Youre dressing Mike in that thin jumper again? Its freezing outside!
Mum, its only fifteen degrees. He wont catch a cold.
He wont! You lot have no idea what a proper warm coat looks like. A child should be bundled up!
Emma stood in the hallway, watching her motherinlaw Margaret pull the light sweater off her grandson and slip a thick cardigan over him. The boy squirmed and pouted, but Margaret was unmoved.
Mum, hell get hot, Emma tried to argue.
Better hot than ill! Margaret shoved the cardigan on him, gave a satisfied nod. Thats how it should be. Off you go, have a walk.
Emma bit her lip, swallowed the retort, took Mikes hand and left the flat. They lived one floor up, and Margaret liked to keep a close eye on every move Emma made.
Emma had married David four years ago. At first they rented a flat of their own, but when little Mike was born David suggested moving into his parents house more space and Grannys help would come in handy.
Emma agreed, and regretted it within the first week.
Margaret intervened in everything: how to feed the baby, how to dress him, when to put him to bed. Emma had no say; any opinion she voiced was brushed aside.
Youre young, youve got no experience. Ive raised three kids, I know best, the motherinlaw would say.
David usually stayed quiet, saying Mum was just being caring and Emma shouldnt take it to heart. But Emma felt more like a servant than a partner.
The kitchen was the worst battleground. Margaret fancied herself a top chef and dismissed any other way of cooking.
Bolognese must have a splash of red wine, and youve got no seasoning!
Sausages need a bit of sage, yours are as dry as toast!
The pie dough needs three hours to rest, not one!
Emma tried to argue at first, to prove her methods werent wrong, but Margaret never listened. Eventually Emma stopped cooking altogether why bother if it was only going to be criticised?
Then her dads birthday came up Peter Thompson. Emma wanted to show she could still cook, so she rose early while everyone slept and got to work.
She made a prawn cocktail Peters favourite baked chicken with veg, and a classic apple crumble from her own mums recipe. The house smelled amazing by lunchtime.
Peter popped into the kitchen, sniffed the air.
Well, thats a treat! Emma, youve gone all out?
Happy birthday, Peter, Emma said, beaming.
Thank you, love! he replied, always kind to Emma, unlike his wifes mother. Hed often step in for her when Margaret started nagging.
Margaret drifted in from the bedroom, looking displeased.
Whats that smell?
Mum, its Emmas cooking for Peters birthday, David said, trying to smooth things over.
Margaret lifted the lid of the prawn bowl, sniffed, and made a face.
Whats this?
Prawn cocktail, Emma turned. Peter loves it.
Prawns? Margaret grimaced. He gets heartburn from those!
But he told me he liked them
He never said that! Margaret slammed the bowl down. And this?
Roast chicken with veg.
She opened the oven, poked the chicken with a fork.
Dry. Overcooked.
David, whod just entered, tried to intervene.
Its just out of the oven, Mum, let us taste it.
No need, I can see its ruined, Margaret snapped, slamming the oven shut. And whats that horrid thing?
Its an apple crumble, Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. My mums recipe.
Your mum cant cook, Im sure of it, Margaret huffed. Apples from an apple tree, thats all you get.
Emma clenched her fists. Fine, my mum, she thought, but kept quiet.
My mum cooks wonderfully!
Oh really? She taught you that, I suppose, Margaret scoffed, grabbing the prawn bowl and hurling it toward the bin.
What are you doing? Emma lunged.
Tossing it. No ones going to eat it anyway.
In front of everyone, Margaret dumped the whole bowl into the rubbish. Emma stared, stunned. Shed spent time buying fresh, pricey prawns and making the salad look perfect, only to see it disappear.
David stepped forward, his voice loud.
Margaret, why did you throw it away?
Because Peter gets heartburn! I know whats good for him!
Peter tried to interject.
Id love a bite, really.
Dont argue with me! Margaret snapped at him. Ive looked after you for thirty years, I know whats harmful!
Emma stood, eyes on the bin, tears threatening. She swallowed them, refusing to sob in front of Margaret. She turned, left the kitchen, went to the bedroom, sat on the bed and let the tears flow.
