The mother-in-law had made up her mind.
“No, no, and absolutely not! Margaret, you must understand—this simply isn’t possible! We’ve got a tiny flat, barely bigger than a shoebox!” Victor paced the kitchen, arms flailing like a windmill in a storm.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Victor! It’s two whole rooms! The nursery may be small, but I’ll fit perfectly. Emily and little Tommy need help—babies demand constant attention!” Margaret crossed her arms over her formidable bosom, looking at her son-in-law as if she were doing him a favour by moving in.
“Mum, we’re managing, honestly!” Emily chimed in from the doorway, bouncing the baby in her arms. “Victor’s right—it’s cramped.”
“Managing? Don’t talk nonsense!” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve got bags under your eyes big enough to pack for holiday, you’re thin as a rake, and you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. ‘Managing’? Next thing you know, you’ll be divorced!”
Victor stopped dead, took a deep breath, and forced his voice to stay level.
“Margaret, Emily and I have been married five years. Never had a proper row. A baby won’t change that.”
“Oh, you young people—think you know everything!” She rolled her eyes. “Have you considered that new mothers get irritable? Need proper care? Who’s going to make Emily bone broth and herbal teas to help her milk supply?”
Emily groaned quietly. Once her mother started on broth and herbs, arguing was pointless.
“I’ve already packed my things, and my return ticket isn’t for two months,” Margaret declared. “I’ll help you settle, then we’ll see.”
“Two months?!” Victor and Emily yelped in unison.
Margaret ignored them and marched to the hall, where two enormous suitcases stood.
“Victor, be a dear and carry these to the nursery. And we’ll move Tommy’s cot to your room—I’ll take the sofa. I’m easy to please.”
Victor shot Emily a desperate look, but she just shrugged helplessly. Resisting Margaret’s steamroller charm was impossible—especially when they were both sleep-deprived and frazzled.
“Fine,” Victor gritted out. “One month. No longer.”
“One month, two—what’s the difference?” Margaret waved him off. “We’ll play it by ear.”
Emily forced a smile and escaped to feed Tommy, while Victor trudged after the suitcases.
Margaret’s arrival turned the household upside down. She appointed herself commander-in-chief, dictating feeding schedules, weekly meal plans, and even when Victor should work late.
“Victor! What’s this?” she scolded one morning. “You can’t go to work in a wrinkled shirt! What will your colleagues think?”
“Margaret, I usually iron in the evening, but you were blasting your soaps, Tommy wouldn’t sleep, and I was up half the night rocking him,” Victor said wearily.
“See? You need me!” she crowed. “Hand it over—I’ll iron it. And remember: telly time is sacred. Forty years of nightly soaps—I won’t break tradition!”
A week in, Victor was losing his mind. He couldn’t chat with Emily without Margaret cutting in, couldn’t cuddle Tommy without her correcting his technique, couldn’t even eat without commentary.
“Emily, we need to talk,” Victor whispered while Margaret was out. “This can’t go on. Your mother’s taken over.”
“I know,” Emily sighed. “But what can I do? You know how she is—once she’s set her mind to something, that’s that. If I ask her to leave, she’ll never let me forget it.”
“So we just live like this? The four of us—counting Tommy?” Victor hissed. “Emily, this isn’t normal! It’s our family, our home!”
“She does help,” Emily admitted. “I get sleep now, time to rest… Maybe we tough it out? She did say two months.”
“You really believe that?” Victor frowned. “I think she’s already planning to sell her house and move in permanently.”
The front door clicked—Margaret was back.
Victor changed tactics. If he couldn’t evict her, he’d make her want to leave.
First, he worked late, but Margaret just waited up with reheated shepherd’s pie. “A man should be with his family,” she’d tut.
Next, he cranked up his rock music, left mess everywhere, and hogged the telly. But Margaret just stuffed her ears, tidied up, and recorded her soaps on an ancient VCR she’d brought.
“Declaring war, are you?” she asked bluntly one day. “Won’t work, love. I’m patient. And here for your family’s good.”
Victor had no retort.
Then, he overheard her phone call:
“Jen, it’s perfect! Emily’s hopeless with the baby, and Victor? Well, he’ll adjust. I might even rent out my house—extra income! They’ll thank me later. The neighbours already love my soaps drowning out Tommy’s crying!”
Victor’s blood boiled. She really was staying forever. Time for drastic measures.
That evening, he sneaked into the nursery and found her return train ticket—three days away.
The next day, he came home early with flowers. “For you, Margaret—thank you for all your help.”
She blinked, baffled, but took them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Victor said smoothly. “We’ve not shown you around properly. How about the theatre tomorrow? I’ve got tickets—a surprise!”
Margaret preened. “Oh, Victor, how lovely! What’s the play?”
“Wait and see.”
That night, he confessed to Emily. “She’s planning to move in permanently—heard her on the phone. We’ve got to send her home.”
“But lying’s wrong!” Emily protested.
“And her springing this on us isn’t?” Victor countered. “She’s wonderful, but this is our family.”
Emily finally agreed.
The next day, their “theatre trip” detoured to the train station.
“Why are we here?” Margaret demanded.
“Margaret, we know you planned to stay,” Victor said gently. “We appreciate your help, but…”
“We need to learn on our own,” Emily finished.
Margaret turned puce. “So this is it! You’re booting me out! And I thought we were off to the theatre!”
“Please don’t make a scene,” Emily pleaded. “Your train’s lovely—first-class, air-conditioned. And we’ve arranged groceries delivered for your return.”
Victor handed over her ticket and an envelope of cash for taxis.
Margaret bristled but eventually took them. “Fine. But don’t come crying when you can’t cope. And who’ll read Tommy bedtime stories now? He loves my voice!”
“I will,” Victor said firmly.
“You? You’ve got the rhythm of a drunk kazoo player!”
As the train pulled away, Emily burst out laughing.
“What?” Victor asked.
“Just imagining Mum telling the neighbours you kidnapped her!”
At home, blissful silence greeted them. No commentary, no soaps. That night, rocking Tommy, Victor reflected that Margaret had taught them more than they’d admit.
“Maybe we could invite her for a fortnight in summer,” he mused. “When Tommy’s six months. Only a fortnight!”
Emily beamed. “Really? She’d love that.”
“On one condition: no soaps at full blast.”
“Deal.” She hugged him. “I love you.”
“Love you too. And Tommy. And even your mum… from a distance.”
