Emily returned home late. The flat was eerily silent—no sign of her husband’s voice, no familiar hum of her mother’s chatter.
“Mum? James?” she called, peering into each room. Empty.
*He’s probably tinkering in the garage,* she thought. *But Mum… Did she really leave in a huff?*
She grabbed her coat and stepped into the garden. A warm glow spilled from the slightly open garage door, mingling with the sound of voices. Inside, she froze.
James and her mother, Margaret, were hunched over an antique mirror. Her husband was carefully painting the frame while her mum, wrapped in an old apron and a polka-dot scarf, gestured excitedly.
“Just look how the wood grain’s come alive now!” Margaret marvelled. “James, this is proper craftsmanship!”
“Oh, come off it, Margaret. I’m just messing about,” he muttered.
“Messing about?” She scoffed. “This is a masterpiece!”
Emily sank onto a stool, hardly believing her eyes. That morning, they’d been at each other’s throats.
It had all started when Margaret moved in *temporarily* after the care home she’d been living in abruptly closed.
“Darling, it’s just for a fortnight,” Emily had assured James. “Just until they sort out new arrangements.”
“A fortnight,” he’d grumbled. “Try living with her.”
He’d paced the kitchen, fists clenched, before blurting, “What if we put her up in a hotel? I’ve got that bonus coming—”
“Are you mad?” Emily had hissed. “And spend the rest of my life hearing how I kicked my own mother out?”
The doorbell had cut the tension. Margaret had arrived an hour early, as usual, “to scout the place.”
From the doorstep, the inspection began:
“Emily, love, these walls are ghastly! And that coat rack—James, haven’t you got a screwdriver?”
James had vanished into the bathroom without a word.
Within a week, Margaret had rearranged the furniture, scoured the kitchen till it gleamed, reorganised the cupboards—and then set her sights on James’s paperwork.
“Margaret,” he’d barked when an important folder went missing. “Where are my documents?”
“Tossed the lot,” she’d said airily. “Dog-eared nonsense. Sorted them properly—alphabetical, like!”
James had stormed off, slamming the door.
All day, Emily had tried to focus on work, but her mind kept circling back—her mother, stubborn as brass; her husband, digging his heels in. And her, wedged between them.
She’d hurried home straight after her shift. The flat was empty. At first, panic gripped her—then she heard the voices drifting from the garage.
And now here she sat, watching in disbelief as the two people she’d nearly had to separate that morning chattered like old mates, debating wood stains and finishes.
“Mum?” she ventured.
“Ah, there you are!” Margaret beamed. “Look at what James has done! And to think I used to moan—silly old bat, wasn’t I?”
She lifted a plate of scones from the workbench.
“Here, made these. Came to apologise, but then—well, we got sidetracked.”
“You’ve no idea!” James piped up. “Your mum knows everything about antiques! I’ve been racking my brains over this frame, and she just says, ‘Try linseed oil,’ and bam—magic!”
“Mum?” Emily gaped. “You never said you knew about furniture.”
“Oh, just a hobby,” Margaret waved her off.
“Rubbish!” James picked up an ornately carved box. “Look at the detailing! I’d never have figured this out in a month!”
“You’ve got more of this back home?” he asked eagerly.
“The barn’s packed! Dressers, vanities, bookshelves—come down and see for yourself!”
“And we will!” He turned to Emily. “Love, let’s visit your mum this summer! Imagine what we could restore!”
Margaret clasped her hands. “Really? You’ll come?”
“Absolutely.”
They crowded around a makeshift table—oilcloth thrown over a toolbox, scones and jam, a steaming teapot in the centre.
“Eat up, then,” Margaret winked. “I’ve a trick or two left for this frame.”
Emily watched them—so different, yet suddenly inseparable. Her chest tightened. Funny, that. Sometimes happiness lurked in the oddest places—like a dusty garage, smelling of varnish and sawdust, where a son-in-law and his mother-in-law finally found common ground.