David came in, trying to comfort her.
Emma, dont cry. Mums just a bit frazzled.
Frazzled? She threw my food away, in front of everyone!
Shes worried about Peter, he does get heartburn sometimes.
He told me he loves prawns!
Maybe he liked them before, but not now.
Emma looked at David, who was still defending his mum. Shed never seen him side with her.
Why do you always back her up?
Im not backing her up, I just understand
And my feelings? Do they matter?
Of course they do, but dont take it to heart. She treats everyone like that.
She doesnt respect me at all. I feel like a nobody.
David fell silent.
Lets not fight today. Its Peters birthday, lets sit together.
Emma shook her head.
I dont want to.
Come on
Im staying out of it.
David sighed, left the room, and Emma lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the pressure build. She decided shed had enough. Something had to change.
That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Emma went back to the kitchen. The chicken and crumble sat untouched. Margaret was making her own dinner chips and meat pies. Everyone ate her food; nobody tried Emmas dishes, except Peter, who sneaked a piece of crumble, winked, and said, Delicious, thanks, love.
Emma cleared the table, washed the dishes. Margaret lounged on the sofa watching TV, never offering to help she assumed it was Emmas job. When Emma finished, David knocked.
Emma, Mum wants a word.
About what?
Im not sure. She said shed speak in the lounge.
Emma wiped her hands, went in. Margaret turned off the TV, faced her.
Sit down.
Emma perched on the edge of the sofa, Margaret studying her.
I need you to understand something. This is my house, my rules. If you want to stay, youll do as I tell you.
Emma stayed quiet.
Im the one who cooks here. Got it? No more your prawns or any of your fancy ideas.
I was only trying to make Peters birthday special.
Special is obeying your motherinlaw.
Margaret, Im part of this family too. I deserve to cook.
Margaret smirked.
Part of the family? Youre living off my generosity. I wash, I feed, you just sit there with the baby.
Im looking after him!
Look after him, I did the same, worked, raised three kids. All you do is whine.
Emma leapt up.
Im not whining! I just want some respect!
Respect is earned, Margaret replied, standing. What have you done to earn it? Nothing but complaints.
Emma stormed out, headed to the bedroom where David was still halfasleep.
David, we need to move out.
He blinked.
Move where?
Find a flat. I cant live here any longer.
We cant afford it.
Well manage. Ill get a job.
What about Mike?
He can go to nursery.
Thatll be pricey.
Weve been scraping by; its time for a change.
David looked torn, his phone still in his hand.
Ill think about it.
The next morning Margaret acted as if nothing had happened, barking orders over breakfast. Emma ate in silence, eyes down.
Later that day Emmas mother called.
Emma, love, how was Peters birthday?
Emma stepped onto the balcony for privacy.
It was terrible.
What happened?
She recounted the prawn fiasco.
You cant keep putting up with that. You ought to get out.
We dont have the money.
Maybe I could help
No, Mum, youre barely getting by yourself.
Think about a parttime job. You could earn enough, and Mike could go to nursery.
Emma paused, the idea clicking.
Ill look into it.
A few days later, after Mike was settled into a local nursery, Emma applied for a receptionist role at a small firm. The shift was 9to3, perfect for picking him up. She got the job.
She told Margaret the news.
Im starting work on Monday.
Margaret lifted her head from the pot.
Work? And Mike?
Hell be at the nursery.
Who decided that?
David and I.
And you didnt ask me?
Its our decision.
Margaret slammed a ladle into the sink.
Your decision! Sending your son to a nursery and you going off to work? What a mother you are!
Im a responsible mother, Emma replied firmly. Many mums do this.
Many! Margaret snapped, moving closer. I never did it! I stayed home, raised you all!
I want to earn my own money.
Earn? Can you even afford it?
Ill manage.
David stepped in.
Mum, weve talked about this. Emmas choosing to work, thats fine.
Margaret glared at him.
You let her throw the child away?
No, were just giving him a good start.
