«Darling, you took my son from me, and Ill take everything from you,» said the mother-in-law.
«Emily, up so early?» Margaret remarked, peering from her bedroom door. «Its half six in the morning!»
«Ive got an early meeting today,» Emily replied, shoving papers into her bag. «Last-minute briefing.»
Margaret shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers, clattering dishes loudly. Emily tried to slip past unnoticedno such luck.
«Breakfast? Youre letting my son go to work on an empty stomach?»
«Olivers a grown man. He can make his own toast,» Emily muttered, pulling on her coat and hunting for her keys.
«Oh, is that so?» Margaret turned to face her fully. «In my day, wives knew their duties. A proper meal, a tidy homestandards, love.»
Emily sighed deeply. This conversation had been on repeat since Margaret moved in six months ago after her «delicate health episode.» The constant nitpicking was exhausting.
«Margaret, Oliver and I divide chores how we like. Were a modern couple.»
«Modern!» Margaret scoffed. «My boy never missed a meal under my roof. Now look at himlosing weight, poor lamb.»
Emily bit back the urge to point out that thirty-year-old Oliver was hardly a «lamb.» Arguing with Margaret was like wrestling fogpointless and exhausting.
«Right, Im late. Olivers still asleepwake him at eight?»
«Oh, *Ill* wake him, dont fret. *I* know a mothers duties.»
At work, Emily couldnt focus. Her colleague Lucy nudged her at lunch.
«You look knackered. Still the mother-in-law drama?»
«Every. Single. Day. My cookings rubbish, the hooverings subpar, I speak to Oliver wrong»
«And he doesnt stick up for you?»
Emily gave a wry smile. «*Saint Margaret* can do no wrong. Shes fragile, Em, be kind.»
«Blimey. How longs she staying?»
«No idea. Doctors say shes fine alone, but Olivers terrified shell keel over.»
Lucy shook her head. «Rather you than me. Mines bad enough living ten miles away.»
That evening, Emily returned starving to the smell of shepherds pie. Oliver sat on the sofa, plate in hand, glued to a wildlife documentary.
«Hiya, love. How was work?»
«Fine. Whats for dinner?»
«Mum made your favourite. Left some for you in the kitchen.»
Emily walked in to find Margaret washing up.
«Evening, Margaret.»
«Evening,» came the clipped reply, back still turned.
Emily lifted the lid of the dish. One sad spoonful of mince and a lone roast potato.
«This is it?»
«Problem?» Margaret finally faced her. «Thought you were watching your figure. Always moaning about jeans being tight.»
«I *mentioned* it once»
«Just looking out for you, dear.»
Emily carried her plate to the lounge. Oliver was enthralled by penguins.
«Ollie, can we talk?»
«Course. Whats up?»
«Go look at what your mum left me for dinner.»
Grumbling, Oliver trudged off and returned shrugging. «Seems alright?»
«Alright for a *sparrow*, maybe. Ive worked all day, Im famished, and theres barely a bite!»
«Mum!» Oliver called. «Whys there so little food?»
«Sorry, love! Thought our Emily wasnt peckish. Shes always on about diets!»
«See? Mums being *thoughtful*,» Oliver said.
Emily felt her temper simmer. «Oliver, your mother *deliberately* starves me. Every. Bloody. Day.»
«Dont be daft. Shes kind as anything.»
«To *you*. To me, shes Lady Macbeth with a tea towel.»
A loud sniffle came from the kitchen. Oliver bolted up.
«Now youve upset her! Shes *fragile*!»
«And Im *exhausted*!»
But hed already vanished to soothe Margaret. Emily stabbed the lone potato.
Later, Oliver crept back, sheepish. «Sorry, Em. Mum says she feels in the way.»
«Good. She is.»
«Emily!»
«What? Were newlyweds! Were meant to be figuring *us* out, not tiptoeing round your mothers moods!»
Oliver slumped beside her. «Just a bit longer, yeah? Well find her a nice flat nearby.»
