When I approached the table, my mother-in-law slapped me and snapped, “I cooked this for my son! You and the children can eat wherever you like!”
Emily fastened her youngest daughters coat and double-checked her sons shoelaces. Through the car window, bare trees flickered by, the sky heavy with grey clouds as the road stretched farther from London. James hummed along to the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music.
“Mum, does Grandma have a swing in her garden?” asked seven-year-old Oliver, twisting in his backseat.
“I dont know, love,” Emily replied. “Probably. She has a big garden.”
“Can we play outside?” piped up four-year-old Sophie, rubbing her tired eyes.
“Of course,” Emily reassured her. “But first, well say hello to Grandma and have lunch.”
James glanced at his wife through the rearview mirror.
“Dont worry so much, Em,” he said. “Mums changed. She said she misses the kids. Shell be happy to see you.”
Emily nodded but stayed silent. His words sounded confident, but inside, her stomach twisted with dread. Margaret had never been warm or gentle. She kept her distance, made cutting remarks, and every visit to Jamess mother felt like an ordeal.
The last time theyd all visited was two years ago. Margaret had spent the evening criticizing Emilys parenting, cooking, and manners. James had stayed quiet, and Emily had gritted her teeth. Since then, theyd met only in neutral placescafés, parks. But this time, James had insisted.
“Mums lonely,” hed said. “The kids are older now; we should visit more. Her house is nice, plenty of space. Well get some fresh air.”
Emily hadnt argued. Maybe Margaret *had* changed. Maybe age had softened her. People could change, couldnt they?
The car turned off the main road onto a dirt path, passing a few cottages before stopping at a tall iron gate. Behind it stood a two-story house with large windows and a slate roof. The garden held leafless apple trees and a weathered wooden bench.
James cut the engine, stepped out, and opened the gate. Emily helped the children out, holding Sophies hand as they walked to the house. Oliver darted ahead, dragging his backpack of toys.
The front door opened, and Margaret appeared on the step. Tall and sharp-featured, her grey hair neatly cut, she wore a smile that didnt reach her cold eyes.
“So youve come,” she said instead of hello. “Dont plan on staying long. I like things cleantry not to make a mess.”
Emily froze on the doorstep. James stepped forward, wrapping an arm around his mothers shoulders.
“Mum, were here for the weekend,” he said cheerfully. “We wanted to spend time with you. The kids missed you.”
Margaret looked the children up and down.
“Missed me, did they?” she drawled. “Well, come in, then. Shoes off at the door. And wash your hands straight away.”
Emily helped the children out of their coats and shoes, lining them up neatly. Oliver and Sophie clung to her, uneasy in the unfamiliar space.
The house smelled of cookingsomething rich, with onions and meat. Emilys stomach growled. Theyd had an early breakfast, and the biscuits in the car hadnt been enough.
Margaret marched to the kitchen without a backward glance. James carried their bags upstairs, leaving Emily standing in the hall with the children.
“Mummy, Im thirsty,” Sophie whispered.
“Just a moment, sweetheart,” Emily promised.
She stepped into the kitchen. Everything was spotlessgleaming pans, polished countertops, not a crumb out of place. Margaret stood at the stove, stirring a pot.
“Margaret, may the children have some water?” Emily asked.
“Glasses are in the cupboard,” Margaret said without turning. “Dont break them.”
Emily fetched two glasses, filled them from the pitcher, and handed them to the children. They gulped thirstily. She smoothed Sophies hair and returned to the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?”
Margaret looked her up and down.
“You can chop the vegetables,” she allowed. “But do it *properly*. I dont like big chunks.”
Emily obeyed, slicing cucumbers and tomatoes carefully, meticulously.
Margaret watched, frowning.
“Do you always chop like that?” she snapped. “Uneven.”
“Sorry,” Emily murmured. “Ill do better.”
“See that you do,” Margaret muttered.
James came downstairs and poked his head into the kitchen.
“Smells amazing, Mum!” he said. “Whats cooking?”
“Beef stew,” Margaret said, her face softening. “Your favourite. Remember how you begged for it as a boy?”
“Course I do!” James grinned. “No one makes it like you!”
Margaret preened.
“Go relax, love. Itll be ready soon.”
James nodded and left. Emily kept chopping mechanically, her mind racing. Why hadnt he offered to help? Why had he left her alone with Margaret?
“Stop dawdling!” Margaret snapped. “We havent got all day.”
Emily sped up. When the vegetables were done, Margaret snatched the bowl, inspected them, and set them on the table.
“Now set the plates. Second shelf.”
Emily arranged the plates. Margaret adjusted one by a fraction.
“At least you managed *something* right,” she muttered.
Emily stayed silent. The tension coiled inside her, but she wouldnt show itnot in front of the children.
Margaret dished the stew, placed it on the table, and poured cordial into a jug.
“Call everyone,” she ordered.
Emily fetched James and the children. James sat eagerly, rubbing his hands.
“Looks incredible!”
Oliver and Sophie sat beside Emily. She poured their drinks, cut their food into small pieces. Sophie nibbled; Oliver swung his legs under the table.
Exhausted, Emily reached for a platethen Margaret stood abruptly, her face contorted.
“What do you think youre doing?!” she shrieked.
Emily froze.
“II was just getting some food”
“This is for *my son*!” Margaret hissed. “Not *you*!”
Before Emily could react, Margarets hand struck her cheek. The slap rang out, sharp as a gunshot.
Emily staggered, the plate shattering on the floor. Her face burned. Oliver and Sophie sat frozen, their forks trembling.
“I made this for *James*!” Margaret spat. “You and your children can eat *elsewhere*!”
Emily pressed a hand to her stinging cheek. The room swayed. This couldnt be real. Not in front of the children. Not in front of James.
But James just stared at his plate. He didnt move. Didnt speak.
“James” Emily whispered.
He looked up, his jaw tight.
“Mum, that was too far,” he said quietly.
“*Too far*?!” Margaret scoffed. “Ive been cooking all day! For *you*! And *she*” she jabbed a finger at Emily, “thinks she can just take what she wants!”
“Margaret, weve been traveling since morning,” Emily tried.
“Quiet!” Margaret barked. “I wont hear another word from you!”
Emily stepped back. She wanted to grab the children and run.
James sighed.
“Lets just eat,” he said. “Mums tired. She didnt mean it.”
“*Didnt mean it*?” Emily choked. “She *hit* me!”
“Not in front of the kids,” James muttered.
Emily looked at Oliver and Sophie. Olivers eyes brimmed with tears; Sophie had buried her face in her hands.
She knelt beside them.
“Its okay,” she whispered.
But nothing was okay.
Margaret sat back down, picking up her fork as if nothing had happened.
“Eat, James,” she said sweetly. “Itll get cold.”
James obeyed.
Emily stood, gripping the childrens hands.
“Mum, I want to go home,” Oliver whispered.
“Me too,” Sophie whimpered.
Emily led them to the hallway. Behind her, Margaret called,
“Go on, then! I dont need you here anyway!”
Emily didnt turn back. She helped the children into their coats, her hands shaking.
“Emily, where are you going?” James called.
“Im not staying,” she said flatly.
“Dont be ridiculous,” he said. “Mum just lost her temper.”
“*Lost her temper*?” Emily turned. “She *hit* me. And you did *nothing*.”
James rubbed his face.
“Shes my *mother*. What was I supposed to do?”
“Stand up for your *wife*,” Emily said.
James hesitated.
“Lets just get through the weekend.”
“No,” Emily said. “Take us to the station. Now.”
“Im not driving back tonight,” James
