**Diary Entry**
*23rd April, 2024*
«Dont you dare dress like that in *my* house,» my mother-in-law hissed in front of the guests.
«Emily, have you seen my reading glasses? I think I left them on the coffee table,» Margaret Holloway called out as she stepped into the kitchen, where my wife was putting the finishing touches on a salad for the party.
«Check the case, Margaret. I tidied the lounge earlier and put them there,» Emily replied without looking up, her knife gliding through crisp vegetables.
Margaret pressed her lips together but said nothing. In her world, no one touched anothers belongingsespecially not hersno matter how well-meant. But tonight was important, and she wouldnt start a row. Not now, with guests due any minute.
Thirty years ago today, Margaret had moved into this grand Victorian househigh ceilings, antique furniture, all passed down from *her* mother-in-law. Every corner bore her touch, every trinket had its place. Legally, the house now belonged to my wife and me, but in Margarets mind, she was still its mistress.
Emily had only been here two years. To Margaret, our marriage had been an unpleasant surpriseher son bringing home a woman hed known barely three months. Bright, university-educated, and with what Margaret called «far too modern» ideas.
«The salads nearly ready,» Emily said, arranging it on a serving platter. «Ill just change before everyone arrives.»
«Youre not wearing *that* red dress, are you?» Margaret remarked, smoothing her immaculate silver coiffure.
Emily paused, then met her gaze.
«I am. James chose it for me on our anniversary.»
«Its hardly suitable for a family dinner.» Margarets tone was clipped. «Too… revealing. What about that lovely blue one I gave you at Christmas?»
Emily exhaled. That blue dressprim as a schoolgirls uniformhad been worn exactly once to appease her. Since then, it had languished in the wardrobe.
«Margaret, at thirty-two, Id hope I can dress myself.» Her voice was firm but calm.
«Of course,» Margaret forced a smile. «Only, my friends are of a certain generation. They have standards.»
Without waiting for a reply, she swept out, leaving Emily simmering in the kitchen.
Upstairs, I was buttoning my shirt when Emily entered, pulling *the* red dress from the wardrobe.
«Almost ready to impress the dignitaries?» I teased.
«Nearly,» she said tightly. «Your mothers critiquing my wardrobe again.»
I sighed. «Ignore her. Shes just worried about appearances.»
«Her appearances, or mine?» Emily held up the dress. It *was* daringlow-cut, with a slitbut hardly indecent.
«Not tonight, love. Today means the world to her.»
«And my self-respect means something to me. Im not a child to be dressed.»
I hesitated, torn between wife and mother.
«Wear what you like,» I conceded. «Youre beautiful in anything.»
She kissed my cheek, though irritation still prickled beneath her smile.
Guests arrived at sixMargarets old colleagues from her days at the architecture firm, neighbours like sharp-eyed Mrs. Whitaker, all her lifelong acquaintances. Emily and I played host, exchanging pleasantries while Margaret held court, reminiscing about her travels.
When Emily slipped into the kitchen for the roast, Margaret cornered her by the Aga.
«Must you flaunt yourself?» she muttered, eyes on Emilys décolletage.
«Weve had this conversation,» Emily said evenly.
«In *my* day, modesty mattered.»
«Times change, Margaret. Kindness doesnt.»
I walked in as the kettle boiled.
«Everything alright?»
«Just discussing *taste*,» Margaret said airily.
«I heard enough.» I stepped beside Emily. «Shes my wife. That tone stops now.»
«This is *my* house!»
«*Our* house. And we all belong here.»
Silence fell. Then, stiffly, Margaret spoke.
«Perhaps I… overreacted. That dress does suit you.»
Emily blinked. Two years, and never an apology.
«Thank you,» she said softly.
Back in the dining room, the evening warmed. Margaret even asked where Emily bought the dress»For my friend Beatrice, shed love something similar.»
Later, as Mrs. Whitaker waited for her cab, she nudged Margaret.
«Fifty years Ive known you. Never heard you admit you were wrong.»
Margaret feigned ignorance, but Mrs. Whitaker chuckled.
«That girls good for your son. Isnt that what matters?»
By midnight, we were clearing up when Margaret waved us off.
«Leave it. Tonight was lovely. Rules can bend sometimes.»
Emily and I exchanged glances.
«Since when?» I laughed.
«Since today.» Margaret smiledproperly, for once. «Maybe Ill try a red dress myself.»
And we laughed together, truly, for the first time in years.
**Lesson learned:** Pride and tradition build walls. A single moment of humility can turn them into bridges.
