The Antique Mirror, or How the Son-in-Law Made Peace with His Mother-in-Law
Emily came home late. The flat was suspiciously quiet—no hum of her husband’s voice, no familiar muttering from her mum.
“Mum? James?” she called, peeking into rooms. Empty.
“James must be tinkering in the shed,” she thought. “But Mum… Did she really get upset and leave?”
She threw on a jacket and stepped into the garden. From the slightly ajar shed door, warm yellow light spilled out, along with voices. Stepping inside, Emily froze.
James and her mum, Margaret, were deep in work on an antique mirror. Her husband was quietly staining the frame while Margaret, sporting a floral headscarf and an old apron, was gesturing enthusiastically as she explained something.
“Look how the wood’s come alive!” Margaret beamed. “James, this is proper craftsmanship!”
“Oh, it’s nothing, just a hobby,” James waved her off.
“Just a hobby!” Margaret scoffed. “This is a masterpiece!”
Emily sank onto a stool, blinking in disbelief. That morning, the two had been at each other’s throats.
It had all started when Margaret moved in “temporarily” after the retirement home she’d lived in for the past two years closed for renovations.
“Mum’s only staying a few weeks,” Emily had assured James. “Just till her place reopens.”
“A few weeks,” James had muttered darkly. “Try a few lifetimes.”
He’d paced the kitchen, fists clenched, before exhaling sharply. “What if we put her up in a B&B? I’ve got that bonus coming—”
“Are you mad?” Emily gasped. “So my own mother can tell the world her daughter threw her out?”
The doorbell had rung then. Margaret, ever prompt, had arrived an hour early to “assess the situation.”
She’d launched into an inspection the second she stepped in. “Emily, love, these curtains are fading terribly. And this coat rack—James, those screws need tightening!”
James had vanished into the loch without a word.
In the first week, Margaret rearranged the furniture, scrubbed the kitchen down to a shine, reorganised the cupboards, and—most disastrously—got her hands on James’s paperwork.
“Margaret!” James snapped one evening, rifling through drawers. “Where are my documents?”
“Tossed the crumpled ones,” she said breezily. “Sorted the rest into new folders. Alphabetised!”
James had stormed off, slamming the door.
Emily had tried to focus at work, but her mind kept drifting home. Her mum was relentless, her husband stubborn—and she was stuck between them.
After work, she’d hurried back. The flat was empty. At first, panic set in. Then she’d heard voices from the shed.
And now, here they were, these two who’d nearly come to blows that morning, debating varnishes and wood stains, laughing like old mates.
“Mum?” Emily said hesitantly.
“Oh, you’re back!” Margaret beamed. “Look at James’s handiwork! And here I was, moaning like an old goose.”
She lifted a plate of scones from the workbench.
“Made these as a peace offering. Didn’t expect to find common ground over carpentry!”
“You’ve no idea!” James jumped in. “Your mum’s a walking encyclopaedia on antiques! I’d been puzzling over how to treat the frame, and she just goes, ‘Add linseed oil,’ and bam—it’s glorious!”
“Mum?” Emily stared. “You never mentioned working with furniture…”
“Oh, just a little hobby,” Margaret shrugged.
“Little?” James grabbed an ornate trinket box. “Look at the detailing! I’d have taken weeks to figure this out.”
“Do you have more of these back in the countryside?” he asked, suddenly animated.
“Oh, the barn’s full of them! Dressers, vanities, shelves… You’ll have to come see!”
“We will!” James turned to Emily. “Love, let’s visit your mum this summer! Imagine the projects!”
Margaret clapped her hands. “Really? You’d come?”
“Absolutely!”
They settled around a makeshift table covered with a tea-stained cloth, scones still warm, a pot of tea steaming, and a jar of strawberry jam in the middle.
“Eat up, then I’ll show you another trick,” Margaret winked. “I’ve got an idea for finishing this frame.”
Emily watched them—so different, yet suddenly in sync. A warmth settled in her chest. Funny, how happiness sometimes hides in the oddest places—like a dusty shed smelling of wood stain and fresh scones, where a son-in-law and his mother-in-law finally found their rhythm.