Margaret fell silent, then stormed out of the kitchen.
That week she shut herself away, only cooking for herself and Peter. Emma and David had to do everything else themselves, but they didnt mind. Emma finally got to make her own meals without a running commentary.
On Monday she started work, Mike happily trotted off to nursery, and the adjustment was smoother than shed feared. He loved his new friends, and Emma found the office pleasant, the boss fair. The £1,200 a month she earned helped them save.
Three months later theyd scraped together enough for a modest twobed flat in a quiet suburb of Leeds. They signed the tenancy, paid the deposit, and finally felt a flicker of independence.
David was nervous about telling his parents, but the move was only a week away. He gathered everyone in the living room.
Mum, Dad, we need to talk.
Margaret set her teacup down, eyes narrowed.
About?
Were moving out. Weve found a place.
A heavy silence settled. Margaret finally placed her cup on the table.
Moving out?
We need our own space.
So youre ungrateful! Ive fed you, cleaned for you, looked after Mike!
Mum, were grateful, but were adults now.
Its you, not her! Shes been meddling forever!
Peter, whod been listening, rose.
Margaret, calm down. Theyre right. They need their own life.
Stay out of this! Margaret snapped, pointing at Emma. Youve been pulling the strings all along!
Peter placed a hand on her shoulder.
Lets not make a scene. Well still visit, well still be family.
Margaret huffed and shuffled to the bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.
The move went smoothly. Margaret never came to say goodbye, staying in her own bedroom, watching from her window as Emmas boxes were carried away. Peter helped lift the heavier pieces and gave them a few encouraging words.
In the new flat, Emma finally felt like a proper homeowner. She painted the walls, arranged the furniture, cooked what she liked, and cleaned on her own terms. David relaxed, no longer under his mothers constant supervision. Mike had his own room, his own toys, and loved the new neighbourhood.
Margaret didnt call for weeks. When she did, it was brief, her tone guarded. Peter phoned regularly, checking in, offering a friendly chat.
Six months later, David suggested a visit to their parents house.
Lets go see Mum, he said.
Emma agreed, bringing a bouquet of lilies for Margaret.
When they arrived, Peter greeted them warmly. Margaret appeared from the kitchen, glanced at the flowers, and managed a curt Hello.
Emma handed her the bouquet.
Here you go, Margaret.
Margaret took them without a word. They sat down for lunch, which Margaret prepared expertly the food was still fantastic. The conversation was stiff, but polite.
After the meal, Emma went to the kitchen to wash up.
Margaret, may I help?
No need, she replied coldly.
At least I could wash the dishes
I said no.
Emma sighed, then tried a softer approach.
Can we make peace? Theres no need for us to keep clashing.
Margaret paused, turned, and after a moment said,
You took my son away.
I didnt. David decided to move.
You convinced him.
No, we just wanted our own place.
Margaret lowered her eyes onto the table.
I always imagined youd stay, that the grandchildren would grow up here
Well still visit, well still call.
I felt ignored, dismissed.
Emma gently explained the day the prawn salad was thrown away, how it had hurt her deeply.
I thought it was for Peters health, Margaret admitted, voice softer. I see now I could have just asked.
Emma felt a flicker of surprise.
I understand you wanted to protect him, but I wanted to do something nice for him too.
Margaret nodded, looking a little ashamed.
Ive spent my whole life controlling things I didnt realise I was crushing you.
Im not trying to change you, just ask for a bit of respect.
Margaret stood, opened the fridge, and pulled out a small cake.
Take this, for the road.
Thank you, Emma said, taking it.
And next week Ill make your favourite prawn salad, if youd like.
Emma smiled, genuinely.
Well be there.
They left the house on better terms. Margaret gradually softened, stopped critiquing Emmas cooking, and even asked for recipes.
Emma grew more confident, standing up for herself, and eventually, she and David settled into a happy routine in their cosy flat. The memory of that tossed salad remained a turning point the moment she realised she deserved respect and a life of her own.
If youve ever been in a similar bind with family, Id love to hear how you dealt with it. Thanks for listening.
