Margaret Thompson, my sixtyfiveyearold motherinlaw, swings round from the stove where shes frying mince pies.
Margaret, I asked you not to touch my things! I shout, clutching a pink jumper. Its wool you cant wash it in hot water!
She snorts. What are you screaming about? I was trying to help. I saw the laundry piling up and I washed it.
But I didnt ask! I have my own system; I know exactly when to wash what.
My system? Margaret huffs. Your dirty laundry has sat for three days and you hide behind my system. In my day I kept the house spotless.
I squeeze the jumper tighter. A month ago Andrew and I lived peacefully in our twobedroom flat in Manchester. Then Margaret broke her leg, and Andrew insisted she move in while she recovered.
Theres no time for me to wash every day! I feel my voice cracking. I work from nine to seven, then I cook, clean, and still have to.
And what about me? Margaret flips a mince pie. Im making lunch, Im mopping the floor.
I didnt ask for any of this!
Andrew! she yells toward the bedroom. Do you hear how your wife is speaking to me?
Andrew steps out in nothing but his boxers and a tshirt, looking exhausted.
Whats happening?
My mother is washing my clothes without permission! I hold up the jumper. Shes ruined it its all shrunk!
Andrew looks at the jumper, then at his mother, then at me.
Its fine, love. She was just trying to help.
I never asked for help!
Natasha, calm down. She washed it, its done. You can buy a new one.
How am I supposed to afford that? It cost five thousand rubles!
Margaret throws her hands up. Five thousand for a rag! Thats wasteful, and then she complains theres no money!
I stalk off to the bedroom, slam the door, and lie on the bed, pressing my face into the pillow. Tears rise, but I hold them back.
It isnt the first fight in the three weeks Margaret has been with us. Every day brings a new grievance. She rearranges the kitchen cabinets so I cant find anything, she cooks enough for a week and then whines that were not eating enough, she blasts the TV at full volume at six in the morning.
I work as an accountant for a construction firm. My schedule is packed, the reports never end. I come home exhausted, only to face Margarets endless demands. Andrew always sides with his mother, saying we must be patient, shes ill, shell move out soon.
But her leg heals slowly, and Margaret drags her stay out. She says shes scared to be alone, worries shell fall again.
The next morning I oversleep. The alarm never wakes me Ive been turning it over in my mind all night, replaying yesterdays argument. I bolt up, glance at the clock: half past eight.
Blast! I shout, sprinting to the bathroom.
Margaret is loading the washing machine.
Morning, she says dryly.
Morning, I mutter, grabbing my toothbrush.
I dress in five minutes, grab my bag, and dash for the door when Margaret calls, Emma, wait!
What? Im late!
Where did you leave the blue jeans you wore yesterday?
On the bedroom chair.
I washed them; they were dirty.
Fine. I wave and bolt out. On the bus to work I wonder whats in the pockets of those jeans a napkin, maybe a few coins.
At the office a crisis erupts: the quarterly report is due by lunch, the director is breathing down our necks. Im hunched over numbers when my colleague Sophie brings me coffee.
You look pale. Motherinlaw again?
Again, I sigh. I dont know how to live with her. Every day its something new.
Tell Andrew to talk to her.
I tried. He always takes her side.
Sophie shakes her head. Mothers are treated like saints, wives are supposed to endure.
At lunch I sit in the staff canteen, spooning soup absentmindedly. My phone buzzes a message from Andrew.
Mom says we need to get her to the doctor on Wednesday. Can you drive her?
I wince. I have a supplier meeting that day, but refusing will spark another row.
I promise to text a reply.
I get home at eight. Margaret is sipping tea with a scone at the kitchen table.
Do you want dinner? Ive made borscht.
Thanks, later, I say, heading to the bedroom to change.
The jeans are draped over the radiator, still damp. I pat my pockets empty. At least she didnt wash my coins.
Then a memory hits me. My passport. Yesterday I went to the bank, got a statement, and slipped the passport into the back pocket of those jeans.
My heart drops. I race to the washing machine, fling the door open the drum is empty. I scan the drying rack: towels, sheets, nothing. I rummage through everything, but the passport is gone.
Margaret! I howl, storming into the kitchen.
She flinches.
What are you shouting about?
My passport was in those jeans! Where is it?
What passport?
My own! I left it in the pocket!
You never told me! How was I supposed to know?
You should have checked the pockets before washing!
I did! There were only some wet papers, which I tossed.
I scramble to the rubbish bin, dump its contents onto the floor. Among the soggy rubbish I spot a soaked blue page the torn remnants of my passport. The paper is curling, ink bleeding, the photo just a grey smudge.
It was my passport, Margaret whispers, looking over my shoulder.
It was, I say, my voice trembling. Now its useless.
It wasnt on purpose. Why did you put it there?
Why am I to blame? You wash other peoples clothes without asking and you dont even check the pockets!
Dont yell at me! Im an old lady, I cant be nervous all the time!
And I cant? My passport is ruined!
Andrew walks in an hour later, his coat thrown over a chair. I sit at the kitchen table, the ruined pages spread before him.
Whats this? he asks.
My passport. Your mother washed it with the jeans.
He picks up the damp sheets, flips them.
Right. How did it end up in the jeans?
I put it in the pocket at the bank and forgot to take it out.
So its my fault, then.
I stand, furious.
What? No, Im not the one who washed it!
She was just trying to help.
Help? She destroyed my passport! I have to replace it!
