Hey love, youve got to hear whats been going on at my place lately. So, this morning Im in the hallway and I hear the wardrobe door swing open turns out Margaret, my motherinlaw, has slipped my boots back on again.
Did you just put my boots on? I snap, feeling that heat rising.
Shes standing by the mirror, adjusting her scarf, and says, Darling, its pouring outside and all Ive got are these fancy party shoes. Isnt it a shame youre left in those drab ones?
I cross my arms, trying to keep my cool. Its not about pity, its about respecting personal space. I dont barge into your room or touch your stuff, so please dont do the same to me.
Margaret gives me that regal stare you know the one that goes from the eyebrows right down to the mouth, halfsquint, halfsmirk. We were used to eight people crammed into one room back in my day, and no one complained about personal space, she says, all sweet.
I mutter, Maybe they didnt complain then, but nowadays things are different.
She leans in, pretending not to hear me, What are you muttering about? Speak up, Im not twentysomething any more.
I take a deep breath. Living with Margaret for the past three months has been a trial, but weve got no choice. We had to give up our little flat in Liverpool because the mortgage on the new house kept rising, and the builders are still dragging their feet. So weve been crashing in her twobed flat in Manchester.
Ill pop out to the shop and grab you a pair of rubber boots, so you dont suffer, I say, forcing a smile. Just for you.
Oh, dont bother! she waves her hands. My shoe cupboard is bursting. Better buy yourself a pair, then I wont have to feel sorry for you.
I note the word my in her tone not old or everyday, but my. Its like shes marking ownership, deciding whether to share or not.
Alright, Margaret, I say, Ive got to dash to work. Ill be late, got a meeting.
She shakes her head, Again? James will get home tired and hungry, and you wont be there.
James can heat his own dinner, I shrug, pulling on my coat. Everythings already in the fridge.
Stepping out, the spring drizzle has stopped, but the wet snow underfoot has turned into a grey mush. I think, She really does need those boots, and head for the bus stop.
At the office the day drags on. Im a graphic designer at a printing firm, usually lost in colour palettes, but today my mind keeps replaying the morning showdown, the missing packet of pricey tea, and the time Margaret accidentally shrank my favourite sweater in the wash.
During lunch, my colleague Rachel plops down next to me. You look wound up. Motherinlaw drama again?
I give a weak grin. You can say that.
Tell me everything, she leans in, sympathetic.
Its the little things stacking up, I wave my hand. Shes been taking my things, eating my food, never asking.
What about James? she asks.
He loves his mum, I get it. He tries to stay neutral.
Rachel sighs, Neutral doesnt exist here. Sooner or later youll have to pick a side, and he should be on yours, otherwise
Otherwise what? I raise an eyebrow. Id leave him because of his mum?
Not because of her, because he keeps siding with her, Rachel says. Ive been there. My first marriage fell apart after five years, mostly because my husband always took his mothers side.
Itll get better, I tell myself. The new flat will be finished in a couple of months, and things will settle.
Hope youre right, Rachel mutters, still a bit doubtful.
That evening I decide to surprise James with ingredients for his favourite carrot cake Saturdays coming, I can bake it early. The flat is quiet, only the kitchen light glowing. I slip off my shoes and wander in, only to find Margaret at the table, happily scarfing down a casserole Id made for breakfast, the whole tray meant for three.
Emily! she gasps, startled. Back already? I thought youd be later.
The meeting got cancelled, I say, glancing at the almost empty casserole dish. Wheres James?
Hes out with his mates, said not to wait for him, Margaret shrugs. I thought Id have a bite. Storebought chicken didnt appeal, so I tried your casserole. Its lovely, by the way!
I set the grocery bags down, feeling the need to get up an hour earlier to fix breakfast again. Im already missing a proper sleep on a Saturday.
Margaret, I start, trying to stay calm, that casserole was meant for breakfast, for everyone.
Oh dear, I didnt realise, she flutters her hands, no hint of guilt. I thought it was just sitting there. Ill make something else tomorrow, youre a brilliant cook!
I bite back my frustration. She knew it was for breakfast I mentioned it at dinner last night when we were planning the weekend menu.
Fine, Ill go change, I mutter, heading to the bedroom.
While unpacking the groceries I notice the chocolate is missing. Im sure I bought two bars for the cake.
Margaret, have you seen the chocolate? It shouldve been in the bags.
She gives a guilty smile, Oops, Em, I took one bar for my tea. Thought you wouldnt notice.
A wave of anger rushes through me. Its not about the chocolate; its about the constant, systematic ignoring of my boundaries. The lack of courtesy, the disrespect.
It was for the cake, for James, I say shortly.
Well, just buy another tomorrow, she shrugs. The shops right across the road, no big deal.
I nod, retreating to my room, tears prickling. Im hurt and angry, but I dont want a fullblown argument. Shell just pretend she doesnt get it.
James comes back late, finding me in bed with a book, trying to distract myself.
