“No, no, absolutely not! Margaret, surely you must see this is impossible! We’ve got a tiny flat—hardly more than one and a half rooms!” Victor paced the kitchen, waving his arms like a windmill.
“Oh, come off it, Victor! It’s two proper rooms, and the nursery might be small, but I’ll fit just fine. Emma and little Oliver need help—you can’t deny a baby needs constant attention!” His mother-in-law folded her arms across her ample chest, looking at him as if she were doing them a favor by moving in.
“Mum, we’re managing, really!” Emma said carefully from the doorway, bouncing the baby in her arms. “Victor’s right—it’s cramped.”
“Emma, don’t meddle! What do you mean, ‘managing’?” Margaret scoffed, waving a hand at her daughter. “You’ve got bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, you’re thin as a rake, and no amount of concealer hides how exhausted you are! ‘Managing’? At this rate, you’ll be divorced before the year’s out!”
Victor stopped dead, took a deep breath, and forced himself to speak calmly.
“Margaret, Emma and I have been married five years. Not once in all that time have we had a proper row. I doubt a baby will change that.”
“Oh, young people—you think you know everything!” She rolled her eyes. “Have you even considered how irritable new mothers get? How she needs special care? Who’s going to make her bone broth and herbal teas to help with her milk supply?”
Emma groaned quietly. Once her mother started on broths and remedies, arguing was pointless.
“I’ve already packed, and my return ticket isn’t for two months,” Margaret announced. “I’ll stay, help you settle, and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Two months?!” Victor and Emma gasped in unison.
Margaret pretended not to hear, bustling past them to the hall where two enormous suitcases waited.
“Victor, be a dear and move my things into the nursery. And we’ll shift Oliver’s cot into your room—I’ll take the sofa. I’m not fussy.”
Victor shot his wife a desperate look, but she only shrugged helplessly. Resisting Margaret’s steamroller approach was impossible—especially now, sleep-deprived and drained from newborn stress.
“Fine,” Victor gritted out, “but only for a month. Not a day longer.”
“A month, two months—what’s the difference?” She waved him off. “We’ll play it by ear.”
Emma forced a smile and hurried to nurse Oliver, who’d started whimpering. Victor trudged after the suitcases, defeated.
Margaret’s arrival turned their lives upside down. She took charge like a general, dictating feeding schedules, bath times, even when Victor should work late.
“Victor, this is disgraceful!” she scolded one morning as he dressed for work. “Why didn’t you iron this shirt? Going to the office looking rumpled? What will your colleagues think?”
“Margaret, I usually iron at night, but you had the telly blaring, Oliver wouldn’t sleep, and I was up half the night rocking him,” he snapped.
“Exactly!” she crowed. “I told you—you can’t cope without me. Hand it over, I’ll iron it. And remember: telly time is sacred. Forty years of soaps, I won’t break tradition now!”
After a week, Victor was losing his mind. He couldn’t talk to Emma without interference, couldn’t cradle Oliver without unsolicited advice, couldn’t even eat without commentary.
“We need to talk,” he whispered one evening while Margaret was out. “This can’t go on. Your mum’s taken over our lives.”
“I know,” Emma sighed, “but what can I do? You know her—once she’s set her mind to something, that’s that. If I ask her to leave, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“So we live like this forever? The four of us—counting Oliver?” Victor clenched his fists. “Emma, this isn’t normal! This is our family, our home!”
“I know,” she said miserably. “But she does help. I’m finally sleeping when she takes Oliver out… Maybe we just wait? She did say two months.”
“You really believe that?” Victor said darkly. “I think she’s already planning to sell her place and move in permanently.”
The front door clicked—Margaret was back—and the conversation died.
Victor changed tactics. If he couldn’t kick her out, he’d make her want to leave.