«When?»
«Dunno. But we will.»
Next evening, Emily rushed home to cookonly to overhear Margaret in the lounge:
«yes, love, I *understand* your wife. Young, inexperienced… but *my* patience isnt endless.»
Emily froze. Olivers murmured reply: «Mum, stop. Emilys lovely.»
«Lovely? Look how thin youve got! And that tempernever satisfied, is she?»
«Shes just stressed.»
«Work, work, work! What about *home*? About *family*? Mark my words, you rushed into this.»
Emilys blood ran cold. She fake-coughed, entering.
«Evening!»
«Oh! Emily, love!» Margaret beamed, zero shame. «How was work?»
«Fine. Thought Id make dinner»
«No need! Made your *favourite*.» (She winked at Oliver.) «Beef stew.»
Dinner was torture. Oliver babbled about spreadsheets; Margaret cooed. Emily ate silentlythe stew *was* good.
«Plans this weekend, Emily?» Margaret chirped.
«Not really. Why?»
«Need Oliver to drive me to the GP. Tests, you see.»
«Course, Mum. No bother.»
«*Thank* you. Was worried *Emily* mightve booked him for something *frivolous*.»
The smirk was unmistakable. Emily met her gazeMargarets eyes glittered with victory.
That night, Oliver whispered, «Mums been… odd. Says our marriage might be a mistake.»
Emily sat up. «Whatd you say?»
«That were happy. But, Em… shes *scary* sometimes.»
«Finally noticing, are we?»
Next day, Oliver worked from homeand witnessed Margarets campaign firsthand. That evening, he looked haunted.
«You were right. Shes… plotting.»
«Example?»
«Spent all day slagging you off. Then flat-out said I shouldnt have married you.»
«And you said?»
«That I love you and wont tolerate this.» He hesitated. «She cried. Said I chose a wife over my own mother.»
«Classic guilt trip.»
«Em, shes *ill*»
«Oliver, *enough*. Shes *weaponising* her illness!»
Morning brought shouting. Emily hovered at the kitchen door.
«You stole my son,» Margaret hissed, spotting her. «Ill take *everything* from you.»
«*Mum!*» Oliver choked.
«Everything *what*?» Emily kept her voice steady.
«Youll see.» Margarets smile was icy. «Forty years Ive dealt with little girls like you. I know *exactly* where to twist.»
«Are you *threatening* me?»
«Advising. Leave now, before I tell Oliver *everything*.»
«Like *what*?»
Margaret leaned in. «That you slept with him before marriage. That youre a *gold-digging harlot*.»
Emily recoiled. «Youre *sick*.»
«Sick?» Margaret chuckled. «Im *protective*. Youll drain him dry, just like the rest.»
Oliver walked in, towelling his hair. «Chatting?»
«Just girl talk!» Margaret trilled.
That night, Emily lay awake. Margaret had declared warand she fought *dirty*.
A call next lunchtime from her friend Sophie confirmed it:
«Em? Your mother-in-law rang *my* mum. Asked if youd ever done drugs, *got drunk at prom*»
Emilys stomach dropped. Margaret was digging for dirt.
Dinner was a minefield. Margaret served Oliver seconds, Emily a dry salad.
«*Watching your figure*, dear.»
Later, as Emily washed up, Margaret hissed:
«Spoke to your old schoolmate, *Claire*. Heard about you snogging *Jamie Fletcher* behind the bike sheds at sixteen. Oliver doesnt know *that*, does he?»
Emily turned. «And?»
«Nothing. But he *will* knowunless you leave.»
«*Blackmail* now?»
«*Choice*, dear. Walk away, or Ill show him who you *really* are.»
«*Slag*?» Emily snorted. «Please. Hell laugh in your face.»
Margarets grin turned feral. «Well see.»
That night, Oliver snored obliviously. Emily stared at the ceiling.
Margaret wouldnt stop. And Oliverbless himwas *still* making excuses.
The battle lines were drawn. And right now? Margaret was *winning*.
