Dear Diary,
This morning I watched Emma at the kitchen table while Margaret Whitaker, my motherinlaw, busily sliced apples for an apple crumble, chatting away as if she were telling a tale at the village fete. Emma barely glanced at her, her eyes fixed on the chopping board. Margaret has been staying with us for a month now, and I can see the strain in Emmas face. Our fiveyear marriage is happy, yet lately shes been wondering whether she made the right choice in marrying the son of a woman who never seems to let anyone make their own decisions.
Emma, youre not listening to me! Margaret snapped, pausing her story and pursing her lips. James needs a better job. That design firm he works for is a laugh. Ive spoken to a friend wholl take him on in her construction companyhigher pay, better prospects. He could be promoted within a year. And you could stay at home, you know.
Emma took a deep breath, fighting the irritation building inside her. Mrs. Whitaker, James decides where he works. Hes an adult.
Of course hes an adult, but youre his wife! You should steer him, give him advice. All that design work and those sketchesthose arent proper mans work! Margaret huffed.
James is a designerarchitect and hes brilliant at it, Emma replied, her patience thinning. His firm is reputable, and he loves what he does.
Loves it? Margaret waved her hands. And the money? They pay him peanuts! And what about children? When will you start teaching them?
Were not planning kids just yet, Emma said softly, even though the subject had come up more than once. We have enough savings.
Not yet? Margaret set the knife down and turned to Emma. I knew it! Five years of marriage and still no little ones? At your age I was already raising James!
Emma fell silent. She did want childrenvery muchbut not now. She had just defended her PhD and had been promoted to senior lecturer in the department. She and James had agreed to wait three more years, just enough time for her to establish herself academically. The plan was simple: three years, then children.
Margaret, interpreting the silence as consent, pressed on. My friends daughter, Lucy, already has three children and her husband is a solid builder who put up a nice house for them.
Mrs. Whitaker, Emma tried again to keep her calm, James and I will decide how we live. I respect you, but
What do you mean well decide? Im his mother! I know whats best for himand for you! Youre still young, inexperienced. A mother never gives bad advice.
Emma shook her head and left the kitchen. Arguing was futile. She went upstairs to our modest but cosy semidetached in Surrey, the one we bought two years ago with a mortgage of £180,000. She flopped onto the bed, closed her eyes, and let the exhaustion of lecturing, grading, and Margarets constant meddling wash over her.
That evening James came home looking tired yet cheerful.
Guess what? Ive been appointed lead designer on a new development! he announced, planting a kiss on Emmas cheek.
Congratulations, love! she replied, genuinely happy for him.
Mother, whats the project? How much will they pay? Margaret immediately interjected.
Its a highend residential complex, Mum. The salary will increase, thats for sure, James said, his excitement evident.
And how much? Margaret persisted.
James grimaced. Mum, its none of your business. Were fine.
Are we? What about the mortgage? The car? You need a new car, your old banger is on its last legs! Margaret blurted. Lucys son has a brandnew vehicle
Im not Lucys son, James cut in sharply. Can we please drop this? Im hungry.
During dinner Margaret continued her lecture. James kept his mouth shut, while Emma felt a knot of irritation tightening inside her. After the meal, alone in the bedroom, Emma finally snapped.
James, I cant take it any longer. Your mother is everywhereyour work, our plans, our life. When is she leaving?
Emma, James sighed, she just thinks shes helping. You know how she is.
I know, Emma said, but theres a difference between visiting on weekends and living with us fulltime.
Its only temporary, James tried to reassure her. Shes having her flat refurbished.
How long does a refurbishment take in a onebedroom flat? Its been a month already!
You know Mumshe wants everything perfect. Just a little more patience, please?
Emma nodded. There was no way to kick her out, but her patience was wearing thin.
The next morning, as Emma was getting ready for work, Margaret appeared at the bedroom door.
Emma, we need to talk, she said, perching on the edge of the bed.
Im in a hurry, perhaps this evening? Emma tried to deflect.
No, its important. I think you should quit your job.
Emma froze, comb with in hand. Why?
Because you need to have children! You cant keep postponing forever. I spoke to James yesterday; he also wants a baby.
James? Emma felt her heart race. Did he actually say that?
Not outright, but I can see it in his eyes. He dreams of a son, Margaret replied, her eyes softening.
