a luxury I cannot afford.
I’ve had to swallow my pride and let him and Emily move in, which means my once-quiet flat now echoes with his video game battles and the clatter of a second kettle. I’ll admit, things aren’t entirely unbearable. Paul does have a knack for fixing things—unlike me, I haven’t changed a plug since the 1970s. He’s sorted the wonky kitchen drawers and even replaced the leaky tap. Still, I’d rather sleep in a room with creaky floorboards than see Emily return to the council flat he first found her in. And that dream she once had, of dancing at the Royal? Forgotten now, thanks to his demands. Maternity leave cost her a promising part-time job at the local theatre.
He doesn’t notice my disdain, of course. “Mum,” he calls me, as though I were some long-lost grandmother. *Mum.* The very idea! I’d sooner be called ‘gravy’ than let him think this is a family.
“Mum,” he chirped yesterday, “your cottage pie’s the best I’ve ever tasted.” I nearly told him the truth: Emily’s cutlets are made with beef, while his are a hodgepodge of mince and filler.
“Some folk game late shifts for proper wages,” I muttered over dinner last week, ladling thicker stew into Emily’s bowl. “Nigel next door’s son earns more as a software developer.”
“They don’t just play,” Paul retorted, mouth full of bread I’d sliced too thick. “I went to uni. Then I dropped out.”
“Of course you did,” I sneered. “To play games.”
Emily jumped in, as she always does: “Paul’s trying, Mum. He works nights to cover the bills. I told him he should study part-time again, but he’d rather rest.”
“Rest? Or *play,*” I snapped. Emily looked horrified, so I retired to my room, victorious.
But Paul’s family? Now *they* are the true blight. I met them once, at the wedding, and their sharp eyes on our three-bedroom flat were enough to make me wish them all six feet under. When Paul timidly mentioned they’ll visit for dinner, I nearly fainted. “Let them stay at the Travelodge,” I said.
“Already suggested,” he mumbled. “But they want to meet the family.”
Emily, bless her, brightened: “I’ll bake a Victoria sponge and make some borscht, and you, Mum, can do your chicken Kiev!”
I grumbled but relented. How could I deny her? The poor girl’s still nursing.
The visit was a disaster. They arrived loud and unshowered, no gift for Lily, the baby, and their conversation was a litany of complaints about hotel prices and how *generous* we are to have such a large home.
Paul’s mother, Dorothy, eyed me over the dinner table. “Mum-in-law, he eats like a horse,” she declared. “We found him at the children’s home, skin and bone. He’d steal bread for his cousins!”
Emily froze. So did I. My in-laws, a family of thieves?
Paul shifted, avoiding my gaze. “They took care of me, properly,” he said. “Better than I’d had before.” Then, quietly, “Though I suppose your borscht does match that.”
That night, as Emily put Lily to bed, I cornered Paul. “So your education was the first thing you dropped for them, was it?”
“Mum, they *needed* me,” he said. “My sister had exams. Now Lily and Emily—”
“You let them build your life,” I said. “But you’ll start again. At the college.”
He agreed. Next week, he’s back in class. And I’ve humanely adjusted his portions to match Emily’s.
Emily hugged me this morning, calling me the best mother-in-law in the world. Paul, grinning, said I’d outcooked Dorothy. I rolled my eyes and left them to their games and their baby.
No, Paul isn’t the monster I thought. Just… a man I’d rather not see dining at my table.
But perhaps some grudges, like cottage pie, can be softened with time.
