—Where are they?— Emily anxiously peeked into the kitchen, then the living room. Empty. The house was eerily quiet, an unsettling change from the usual bustle.
Everything had been unbearable since morning. Her mother—stern, stubborn, with a heavy gaze and endless complaints. Her husband—withdrawn, irritable, deaf to any requests. They’d agreed her mum would stay “just a week.” A week passed. Then another. Now it was the third.
—Mum! Oliver!— she called out. Silence. Her heart clenched.
She grabbed her coat and hurried to the shed, where Oliver usually hid—tinkering with old furniture, escaping the grind. The door was ajar, voices drifting out.
—If you prep the surface properly, the varnish will go on smooth,— her mother said, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.
—I usually thin the first coat,— Oliver replied. —Helps the wood absorb it better.
Emily froze in the doorway, afraid to break the fragile harmony. Before her, the impossible: her perpetually bickering mum and husband sat side by side, restoring an old mirror frame together. Her mother’s apron was speckled with varnish, Oliver’s hands busy with sandpaper and a brush.
—Well, this is a turn-up,— Emily whispered, slipping into a chair to watch.
Weeks ago, she’d insisted her mum move in. The care home where she’d lived since Dad’s death was under renovation. They’d promised temporary relocation, but her mum had declared, —I’d rather stay with my daughter. I’ll help, not burden you.—
Oliver hadn’t been thrilled. He’d never hidden his strained relationship with his mother-in-law—too different. She was sharp, demanding, unyielding. He was quiet but resentful.
From day one, petty clashes: forks in the wrong drawer, shirts folded improperly, doors slammed too hard. Evenings were spent listening to their silent grudges. Two strong-willed people, used to being in charge—under one roof.
Emily had feared their marriage wouldn’t survive.
Yet here they were, sitting together. Turns out, her mum had spent her youth working at a furniture factory. Oliver, a self-taught restorer, had always dreamed of meeting someone with real expertise.
—You’ve got a steady hand,— he said. —Not many craftsmen work like that.
—You’ve got talent,— her mother countered. —A good eye for it.
Later, as they brewed tea and dug out a jar of jam from the pantry, Emily finally blurted:
—Who are you and what have you done with my mother?
Her mum scoffed.
—Just never had anything to talk about before. Now we’ve got common ground. Thought he was hopeless, but look at him work!
Oliver laughed.
—Thought you couldn’t stand me.
—Can’t stand fools. Turns out, you’re not one.
Emily just smiled.
That night, as they climbed into bed, Oliver whispered:
—Glad your mum’s here. Never thought we’d get on.
Morning brought another surprise.
—I’ve decided,— her mum announced. —Not going back to the care home. Staying here. Help you two set up a proper workshop.
Emily didn’t argue. When two people who could barely stand each other start understanding, valuing, even helping—it’s not a disaster. It’s a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, this house would feel peaceful again. Even warm.