Andrew places the torn pages on the table.
Youll get a new one. It happens all the time.
Its not about the passport. Its that your mother interferes in everything!
Shes ill, she has nothing else to do. She cooks, cleans, helps.
I didnt ask for any of it!
We argue, he goes to calm Margaret, I stay alone in the kitchen, tears slipping silently onto the floor.
The next day I call my friend Olivia.
Olivia, can I crash at yours?
Of course. Whats wrong?
I arrive that evening, and Olivia opens the door, pulling me into a hug.
You look worn out. Whats happening?
I spill the whole saga the laundry, the ruined jumper, the passport.
Shes doing it on purpose, Olivia says confidently.
What?!
Everything she does is deliberate. She wants her son back to her.
Why would she think that?
Shes used to being in control. She never thought shed have to share her son.
I pause.
Maybe she didnt mean it. Shes just active.
Emma, think about it. Anyone would check pockets before washing. Its basic.
Maybe she forgot.
Or she didnt want to.
I shake my head.
I think she just doesnt consider it.
At home Margaret reorders the kitchen cabinets, moving every pot and pan.
Ive tidied up, she declares. It was a hassle to reach things before.
I open the cupboard my favourite mugs are now on the top shelf, out of reach, the pans are scattered.
Margaret, put it back the way it was.
No, this is better.
Its not convenient for me!
Youll get used to it.
I shut the cupboard, head to the bedroom. Andrew is on the bed scrolling his phone.
Your mother rearranged everything again.
So what? Shell put it back if you dont like it.
She wont!
Emma, stop. Shes ill, she needs something to occupy her.
Let her read, watch TV, do whatever she wants!
Shes spent her whole life keeping a house in order.
In her own house! This is our home.
Andrew sits up.
This is our home, and yours too while shes here.
When will she finally move out?
When the doctor gives the okay. Youre being heartless, Emma.
He storms out, slamming the door. I collapse onto the pillow, choking back a scream.
The next morning I take a day off to replace the passport. The office is a queue of halfhour waits, the clerk looks at the torn pages and sighs.
Was it washed?
Yes.
That happens a lot. Youll need to fill out a loss statement.
But its not lost, its ruined!
Just file it as lost, its quicker.
I hand over photos, pay the fee, and am told the new passport will be ready in ten days.
How do I get by without it? My bonus is due next week!
You can get a temporary ID, but therell be another queue.
I leave the office angry and exhausted, sit on a bench, call Andrew.
Hows it going?
The passport will be ready in ten days. Ive lost half a day.
Dont worry, youll get through.
Andrew, your mother must leave.
Silence.
What?
I cant take this any longer. She should go back to her place.
She hasnt healed yet!
Shes been walking without a cane for a week!
The doctor still hasnt cleared her!
Then let her stay with someone else maybe your sister.
Lindas flat is tiny, three kids in there!
And ours is bigger? Were in a twobedroom flat, its cramped for us!
Just hang on a bit longer.
I cant, Andrew. Im at my limit.
I hang up, sit on the bench, watching passersby, feeling empty.
That night I drive home via a longer route to avoid Margaret, but the flat is empty.
Wheres your mother? I ask Andrew.
Shes gone to her sisters. Said she doesnt want to get in the way.
Is that for good?
Dont know. Maybe forever.
We eat dinner in silence, his jaw tight, my shoulders tense.
I lie awake, replaying everything. Did Margaret truly want to help, or was she just imposing?
The next morning Margaret calls.
Emma, can we talk?
Sure.
I want to apologise for the passport, the jumper, everything. I went too far.
Im taken aback.
Thank you.
Im used to controlling everything. Ive lived alone all my life, and when I moved in I wanted to be useful. I overstepped, I see that now.
Im partly at fault too. I was harsh.
No, you were right. This is your home, your rules. I should have asked.
We sit in quiet.
Will you come back? I ask.
Do you want me to?
I think, then nod.
Yes, but lets set clear rules. Dont touch my things without asking, dont move anything. If you want to help, just ask first.
Deal. And you speak up if something bothers you. Dont keep it inside.
Okay.
Margaret returns that evening with a cake as an apology. The three of us sit at the kitchen table, sipping tea.
Mom says the doctor cleared her to go home soon, Andrew says.
Dont rush, I reply. Stay a little longer, but on the new terms.
Margaret smiles. Thank you, Emma.
My new passport arrives ten days later, crisp and clean. I tuck it into a small leather holder in my bag, vowing never to hide it in jean pockets again.
Margaret lives with us for another month, then finally moves back to her own flat. At the door she hugs me tightly.
Thank you for putting up with me.
Youre always welcome to visit.
Sure, Ill warn you ahead of time, she winks.
When she leaves, I feel a mix of relief and a faint sadness Ive grown used to her borscht, her noisy TV, her constant bustle.
Andrew pulls me close.
Thanks for hanging in there. I know its been tough.
It was, I admit. But were a family. We support each other.
Youre a good wife, Emma, and a good daughterinlaw.
And youre a good husband, even if your mum is a well, a demanding motherinlaw.
Now Margaret drops by occasionally, bringing pies and lending a hand, but always asking first. I gladly accept her help, because assistance offered with respect feels nothing like intrusion.
The passport incident becomes a family joke; whenever someone forgets something in a pocket we say, Watch out, it might be a second passport! and laugh.
It reminds us that its not the objects or who is right that matters, but the relationships and the ability to negotiate.
