**”She’s Nobody to Me!”**
I woke at five in the morning, the first hints of dawn barely creeping through the window. Beside me, James snored softly, his arm flung behind his headhis usual pose of a man perpetually short on sleep. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I flicked on the light and pulled the cake ingredients from the fridge: sponge layers, buttercream, fresh strawberries. Today was Olivers fifth birthday, and I wanted it to feel like magic.
“Bit early, isnt it?” came a voice from the doorway. My husband stood squinting against the light, his hair tousled.
“Go back to sleep,” I smiled, creaming the butter. “If I dont start now, Ill never finish before the guests arrive.”
He nodded but didnt leave. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his cheek against my neck.
“Sometimes I think I dont deserve you,” he murmured.
I laughed softly, setting the bowl aside. “Is this about the promotion? Now youre the big boss, and Im still just a primary school teacher.”
“Emma, stop,” he turned me to face him. “Well tell everyone today. Itll be the best surprise.”
I nodded, swallowing the flutter in my chest. Six years of marriage, and his touch still left me breathless. Though once, no one believed wed last.
By eleven, the cake was assembled, the bunting hung, gifts tucked neatly in the cupboard. The doorbell rang. I took a deep breath, smoothed a loose strand of hair, and opened the door.
“Margaret! Youre early!”
My mother-in-law stood on the doorstep clutching an elaborately wrapped box. Her immaculate blow-dry (weekly salon visitsnon-negotiable) and flawless makeup contrasted sharply with my dressing gown and messy bun.
“Darling,” she air-kissed my cheek, “I came to help. You know how important it is to do things properly.”
Silently, I took her coat and led her to the kitchen. “Helping,” in her world, meant scrutinising my every moveespecially if it involved something her “taste and status” could improve.
“Whats this?” She pointed at the cake Id just refrigerated. “Homemade? Why not order from Harrods?”
“Oliver loves when I bake,” I said evenly, fetching plates.
“Hes a child, what does he know?” She wrinkled her nose. “And the guests? What will they think? No offence, darling, but a professional patisseriethats class. This is… quaint.”
I bit my tongue, focusing on setting the table. Six years of these comments. Six years of not measuring up to her idea of a “suitable daughter-in-law.”
“Wheres James?” She glanced around. “Still asleep? Just like his father.”
“He took Oliver to the park. Theyll be back soon.”
She opened the cupboard, pulled out a mug, and frowned. “Still using these cheap things? I gave you that Wedgwood set at Christmas. Dont you like it?”
The set that cost nearly my monthly salaryI saved it for special occasions. Today, I hadnt risked it with children around.
Every holiday, the same script. Every visit, a test.
I remembered our modest wedding. Margaret had leaned into Jamess ear and whispered, “You couldve done better.” She thought I hadnt heard.
Six years on, had I grown used to it? No. But Id learned to swallow the hurtlike bitter medicine, chased with a smile. For James. For Oliver. For peace.
The front door slammed, followed by laughter.
“Mum, look!” Oliver burst in, waving a kite. James followed, arms laden with bags.
“Granny!” Oliver hurled himself at Margaret. She lit up, scooping him into her arms.
“My darling! Look how big you are! Here, Grannys present.” She nodded at the box.
“Wow! Can I open it now?”
“After the candles, love. Tradition.”
“But Mu-um!”
“Emma, must you be so rigid?” Margaret cut in. “James always opened gifts straight away.”
James cleared his throat. “Mum, lets stick to tradition. Ollie, patienceguests are coming.”
The doorbell saved us. Soon, the house brimmed with family and friends: my parents with a homemade pie, colleagues, neighbours. Mum slipped into the kitchen to help; Dad retreated behind a newspaper. Quiet, unobtrusiveutterly unlike Margaret, whose presence devoured the room.
“Susan, hows your blood pressure?” Margaret boomed at my mother. “At your age, its vital.”
Mum smiled politely. At fifty-five, she was three years younger than Margaretwho never let anyone forget it.
“Fine, thank you,” Mum murmured, chopping vegetables.
“Still at the factory?” Margaret pressed. “Must be difficult.”
My parents had worked there their whole livesordinary engineers. Not like her, a former department head with “connections.”
The party hummed along. Children shrieked; adults chatted. I flitted between rooms, refilling drinks. James helped but lingered with colleagueshis promotion was a triumph, though wed save the announcement for later.
“Emma, change the boys clothes,” Margaret seized my arm. “I saw a lovely outfit at John Lewis. If youd shopped with me, hed look like a proper birthday boy.”
I glanced at Oliverjeans and a T-shirt, his favourites.
“Hes comfortable, Margaret.”
“Comfortable isnt the same as presentable,” she snapped. “In my day”
“Mum, enough,” James interjected. “He looks great.”
She pursed her lips and turned to my parents. I shot James a grateful look, but he was already deep in conversation.
“Mum,” Oliver whispered, tugging my sleeve, “why is Granny always cross?”
I froze, salad tongs in hand. Behind us, Margaret laughed loudly, lamenting the “dreadful standards” of modern housekeepers.
“Shes not cross, sweetheart,” I crouched to his level. “She just wants things done right.”
“Whats right?”
Good question. If only I knew.
“Cake time!” I called, checking my watch. “Oliver, make a wish!”
The crowd gathered. James hit record on his phone. I emerged with the caketwo tiers, chocolate ganache, raspberry filling, Olivers favourite.
“Wow!” His eyes sparkled.
“Hmm. Very… homemade,” Margaret muttered, loud enough for the street to hear. “A proper bakery wouldve added fondant figures, glitter…”
I swallowed the sting. Today wasnt about her. Today was Olivers.
“Make a wish, love.” I set the cake before him, five candles flickering.
“Happy Birthday” rang out. Oliver blew with all his might, extinguishing every flame. The room erupted in cheers.
“Presents now!” James declared.
Oliver tore through gifts: Lego from Grandma and Grandpa, books from friends, a toy garage from us. ThenMargarets grand offering.
“An iPad!” he screamed, brandishing the shiny box. “Thank you, Granny!”
Margaret beamed as if shed won the lottery.
“Only the best for my grandson,” she said pointedly at my parents. “Some cant afford it, but I believe children need technology.”
Mum looked at her lap. My chest tightened, but I sliced the cake silently, hands trembling.
“Whod like to toast?” James raised his glass.
“Allow me.” Margaret stood, smoothing her dress. “Today, we celebrate five years of Oliver. Im so proud of the boy hes becoming.”
She paused, relishing the spotlight.
“I raised James alone. No husband. Did it all myself. And look at him nowrespected, successful. Because of my sacrifices.”
Her voice wavered theatrically.
“Now I watch my grandson grow. But not everything pleases me.”
The room stilled.
“His upbringing, for instance,” she eyed me. “The odd food, the penny-pinching. Ive always told James: its not just who you are, but who you marrywho raises your child.”
“Mum, stop,” James said, but she ploughed on.
“No, darling. Six years Ive held my tongue. Six years watching someone take advantage of your kindness, your position.”
My parents exchanged glances. Guests studied their plates.
“Margaret, not today,” I whispered. “Its Olivers party.”
“Exactly!” she snapped. “My grandsons day! And Ill speak my mind. You may resent it, Emma, but to me, youre NOBODY! Just some woman who stumbled into our family. And I wont let you ruin my son and grandson!”
The room froze. My stomach knotted; blood drained from my face. Oliver clutched my hand, lips trembling.
“What did you just say?” James stood, voice steelier than Id ever heard.
He squared his shoulders