He stayed late at work, but Margaret simply adjusted her schedule, waiting up with dinner no matter the hour. He blasted rock music (which she hated), left messes everywhere, and hijacked the TV for football—but she just plugged her ears, tidied up, and recorded her soaps on the ancient VCR she’d brought.
“Are you at war with me, Victor?” she asked bluntly one day. “I’m not stupid. It won’t work. I’m patient. And I’m here for your family’s sake.”
Victor had no reply. He’d gone too far to retreat.
Then, one morning, he overheard her phone call.
“Nancy, you’ll never believe my luck!” Margaret chirped. “Their flat’s so cosy, Emma’s hopeless with the baby, and Victor? Well, he’ll adjust. I’m thinking of renting out my place—extra income, and I’ll live here. The neighbours should thank me—my soaps drown out Oliver’s crying!”
Victor saw red. She *was* planning to stay forever. Time for drastic measures.
That evening, he slipped into the nursery and dug through her suitcase—finding her return ticket. The train left in three days.
He spent dinner buttering her up, even offering to wash up. Margaret eyed him suspiciously but stayed quiet.
The next day, he came home early with flowers.
“For you, Margaret,” he said sweetly. “For everything you’ve done.”
She flushed, muttering about a mother’s duty.
“I was thinking—we’ve barely shown you London,” he pressed on. “How about a day out tomorrow? The theatre? I’ve got tickets.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, Victor, how lovely! What’s the play?”
“A surprise,” he smiled. “You’ll love it.”
That night, he confessed the plan to Emma.
“But it’s deceitful!” she protested. “Mum will be furious!”
“And her secretly planning to live here isn’t?” he countered. “Emma, if we don’t act now, it’ll only get worse. She’s wonderful—but not under our roof. We’ve got to reclaim our family.”
Reluctantly, Emma agreed.
The next day, they bundled Margaret into a cab—”to the theatre”—but Victor directed the driver to King’s Cross station.
“Why are we here?” Margaret frowned as they parked.
“Margaret, we know you meant to stay indefinitely,” Victor said gently. “We appreciate your help, but…”
“But we need to learn to be parents on our own,” Emma finished.
Margaret turned purple. “So this is your scheme? Tricking me? After all I’ve done—”
“Mum, please,” Emma said softly. “We’re grateful, but it’s time to go home. Look—first-class ticket, air-conditioned carriage. And we’ve ordered groceries to arrive when you do.”
Victor handed over the ticket and an envelope. “For the taxi home and a little extra.”
Margaret gaped, then snatched them, muttering.
“We’ll see you to your train,” Emma said, guiding her inside.
To Victor’s shock, Margaret didn’t make a scene. Just a heavy sigh.
“Fine, I’ll go,” she grumbled at the platform. “But don’t come crying when you can’t cope. Who’ll read to Oliver now? He loves my voice!”
“I will,” Victor said firmly. “And I’ll sing lullabies too.”
“You?!” She snorted. “Tone-deaf! Poor child…”
As the train pulled away, Emma suddenly laughed.
“What?” Victor asked.
“Nothing,” she grinned, wiping tears. “Just imagining Mum telling the neighbours you kidnapped her!”
Victor laughed too, tension melting. They walked out hand in hand.
“You know,” Emma mused, “Mum *did* teach me loads. How to swaddle Oliver properly, how to make gripe water…”
“See?” Victor smiled. “Her visit wasn’t wasted. But it’s good to be just us three again.”
At home, silence was bliss. No commentary, no blaring telly. Oliver slept in his rightful cot.
That night, rocking his son, Victor reflected—Margaret’s overbearing ways had, ironically, brought them closer. They’d learned to stand together.
“Maybe we could invite her for a fortnight next summer,” he said later. “When Oliver’s six months. *Only* a fortnight.”
Emma beamed. “Really? She’d be thrilled.”
“OneAnd so, with a mix of relief and quiet gratitude, they finally enjoyed their first peaceful night as a family of three, knowing that love—and just the right amount of distance—would keep them all happy.
