**The Old Mirror, or How the Son-in-Law Made Peace with His Mother-in-Law**
Emily came home late. The flat was unusually quiet—no sign of her husband, no murmur of her mother’s voice.
“Mum? Ben?” she called, peering into each room. Empty.
*Ben must be in the garage workshop,* she thought. *But Mum… Did she really take offence and leave?*
She pulled on her coat and stepped outside. Yellow light spilled from the half-open garage doors, accompanied by chatter. When she stepped inside, she froze.
Ben and her mother, Margaret, were deep in work on an antique mirror. He was staining the frame while Margaret, her hair tied back in a scarf and an old apron draped over her, gestured enthusiastically as she explained something.
“Just look how the grain’s come alive!” Margaret beamed. “Ben, your work is absolutely masterful!”
“Oh, come off it, Margaret. Just a bit of tinkering.”
“Tinkering? This is exquisite craftsmanship!”
Emily sank onto a stool, staring in disbelief. That morning, they’d nearly torn each other apart.
It had all started when Margaret moved in “temporarily” after the care home she’d lived in for the past two years closed down.
“Mum’s only staying a couple of weeks,” Emily had assured Ben. “Just until they find her a new place.”
“Couple of weeks,” Ben had muttered darkly. “With her under my roof.”
He’d paced the kitchen, fists clenched, then exhaled sharply. “Maybe we could book her a B&B? I’ve got that bonus coming…”
“Are you mad?” Emily had snapped. “So she can spend the rest of her life telling everyone her own daughter threw her out?”
The doorbell had cut through the tension. Margaret, of course, arrived an hour early—“to assess the situation.”
From the doorstep, the inspection began: “Emily, darling, these wallpaper edges are peeling… And this coat rack? Ben, love, a quick tighten of the screws wouldn’t hurt!”
Ben had vanished into the bathroom without a word.
Within a week, Margaret had rearranged the furniture, scrubbed the kitchen to a shine, reorganised the cupboards—and then attacked Ben’s paperwork.
“Margaret!” he’d barked when he couldn’t find an important folder. “Where are my documents?”
“Tossed them,” she’d said breezily. “All crumpled. I’ve filed them properly—alphabetised, mind you!”
Ben had stormed off, slamming the door.
Emily had tried to focus at work, but her thoughts kept drifting home. Mum, set in her ways. Ben, just as stubborn. And her, stuck between them.
After work, she’d hurried back. The flat was empty. At first, panic set in. Then—voices from the garage.
And now here she was, watching in stunned silence as the two people she’d had to drag apart that morning chattered about varnish and stains, laughing like old friends.
“Mum?” she ventured.
“Oh, there you are!” Margaret beamed. “Ben’s got real talent, hasn’t he? And here I was, goin’ on like a silly old cow…”
She lifted a plate of fresh scones from the workbench.
“Brought these as a peace offering. Then—oh, what a discovery we’ve made!”
“You’ve no idea!” Ben grinned. “Your mum knows everything about antique woodwork! I’d been racking my brains over the finish, and she just goes, ‘Bit of linseed oil,’ and—bam! Transformed!”
“Mum?” Emily blinked. “I didn’t know you worked with furniture.”
“Just a hobby,” Margaret waved it off.
“Hobby my foot!” Ben held up a carved trinket box. “Look at this detailing! I’d have taken a week to figure it out.”
“You’ve got more of this back in the village?” he asked suddenly.
“Whole shed full! Dressers, vanities, shelves… You should come down and see for yourself!”
“We will!” He turned to Emily. “Em, let’s visit your mum this summer! Imagine the projects we could do!”
Margaret clasped her hands. “Really? You’d come?”
“Count on it!”
They settled around a makeshift table covered with a plastic cloth, steaming tea and jam pots between them.
“Once we’ve eaten, I’ll show you another trick,” Margaret winked. “Got an idea for that frame border.”
Emily watched them—so different, yet so alike in their enthusiasm. And that odd little ache in her chest? That was happiness, she realised. Sometimes it hides in the unlikeliest places—like a dusty garage, smelling of wood stain and sawdust, where a son-in-law and his mother-in-law finally found common ground.
