“Do Your Best, Dear”
“You know, dear, you’ll have to work very hard to fit into our family,” Lydia remarked with the air of a stern examiner.
Emily barely stifled a laugh. It was predictable. Her mother-in-law, the self-appointed headmistress, was already tapping the new pupil’s knuckles with a ruler before the lesson had even begun.
James, sitting beside her, looked away. It was clear he wanted to mutter something like, “Here we go.” But he stayed silent. Wise choice. This wasn’t his battle.
“Work hard?” Emily repeated with a faintly condescending smile. “Could you clarify in what direction? Should I sign up for sewing classes? Or perhaps ballroom dancing?”
The conversation unfolded in Lydia’s kitchen—a space filled with expensive touches: swagged curtains, chocolates in crystal bowls, a grand wooden table with champagne-coloured chairs. Beautiful, but Emily could never live here. Everything was too perfect, as if it weren’t a home but a stage set.
“Emily, darling, we’re a cultured family,” Lydia said, ignoring the bite in her daughter-in-law’s tone. “We’re well-mannered people. Strangers don’t just waltz in and stay.”
Emily nodded mechanically, already tuning out. She knew this role all too well. She’d been through it before—only back then, she’d had no experience, no self-respect.
…Fifteen years ago, Emily had been different—young, eager, with trusting eyes and a belief that being a “good wife” meant endless compromise. She’d loved her husband, Paul, deeply.
Paul, however, had only ever loved his mother.
Her first mother-in-law, Margaret, had fancied herself the queen of the village. She had strong opinions, a booming voice, and something to say about everything. At their second family dinner, she’d declared:
“This chicken’s drier than a dishcloth. Never mind, I’ll show you how to roast it properly, since your mother clearly didn’t.”
Emily had just smiled. Back then, she’d thought patience and politeness would earn her approval. She’d called Margaret “Mum,” made her shepherd’s pie with beef instead of lamb (as requested), and endured criticism on everything from her lipstick shade to the state of her floors.
When her daughter was born, it got worse. Margaret lectured endlessly on “raising a proper young lady,” always with a smile, always implying Emily was failing.
“Nappies are cruelty to children!” Margaret had once announced, thrusting a stack of cloth nappies into her hands. “They’re for lazy mothers. You’ll do better, won’t you?”
Paul never intervened. Not even when their daughter, still struggling with her ‘r’s, asked:
“Mummy, why are you st-stupid?”
Emily had frozen.
“What? Who told you that?”
“Granny Maggie.”
When she’d asked Paul to speak to his mother, he’d just shrugged.
“Don’t make a fuss. She didn’t mean it. You know how she is.”
Emily did know. She’d sat through dinners where Margaret announced she’d “ruined the cheese sauce by skimping.” She’d bought expensive gifts, desperate for praise. She’d played the perfect daughter-in-law until she realised Margaret’s ideal would always be someone else.
After that, Emily filed for divorce. “Difficult personality” wasn’t an excuse—just an admission of cruelty with no intent to change.
“You’ll die alone with cats!” Margaret had prophesied.
But Emily never got cats. Instead, she kept her flat, her job, and her sanity.
Then came James. They’d met through friends, exchanged numbers, and slowly grew close. He wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures, but he respected her. He knew her past and embraced her daughter.
He’d proposed. Emily had hesitated, watching, waiting. She loved him but wouldn’t walk into another family where she’d always be an outsider. But James was different. His mother wasn’t the sun around which he orbited, so Emily took the risk.
Now, sitting in Lydia’s house, she listened to the same old script—but this time, she felt no shame, no fear. Just déjà vu and boredom.
“We don’t just let anyone into our family, you know,” Lydia continued. “James is too soft. He might not see the full picture. But I do. So… do your best, dear.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Emily said coolly. “But with all due respect, I’ll just be his wife. I already have a family—my daughter, my husband. That’s enough.”
She didn’t wait for the evening to end. James followed her out, taking her hand.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
“Fine. Don’t worry. This is just a rerun.”
This time, Emily knew her worth. So what if another mother didn’t like her? She wasn’t obliged to care.
…Two years passed since Lydia’s “warning.” To her dismay, Emily never “tried.” No visits, no curtsies, no performances. She and James lived quietly in her flat. He got on well with her daughter, Sophie.
Contact with Lydia was minimal—birthday calls, gifts delivered by James alone. No fights, but no effort to bridge the gap either.
Emily never stopped James from seeing his mother. But Lydia wasn’t welcome in their home. James respected that—he’d heard the conversation.
It was nothing like her first marriage.
“Mum says you spend too much. Maybe she could help with the shopping list?” Paul had once suggested.
And Emily had agreed. What a fool she’d been, craving Margaret’s approval.
James was different. He had a backbone.
“Mum, she is who she is,” he’d told Lydia during her complaints. “If you don’t like her, fine. But I’m staying.”
He didn’t flee at the first sign of conflict. He didn’t sacrifice Emily for his mother’s approval. That mattered more than flowers or grand declarations.
Then, out of nowhere—a thaw. Not spring, but cracks in the ice.
One evening, Lydia called. Emily hesitated but answered.
“Emily, dear! How are you?” Lydia’s voice was uncharacteristically sweet.
“Fine. What do you need?”
“I was thinking… Fancy popping over for tea? I’ve made cherry scones—melt in your mouth!”
Emily froze. The saccharine tone made her check the number. But no, it was Lydia—the same woman who’d once judged her “suitability.”
“Sorry, I’m swamped.”
Lydia sighed. “Another time, love.”
“Love”? Emily nearly dropped the phone. Was she dreaming?
Days later, Lydia texted a photo of an antique china set.
“You like nice crockery, don’t you? Take it if you want.”
“Thanks, but we’re fine. I prefer mugs that won’t shatter if I drop them.”
The sudden warmth unnerved her. Why now?
Then James mentioned his brother had moved to Edinburgh with his wife. New jobs, new life. Lydia’s other daughter-in-law didn’t want children.
Ah. With no grandchildren nearby, Emily was the only woman left to play the role.
A week later, they bumped into each other outside Boots. Lydia’s face lit up.
“Emily! Fancy seeing you! Come round this week—I’ve made honey cake!”
Emily nodded politely but didn’t smile. The cold stung her cheeks—and her heart.
“Lydia… Remember when you said I’d have to work to fit into your family?”
“Well… I was just getting to know you.”
“No. Back then, you didn’t want me. Now you want in. But I don’t need you to try. I just don’t want you.”
Lydia straightened her coat. “Suit yourself.”
One Saturday, they played bingo—Sophie laughing, James teasing, Emily pulling the numbers.
James’s phone rang. He listened, then nodded.
“Mum says happy Mother’s Day.”
“How kind. But I’ve got plenty of people to celebrate me.”
Once, she’d been expected to squeeze into someone else’s frame. Now, she’d painted her own canvas—and no one who hadn’t shared the struggle got to touch it.
**Lesson:** You don’t have to earn a place in someone’s life. The right people will make space for you—just as you are.
