The kitchen was thick with the sharp scent of bubbling stew, which Margaret Elizabeth stirred with brisk authority, her breath heavy and laboured. She ruled over that cramped space like a queen, her wooden spoon a sceptre dispensing commands. Beyond the window, the dim light of early spring cast a grey pall, but Emma, Margaret Elizabeth’s daughter-in-law, had little time to savour the quiet. The peaceful rhythm of her home had shattered the moment her perpetually dissatisfied guest arrived, seizing control with the unspoken decree: *”I am in charge here.”*
Margaret Elizabeth was a formidable woman. Her plump cheeks lent her an air of stern dignity, and her cold eyes, beneath thick, dark brows, possessed a piercing judgement that made one feel guilty for the smallest trespass—even an ill-timed sneeze. She spoke with blunt certainty, as though her words were law, not opinion. She had decided to renovate her own flat and had come to stay with the young couple indefinitely.
—The bedroom is rather cramped, of course, — she muttered on her first evening, surveying the room. —But it will do. Make sure the sheets are fresh—not the ones you’ve been using. I’m not staying in some inn, after all; I’m here with family.
Emma froze, stunned by the demand.
—But this is *our* room, — she protested weakly, unable to mask her irritation. —William and I sleep here!
Margaret Elizabeth merely scoffed.
—So? The sofa in the parlour is perfectly serviceable. You’re young and healthy; you’ll manage. A bit too fond of your comforts, aren’t you? At my age, one must mind one’s back. You’ll have to make do. And don’t fret—I shan’t be here long.
*”Not long”* sounded encouraging, but Emma already sensed the truth: this so-called temporary visit would be anything but.
Just as she was resigning herself to the unwelcome guest, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was Beatrice, Margaret Elizabeth’s younger daughter—a carefree, unemployed girl in her early twenties who barged in with a bulging bag and no ceremony.
—Hullo, I’ve come to stay, — she announced, kicking off her boots by the door. —Just a day or two. I’ll sleep on the floor if I must, but I’m quite broke, and since Mum’s here, who else will feed me? You’re such gracious hosts, I might stay forever. Emma, do put the kettle on—I’m exhausted from the journey.
Emma stood as though struck. The flat was *hers*. This was *her* home, *her* sanctuary. Yet with each new arrival, she felt more like an intruder.
—William! — she exclaimed later, when they were alone in the kitchen. —What is this? Why am I expected to cater to everyone? Why do they act as though this is *their* house? When is your mother leaving? And why is *Beatrice* here?!
William only shrugged.
—You know what Mother’s like, — he replied calmly. —That’s just her way. Try not to mind. They’ll be gone soon.
—Soon? A week? A month? — Emma shot back, her voice tight. —They don’t even *ask*! And that *tyrant* has taken *our* bedroom, William—your own mother!
—Don’t start, all right? — he snapped. —She’s getting on. We ought to help her.
Emma inhaled sharply and fell silent. But the suppressed fury in her chest roiled.
Each day dragged like thick mud. Margaret Elizabeth never relented—ordering Emma to the shops, instructing her on *”proper cooking for the family,”* criticising everything from her haircut to her *”feeble culinary efforts.”* Emma clenched her teeth and endured, dutifully preparing stews and roasted potatoes, which her mother-in-law adored.
Then Margaret Elizabeth made her final demand.
—Geoffrey will be coming in a few days, — she announced. —My son, William’s brother. I trust you’ve no objection? He’s been dreadfully lonely since the divorce. A week’s stay ought to cheer him. Family must stick together, and you’ve plenty of space. Besides, he’s taken to drinking alone—best he stay here.
That was the final straw. The dam of patience burst.
—No. — Emma’s voice was steel, surprising even herself.
—I beg your pardon? — Margaret Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.
—I said *no*. Enough. No Geoffrey. No Beatrice. No *you*. You’ve been here a week, and I won’t tolerate it any longer.
Her mother-in-law turned slowly, eyes glacial.
—What is *this* tone? Have you spoken to William?
—William has no say. *I* own this flat. And I will *not* endure you dictating terms in *my* house. This is *my* home, Margaret Elizabeth. *Yours* is yours. Rule there—not here.
The older woman’s face darkened. For a moment, it seemed she might erupt. But something in Emma’s tone gave her pause.
—Is that so? — she said at last. —Very well. I shall return to my own lodgings. One can hardly live under such conditions. But mark my words—I shan’t forget such *hospitality.*
By evening, Margaret Elizabeth and Beatrice were bundling their belongings, casting disdainful glances Emma’s way.
William muttered some feeble defence of his mother, but Emma fixed him with a cold stare.
—If you want a proper marriage, William, you’d best stand with me now.
Six months later, Margaret Elizabeth rang to wish them a happy anniversary—her voice uncharacteristically warm. She never again spent the night, never reclaimed the bedroom, and even praised Emma’s baking on occasion. The queen had been dethroned. And Emma, for the first time in too long, felt like someone worthy of respect.
Was she right to turn her husband’s mother away?
