**Diary Entry, 12th June**
*»Dont you dare dress like that under my roof.»* My mother-in-law hissed the words under her breath just as the guests arrived.
*»Charlotte, have you seen my glasses? I think I left them on the coffee table.»* Margaret Whitmore peered into the kitchen where my wife was putting the finishing touches on the holiday salad.
*»Check the case, Margaret,»* Charlotte answered without looking up from slicing the vegetables, each piece cut with precision.
Margarets lips tightened, but she said nothing. In her world, no one touched anothers belongingsespecially not hersno matter the intent. But tonight wasnt the time for lectures. It was a special occasion.
Thirty years ago today, Margaret had moved into this grand Victorian housespacious, high-ceilinged, filled with heirlooms passed down from *her* mother-in-law. Over the decades, shed arranged every corner to her liking. Though the deed now belonged to my husband, James, she still ruled it like a queen.
Charlotte had only been here two years. Margaret had never approved of our whirlwind marriagethree months of dating before James brought her home. A bright woman with a university degree, too modern, too *independent* for Margarets taste.
*»Salads nearly ready,»* Charlotte said, arranging it on the serving platter. *»Ill just nip upstairs to change before the guests arrive.»*
*»Youre not wearing that red dress, I hope?»* Margaret remarked casually, smoothing her immaculate silver chignon.
Charlotte paused, then met her gaze. *»Actually, yes. James picked it out for our anniversary.»*
*»Hardly appropriate for a family supper,»* Margaret clipped. *»Far too revealing. That lovely navy dress I gave you at Christmas would be much more suitable.»*
Charlotte exhaled slowly. That *navy dress*prim, borderline matronlyhad been worn exactly once, out of obligation. Since then, it had gathered dust in the wardrobe.
*»Margaret,»* she said carefully, *»Im thirty-two. I think I can choose my own clothes.»*
*»Of course,»* Margaret forced a smile. *»Just remembermy friends are coming tonight. People of a certain generation. They have expectations.»*
Without waiting for a reply, she swept out, leaving Charlotte simmering.
Upstairs, James was buttoning his crisp shirt. *»All set for the grand soirée?»*
*»Nearly,»* Charlotte said, pulling *the* red dress from the wardrobe. *»Your mothers critiquing my outfit again.»*
James sighed. *»Ignore her. Shes just nervous about impressing her friends.»*
*»Or controlling what *I* wear,»* Charlotte muttered, inspecting the dress. It *was* daringdeep V-neck, thigh slitbut hardly scandalous.
*»Not tonight, love,»* James said, wrapping his arms around her. *»This anniversary means everything to her.»*
*»And my self-respect means something to me. Im not a child.»*
He hesitated, torn between wife and mother. *»Wear what you like. Youre stunning either way.»*
She kissed his cheek, swallowing her frustration. For him, shed play nice.
Guests arrived at six. First came Eleanor and CharlesMargarets oldest friends from her days at the architectural firm. Then Mrs. Higgins from next door, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. The rest followedmostly Margarets contemporaries, the sort who still wrote thank-you notes by hand.
Charlotte played hostess, smiling through small talk until Margaret summoned her to the kitchen.
*»Couldnt you have worn something modest?»* Margaret hissed, eyeing the red dress like an affront.
*»Weve been over this. Its just a dress.»*
*»In *my* home, its a statement.»* The pie dish clattered onto the counter.
Charlotte bit back a retort. Not here. Not now.
Back in the dining room, laughter bubbleduntil Margaret *needed* more bread. (The basket was full.) As Charlotte turned, she caught Margarets whisper: *»Honestly, this generationno sense of decorum.»*
She froze. Then walked back empty-handed. *»Theres plenty of bread, Margaret.»*
The evening limped ontoasts, nostalgia, polite politics. Tension thickened until Mrs. Higgins broke it.
*»Charlotte, that dress is divine! Like something from *Vogue*!»*
Margarets smile tightened. *»She *does* love fashion. Though modesty never goes out of style.»*
*»Oh, rubbish!»* Mrs. Higgins waved a hand. *»If I had your figure, dear, Id wear that every day!»*
When the tea kettle whistled, Charlotte escapedonly for Margaret to corner her.
*»How *dare* you humiliate me like this!»* she spat. *»Thisthis *vulgarity* in front of my guests!»*
*»Its a *dress*, Margaret.»*
*»Youre mocking me! Flaunting your disrespect!»*
James appeared, face dark. *»Thats enough.»*
Margaret paled. *»James, you dont understand»*
*»No, *you* dont.»* He stepped beside Charlotte. *»This is *our* home too. And I wont let you speak to her like that.»*
Silence. Then, unthinkablyMargaret *apologised*.
Later, as Mrs. Higgins left, she murmured, *»Fifty years Ive known you, Margaret. Never heard you say *sorry*.»*
By midnight, something had shifted. Margaret even joked about buying *herself* a daring dress. We laughedproperly, for the first time in years.
**Lesson learned:** Family isnt about control. Its about learning when to loosen your gripand when to let love in.