Hey, love, he leans in for a kiss. How was your day?
Okay, I set the book down. And yours?
Great! Met the lads, had a few pints at the pub. Its been ages.
I hold back whether to mention the casserole and the chocolate. I dont want to sound petty.
Is mum still up? he asks, pulling his sweater over his head.
No, shes in her room watching telly.
Ill pop in, say hi, he says, heading out.
From down the hall I hear Margarets muffled laughter. I wonder if shes told James about the casserole and sugarcoated the story.
James returns about twenty minutes later, looking relaxed.
Mum ate your casserole, he says, slipping under the duvet. Says its fingerlicking good.
Yes, I know, I reply dryly. It was for breakfast.
So what? Make something else. At least she liked your cooking.
I look at him, trying to explain.
James, its not just the casserole. Its that your mum keeps taking my things without asking, eats food Ive set aside for special occasions, never respects my opinions.
Come off it, he waves a hand. Its just a casserole. Mum was hungry.
And the chocolate for your cake? She ate that too, just because.
What chocolate? he frowns.
I bought it for a surprise cake tomorrow. Your mum just helped herself.
So what? She felt sorry for the chocolate?
Its not about the chocolate! She does it on purpose to test the limits, to remind everyone whos boss.
Nonsense, he rolls onto his back. Youre overthinking it. Mum just wanted a bite.
Yesterday it was my tea, the day before my boots, today a casserole, and now chocolate, I list, holding up my fingers. Everythings mine, and she takes it without asking.
James looks bewildered. Are you serious? Youre counting every little thing? Splitting everything into mine and hers? Were a family!
Family means respecting personal boundaries, I whisper. It means asking before you take, not barging in and eating whats meant for everyone.
Youve got it all wrong, he snaps. You should be grateful my mum eats your food. It means she likes your cooking thats a compliment!
I stare at him, eyes wide, unable to process that he cant see the problem.
A compliment? I echo. So if I cook dinner and your mum wolfdown it while were not there, thats a compliment and not disrespect?
Stop dramatizing! he snaps, pulling the blanket up. Ive had a rough day, youre making a mountain out of a molehill.
He gets up, grabs a pillow, Im heading to the sofa. Got an early start tomorrow. Night.
Im left alone, tears sliding down my cheeks. Id hoped James would understand, support me, but hes sidestepped with his mum instead of looking at the issue.
Morning comes with the smell of pancakes. Margaret is bustling in the kitchen, James sits at the table grinning.
Morning, love, he says, like nothing happened. Mums treating us.
I reluctantly sit. Margaret slides a plate of pancakes my way. Eat up, dear. Ive also made eggs, coming right over.
Thanks, I murmur, but I only want coffee. Im not hungry.
Youre not hungry? Ive made a feast! Youll hurt my feelings if you dont eat, she exclaims, hands waving.
James watches, waiting to see my reaction. I know refusing will be taken as a declaration of war.
Fine, I pick up a fork, Ill have a bite.
Good girl! Margaret pats my head, Dont go getting skinny, love.
James snorts, but stays quiet. I chew mechanically, thinking this place might never feel like home again.
After breakfast Margaret darts off to the shop, and I finally find a moment to talk to James. We need to sort this out with your mum, I start, sitting opposite him on the sofa.
Again? he groans. Everythings fine. She even made us breakfast.
Its a nice gesture, I say, but its the lack of respect for my boundaries. I feel like a guest, not a family member.
James sighs, Emily, Mums used to being the boss at home. Shell need time to adjust. Hang in there, well move into our new flat soon.
What will happen when we move? I ask quietly. Shell still turn up and start running the place? Take my things? Eat what Ive set aside for us?
He looks away, Shell visit now and then. Shes my mum, after all.
You dont see the problem? I press. Im not against your mum, Im against the disrespect of my space, and you seem blind to it.
And Im worried youre splitting everything into yours and hers. Were a family; we share, he retorts.
We do share, but with consent, not because someone just grabs without asking, I reply.
We stare at each other, and I realise he still cant grasp the core issue. For him, his mum will always be in a special, untouchable spot.
I think I need a break, I say finally. Im going to Ninas cottage for the weekend.
What? Over a casserole? he asks, surprised.
Not the casserole, I shake my head, exhausted. Because you wont listen to me. I need time to think about us.
I head to the bedroom, start packing. James just sits on the sofa, staring at the empty space where I was.
When Im out the door with my bag, he asks, What should I tell Mum?
The truth, I say. That Ive gone to think about our future, and you should do the same.
I step out into the cool spring air, feeling oddly light. My phone buzzes Ninas text confirming the key is with her neighbour. A quiet weekend alone, just me and my thoughts, is exactly what I need. Then Ill have that serious talk with James about family, boundaries, and respect. Because family isnt about sacrificing yourself for others; its about everyone valuing each other, even over something as small as a breakfast casserole.
