**»Not in My House,»** hissed Margaret Whitmore as the guests arrived.
«Emily, have you seen my glasses? I think I left them on the coffee table,» Margaret called out, stepping into the kitchen where her daughter-in-law was preparing the salad.
«Theyre in the case, Margaret. I tidied the living room earlier,» Emily replied without looking up, carefully slicing cucumbers into perfect rounds.
Margaret pressed her lips together but said nothing. In her mind, no one should touch anothers belongingsespecially herswithout permission. But now wasnt the time for a lecture. The evening was important, and unnecessary conflict would only spoil it.
Thirty years ago today, Margaret had moved into this grand housetall ceilings, antique furniture, everything just so. Officially, it now belonged to her son, James, but in her heart, she remained its mistress.
Emily had only been part of the family for two years. Margaret had been less than thrilled when James brought home a woman hed known barely three monthsbright, university-educated, with what Margaret considered alarmingly modern views.
«The salads nearly ready,» Emily said, arranging it on a serving dish. «I just need to change before the guests arrive.»
«Youre not wearing *that* red dress, are you?» Margaret remarked casually, smoothing her silver coiffure.
Emily paused, then met her mother-in-laws gaze.
«I was planning to. James chose it for our anniversary.»
«That dress is hardly appropriate for a family dinner,» Margaret said crisply. «Far too… revealing. The blue one I gave you for Christmas would be much better.»
Emily inhaled slowly. That blue dressstiff, prim, like something from a school uniformhad been worn exactly once, out of obligation. Since then, it had languished in the back of her wardrobe.
«Margaret, at thirty-two, I think I can decide what to wear,» she said gently but firmly.
«Of course,» Margaret replied with a tight smile. «Just remember, my friends are comingpeople of a certain generation with certain standards.»
Without waiting for a response, she left, leaving Emily simmering with unspoken frustration.
Upstairs, James was buttoning his shirt. «All set for the grand occasion?» he asked with a grin.
«Nearly,» Emily said, lifting the red dress from the wardrobe. «Your mothers already critiquing my outfit.»
James sighed. «Ignore her. Shes just worried about appearances.»
«*Her* appearances,» Emily muttered, studying the dress. It *was* daringlow-cut, with a thigh slitbut hardly indecent.
«Not tonight, love,» James said, wrapping his arms around her. «This night means everything to her.»
«And my self-respect means everything to me,» Emily said softly. «Im not a child to be dressed.»
James hesitated, torn between wife and mother.
«Wear what you like,» he finally said. «Youre stunning in anything.»
She kissed his cheek, willing her irritation to fadefor his sake.
By six, the guests arrived: Margarets oldest friends from her days at the architectural firm, neighbours like sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Dorothy, and other long-standing acquaintances.
Emily greeted them politely, helped with coats, made small talk. Margaret held court in the living room, arranging dishes and reminiscing about travels in her youth.
As the party settled, Emily slipped into the kitchenonly to find Margaret retrieving a pie from the oven.
«Ill bring the main course,» Emily said. Margaret glanced up, her gaze lingering on the red dress. «I suppose youre going to parade in like that?»
Emily set the salad down, meeting her eyes. «Yes, I am.»
For a moment, silence stretched between themthen Margaret gave a barely perceptible nod, turning back to the oven. «Just dont expect me to apologize for having standards.»
Emily exhaled, soft but steady. «And dont expect me to disappear to keep them.»
She picked up the salad, walked past, and joined the guests, head high. The house held its breathand then, slowly, began to breathe again.
