Emily remained silent as Margaret bequeathed her usual monologue.
“Emmie, you’re a marvel! Dashing and accomplished. You organize the household like a fairy-tale, and those prawn cocktails you made? Divine! My late husband, rest his soul, once said the secret to a family was a good housekeeper. Beauty’s fleeting, but a tidy home lasts!” Margaret beamed, spearing another slice of cold meat from the platter. “Though I daresay the modern lasses are a bit of a lost cause, always off to those loud nightclubs of theirs. In our day, girls were more… settled.”
Emily forced a smile, retreating to the kitchen to fetch extra salad. She’d long accepted Margaret’s passive-aggressive compliments, always followed by barbs she refused to acknowledge today.
“Harry ought to kill me with gratitude for marrying someone like you,” Margaret continued, ignoring Harry’s grimace. “I always feared those free-spirited types would never make decent housewives. Women back in my generation… we managed households and pregnancies much more efficiently, mind you.”
Harry glanced at Emily, who reappeared with a plate of salad.
“Dessert, Margaret?” Emily offered, voice as even as a tea-cozy. “The trifle was a bit of a hit this time.”
“Absolutely, my dear!” Margaret embraced the morsel enthusiastically. “Though I remember when I was only twenty-two, Harry’s age, expecting my first. No nonsense about careers then. Young women these days, always chasing jobs and climbing the ladder, wonder why they struggle with… well, you know.”
Emily clamped her jaw, her 32nd birthday looming like a forgotten teapot. Three IVF cycles, three disappointments. Margaret’s relentless questions about grandchildren had become a daily thorn.
“Mum, let’s discuss something else,” Harry said, gripping Emily’s hand. “How’s that new flat? I hear Cheltenham’s builder scene is… vibrant?”
“Vibrant? Hardly. The decorator finished my living room looking like a toddler had painted it with wallpaper. At my age, you don’t exactly want to be perched on a ladder fixing it myself.” Margaret sighed. “Though Vera from next door’s been a gem. She’s helping me lift heavy boxes, which is more than you young lot could manage.”
“Weren’t we offering to assist?” Harry interjected.
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ve your careers to chase! When do you ever have time for a mother in need?” Margaret added with a saccharine tone.
Harry winced as Emily, silently inspecting the checkered tablecloth, bit her lip.
“Remember Sarah, my cousin?” Margaret suddenly brightened. “Her third child is already in primary school, and she runs a private clinic! And at twenty-nine, I’m telling you—”
“Mum,” Harry deadpanned. “Shall we serve the Victoria sponge, since Emily baked it with your favorite lemon curd?”
“Oooh, clever boy! I almost forgot. And to think, when Harry first introduced us, I was terrified you’d not be… sufficient. You *are* four years older, which is practically an age gap in their world.”
“Four *years*,” Harry muttered.
“And of course not an age gap at all,” Margaret waved off, her eyes narrowing. “Though really, you two should consider starting a family sooner. I’ve heard of these… late-blooming children? They’re more prone to, shall we say, peculiarities.”
Emily stood abruptly. “I need to call the insurance agent about the repossessed antique set,” she said flatly, retreating to the parlor.
Harry’s gaze followed her, troubled. “Mum, must you *always* do this?”
“Do what, dear?” Margaret blinked innocently. “Merely expressing concern for your future. And have you heard about Mrs. Hedges’ aunt in the Lake District? Some herbalist there claims she’s… alleviating modern medical mysteries.”
Harry pressed his temple. “We’ve got specialist consultants. We’re handling it. But the daily guilt-trips about ‘unhappy women who’ll never be mothers’ don’t exactly help.”
“Oh, I just want grandchildren, love!” Margaret’s eyes welled. “Before I’m in my dotage, obviously.”
Harry exhaled. “You’re fifty-eight, not pneumonia.”
“Typical! Our family tree’s got a history of… cutting short women’s lives!” Margaret wailed.
Emily returned, now sipping a cup of peppermint tea. “Shall I pour you another cup of tea, Margaret? I’ve got those biscuits you adore.”
The evening unfolded as always—Margaret’s tales of her lonely flat, of friends’ doting offspring, and Harry’s strained attempts at politeness. Emily sat in silence, smiling like a well-dressed ghost.
When Margaret finally rose to leave, Harry kissed Emily’s cheek. “I’ll give you a lift, love,” he said, exiting with a sigh of resigned duty.
As the door clicked shut, Emily slumped onto the settee, the weight of another evening draining from her. She’d kept the peace, as usual. But the tension had always felt like a tightly-wound spring.
Her phone buzzed—a call from Margaret.
“Emmie?” Margaret’s voice, softer than usual, crackled over the line. “I know you’re busy, but before Harry returns… I just…”
“Yes?” Emily asked cautiously.
“Before I lost Harry’s father, I… I had three miscarriages. I didn’t tell Harry. It was… ashamed felt. I thought people would think me a failure. I feared it would sour our marriage. I watched you watching the little girls in the park, and it struck me that you… also couldn’t.”
Emily froze. “You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t want to cause grief.” Margaret whispered. “I thought if I pushed, Harry would take it more seriously. He only told me about your… IVF attempts yesterday. I’m a fool, aren’t I?”
Emily’s voice wavered. “No. You’re… human.”
“I only want you and Harry to be happy. Even if it takes time. Even if… you never have children. You’ve both got so much in you, you two don’t need me adding to the burden.”
The line went silent. Emily sat there, clutching a teacup long gone cold, as Margaret’s confession washed over her like a summer rainstorm.
When Harry returned, he found her smiling faintly, as if sharing a secret.
“I think… I should visit her more often,” she said.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You? Of all people?”
“We needn’t be perfect,” Emily shrugged. “Only… try to be kinder.”
A week later, Margaret moved in, her vintage knitting bags filling the spare room. By spring, she’d also adopted Harry’s old neighbor, a retired schoolteacher named George with a passion for chess and baked potatoes.
“Ah,” Margaret would say, rolling a wool skein between her fingers, “I always said the keystone of a happy household was a good woolen jumper, a warm heart, and someone who understands tea.”
And late one April afternoon, as Emily absentmindedly reached for a slice of scone while Margaret hummed *Mrs. Brown’s Boys* in the background, Margaret suddenly gasped.
“You’ve *done it*, my dear! I can *see* it.”
Emily smiled. “I suppose we have.”
In the end, the walls between them crumbled not with grand professions, but with small, shared silences over crumpets and royal matchboxes.
Because sometimes, what’s most precious isn’t what’s said in the daylight, but what’s whispered in the dark—like a mother-in-law finally learning how to *listen*.
