**Emily: A Tale of An Unwanted Daughter-in-Law**
When Michael brought his girlfriend Emily home, the air in the house grew thick with tension. His father, Henry Wilson, sat silently in the corner, not a word spoken—neither for nor against her. It was as if his opinion hardly mattered in that household. But his mother, Margaret Wilson, was quite the opposite—she fired off question after question, eyeing Emily with suspicion, as if searching for some flaw, some dishonesty, or just… something *wrong*.
Margaret took an instant dislike to her. Small, plain, dressed simply—more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman. Those braided pigtails only made her seem younger. Where was the manicure, the makeup, the stylish outfit? No, this wasn’t the wife she’d imagined for her only son. Next door, there was Natalie—tall, striking, her father the director of a dairy company, her mother a chief accountant. Natalie had always fancied Michael. *That’s* who he should’ve married, not this… little mouse.
But Michael wouldn’t budge. He loved Emily madly. When his mother cornered him, pushing him to reconsider Natalie, he cut her off sharply:
“I love Emily. We’ve already filed the paperwork. Enough, Mum. Drop it.”
The wedding was quiet, modest—just as Emily wanted. She said the money would be better spent on their future. Margaret was fuming, calling it a disgrace. But Michael stood by his wife.
At first, the young couple lived with his parents. Margaret never missed a chance to criticise Emily—her cooking was off, she didn’t look after Michael properly, the cleaning was slapdash. Michael held his tongue for a long while, but one day, he put his foot down:
“We’re moving out.”
They rented a flat. Money was tight, times were hard, but he worked tirelessly. Later, he even started building their own home. Meanwhile, Emily enrolled in teacher training—she wasn’t much financial help at first. Everything rested on Michael’s shoulders.
Emily studied diligently, graduating with a first-class degree. Overjoyed, she rushed to her mother-in-law, hoping Margaret might finally see her efforts. But Margaret only muttered:
“You’re making my son suffer. Natalie would’ve been the better choice.”
Emily left in tears. She didn’t complain to Michael. Her life had already held enough pain—her father walked out when her mother turned to drink. And though her mother loved her, the binges turned her into a stranger. Emily had gone hungry, hidden from drunken visitors. Only Michael’s love had saved her.
They settled into their home, had children. First a teacher, then a head of department. Two sons—Thomas and William. Doted on by Margaret, though she remained cold, almost hostile, to Emily. Their exchanges never went beyond passing greetings.
The boys grew up, left for flight school in another city. First one, then the other. The house felt empty. Henry passed—quietly, unnoticed, just as he’d lived. Margaret was alone now, yet still refused to visit Emily. That ice between them never thawed.
At Emily’s 45th birthday party, everyone gathered—sons with their girlfriends, friends, neighbours. Even Margaret came, though she kept to the edge. Midway through the celebrations, Emily suddenly felt ill. She sat down, paling. Everyone panicked.
The next day, she went to the hospital. Returned with news that left her stunned: *She was pregnant.* She told Michael that evening. He was silent a long time before saying gently:
“It’s too late for us, Em. Best to end it. People will talk…”
She nodded. But inside, something shattered. Alone, curled up in pain, she went to Margaret the next morning. Her own mother was gone—who else could she turn to? Maybe a harsh word from her mother-in-law would make it easier.
Margaret said nothing at first. Then suddenly, she wept. She spoke of Michael’s fragile birth, how she’d nursed him through nights, terrified of losing him. Emily listened silently, then hugged her—for the first time. And she wept too, confessing her childhood fears, her mother’s drinking, the hunger.
They cried for nearly an hour. Strangers, yet in that moment—family.
That evening, Margaret turned up unannounced.
“I’m not here for you, Michael. I’m here for Emmy,” she said.
Emily burst into tears. No one had ever called her that—not her mother, not Margaret.
They sat down. Margaret took her hand:
“Don’t you dare end it. We’ll have this baby. There’s time. You’re not old. It’s a blessing—not everyone gets one. And I’ll tell Michael myself.”
So it was decided. And in time, Emily gave birth to a girl—Sophie. A beauty, with curly hair and lashes for miles. When they placed her in Emily’s arms, she wept—from joy.
Michael and Margaret met them at the hospital. Margaret sold her old flat and moved nearby to help. She came every day, like clockwork. She and Emily didn’t just get along—they became friends, chatting for hours on the kitchen stools, sharing secrets, laughing.
And for the first time in her life, Emily had a mother. Not by blood—but in every way that counted. Warm. Accepting. One who’d held her in the dark and whispered, *”You’re not alone.”* And that, more than anything, was worth the world.
**Lesson learned: Sometimes, the family you find is the one that finally loves you right.**