Emma set the comb down and faced her motherinlaw. I appreciate your concern, truly, but James and I have already decided. Well start a family in three years. This isnt the right time.
Three years? When will you be forty? I was your age when I raised James, Margaret protested.
I know you raised him, but times have changed, Emma answered. Career matters now, too.
Exactly! In my day family came first, now everyone chases a career. Kids are an afterthought, Margaret lamented.
Emma glanced at the clock. I must go. Well revisit this tonight with James.
The day slipped by in lectures, seminars, and a department meeting. Emma tried not to think about the looming conversation, but doubt crept in. What if Margaret was right? What if James really did want a child now but was too shy to say it?
When we got home, Margaret had set a festive table in the lounge.
Is there a celebration? James asked, slipping off his shoes.
Indeed! A family council! she announced, pouring wine.
Emma sensed the topic before any words were spoken.
Margaret lifted her glass. I have news! I spoke to Susan Bennett, and she wants to hire you, James, as head of design in her construction firm.
James choked on his wine. Mum, what are you talking about?
Your new position! Susan runs a large building company and needs a design lead. The pay is double what you earn now! Margaret beamed, sliding a folder across the table.
James shook his head. Im happy where I am.
But think of the future! How will we afford children on your current salary? Margaret pressed.
We dont have children yet, James reminded her.
Thats precisely why we should act now! Margaret exclaimed, staring at Emma. You were even thinking of quitting earlier today, werent you?
What? I never said that! Emma protested. Im not leaving my job.
We discussed it this morning, Margaret claimed, feigning surprise. You said youd consider my offer.
I said wed talk about it tonight, Emma corrected. And were not planning kids for at least three years.
James nodded, his face a mix of frustration and sorrow. He loved his mother, but her intrusions were wearing thin.
Emma, do you really want a baby now? James asked quietly after dinner.
No, love. We agreed on three years. I need to finish my research, you need to complete the project, she replied.
Then why do you look so upset? he asked.
Its the constant pressure from your mother, he admitted. Shes always watching, always judging.
Maybe we should speak to her plainly, Emma suggested. Tell her we value her care but need space.
Ill do that tomorrow. Tonight is useless; she wont listen.
The next day Margaret behaved as if nothing had happened, asking about our plans and making breakfast. That evening, after work, I found her hunched over a laptop, typing furiously.
Good evening, I said. What are you doing?
Oh! Emma I was just writing to a friend, she stammered, closing the browser. I caught the page title: How to convince your children to have a baby.
Mrs. Whitaker, may we have a word? I asked.
What about? she feigned surprise.
About your involvement in our lives. About the boundaries youre crossing. I said, steady.
Crossing? Im only helping! Im a mother! she retorted.
Youre Jamess mother, not mine. Were both adults and make our own choices, I replied firmly.
She shook her head. Mothers always know best.
Maybe, I conceded, but the decisions belong to us.
James returned then, looking pale. My director called. Someone asked about my salary and prospects.
What? I asked.
It was you, Mum, James said, anger flickering. You called my boss to check on me.
I was just making sure youre alright! she protested. What did he say?
He said a strange woman was prying into his affairs. Thats a line we shouldnt cross, Mum.
Im your mother! There are no lines! she shouted.
There have to be, James said calmly, his fists clenched. We deserve privacy.
Privacy? she scoffed. I raised you! Everything I did was for you.
Yes, for you, James said, but now we need to live our own lives.
Margarets eyes filled with tears. I only want whats best for you both!
I know, Mum, I said gently. But best is what we decide for ourselves.
The room fell quiet. James squeezed my hand, grateful that he finally voiced what hed been holding inside.
Shall we have some tea? I suggested, trying to soften the mood.
Tea sounds lovely, James agreed.
Margaret nodded, still upset but beginning to understand.
The following morning she announced she was moving back to her flat in Oxford, now that the refurbishment was complete. I felt a mix of relief and sorrow. I was glad for the peace, yet I missed her earnestness.
When she left, I turned to Emma and said, Weve learned that love can be a heavy hand, but it should never crush us.
Three years later, as we finally welcomed our daughter, Emma cradled her in the garden while James watched. Margaret, now visiting less often, held the baby and whispered, Shes perfect. You made the right choice.
We smiled, realizing that the path, though thorny, led us where we wanted to be.
Tonight, as I write this, Im reminded that caring advice is a gift, but autonomy is a right. Balancing the two is the true lesson of marriage and family.
James.
