**18th June, 2023**
«Dont you dare dress like that in *my* house,» hissed my mother-in-law under her breath, just loud enough for me to catch before the guests arrived.
«Emily, have you seen my glasses? I left them on the coffee table, I think,» Margaret called from the kitchen doorway as I arranged the salad for tonights dinner.
«Check the case, Margaret. I tidied the lounge earlier and put them there,» I answered without looking up, focusing on slicing the vegetables just right.
Her lips thinned, but she said nothing. In her eyes, no one had the right to touch her thingseven with good intentions. Especially not *her* things. But tonight wasnt the time for scolding. It was too important.
Thirty years ago today, Margaret had moved into this housea grand, high-ceilinged home in Surrey, filled with antique furniture passed down from *her* mother-in-law. Every inch of it was hers, every knick-knack in its proper place. Legally, the house belonged to her son, James, but in her mind, she was still its mistress.
Id only been here two years. James had brought me home after three months of datinga whirlwind romance that left Margaret cold. To her, I was too modern, too educated, too *different*.
«The salads nearly ready,» I said, arranging it on the serving platter. «I just need to change before everyone arrives.»
«Youre not wearing that red dress, are you?» Margaret remarked casually, smoothing her immaculate silver bob.
I paused, then met her gaze. «Actually, I was. James picked it out for our anniversary.»
«Its hardly appropriate for a family dinner,» she sniffed. «Far too revealing. That navy dress with the collar I gave you at Christmas would be much better.»
I exhaled slowly. That dresssomething a schoolmistress might wearhad been worn once, out of politeness, and then banished to the back of the wardrobe.
«Margaret, at thirty-two, I think I can choose my own clothes,» I said evenly.
«Of course.» Her smile was tight. «Just remember, my friends are coming tonight. People of a certain age. With certain standards.»
She left without waiting for a reply, leaving me stewing in the kitchen.
Upstairs, James was buttoning his shirt. «All set for the grand occasion?» he teased.
«Nearly,» I said, pulling the red dress from the wardrobe. «Your mothers already started about my outfit.»
James sighed. «Ignore her. She just worries about appearances.»
«*Her* appearances. Or mine?» I held up the dress. It *was* daringlow-cut, with a slitbut hardly scandalous.
«Not tonight, love,» he said, wrapping his arms around me. «This means a lot to her. Thirty years hereits her whole life.»
«And my self-respect means something too,» I murmured. «Im not a child to be dressed.»
He hesitated, torn between wife and mother. Finally, he kissed my temple. «Wear what you like. Youre beautiful in anything.»
By six, the guests arrivedMargarets friends from her days at the architecture firm, neighbours like sharp-tongued Gladys, and a handful of others whod known her for decades. James and I played host, taking coats and making small talk while Margaret held court in the dining room, recounting her travels in her youth.
When I slipped into the kitchen to fetch the main course, Margaret cornered me, her eyes locked on my décolletage. «Couldnt you have worn something more modest?» she muttered.
«Weve been over this,» I said, keeping my voice steady. «Its just a dress.»
«In my day, family dinners didnt involve showing off,» she snapped, slamming a pie onto the counter.
I bit my tongue. Not here. Not now.
Back in the dining room, laughter bubbled as James told a work story. I moved to sit beside him, but Margaret cut in. «Emily, fetch more bread, would you?»
The bread basket was full. Still, I noddeduntil I heard her whisper to her friend: «That girl needs *proper* guidance. No sense of decorum.»
I turned on my heel. «Theres plenty of bread, Margaret,» I said, reclaiming my seat.
Her glare couldve cut glass, but she said nothing.
Later, as I brought out dessert, Gladys winked at me. «That dress suits you, dear! Like something from *Vogue*!»
Margaret forced a smile. «Emily *does* love fashion. Though modesty never goes out of style.»
Gladys snorted. «Rubbish! If I had your figure, Id wear that too. Enjoy your youth, love!»
When the kettle whistled, I excused myselfonly for Margaret to follow, shutting the kitchen door behind her. Her composure cracked.
«How *dare* you humiliate me like this?» she seethed. «That dress is vulgar, disrespectful»
«Its just a dress!» I stepped back, startled.
«Youre *mocking* me! Flaunting your defiance in front of my friends!»
James appeared in the doorway, his face grim. «Whats going on?»
«Nothing,» Margaret said sweetly. «Just discussing wardrobe choices.»
«I heard enough,» he said quietly. «Emily is my wife. You *will* speak to her with respect.»
«This is *my* house»
«No. Its *ours*. And we *all* belong here.»
Silence. Then, haltingly, Margaret spoke. «Perhaps I overreacted.»
James squeezed my hand. «Mum, Emilys worked all day to make this perfect for you. She respects you. But you have to respect *her*.»
Margarets jaw tightened. Finally, she looked at me. «You do look lovely. Gladys is rightyouth is for bold choices.»
I blinked. An apology? From *Margaret*?
Later, as the guests left, Gladys lingered. «Fifty years Ive known you,» she told Margaret. «Never heard you admit youre wrong. First time for everything, eh?»
Margaret huffed, but Gladys patted her arm. «That girls good for James. Isnt that what matters?»
By midnight, the three of us stood in the cluttered dining room. «Leave it till morning,» Margaret saidanother first.
James grinned. «Since when do *you* skip tidying?»
She smiled, faint but real. «Rules are for breaking. Right, Emily?»
«Right.»
And then, unthinkably, she added: «That red dress do you think it comes in blue? Might suit me.»
We laughedproperly, freelyfor the first time in years.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, standing your ground gently is the only way to soften a stubborn heart. Even the deepest rifts can mendone small concession at a time.
