Emma stood by the stove, stirring a pot of beef stew, listening to the chatter in the living room. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, was passionately explaining something to her husband, who grunted in agreement. Fragments of conversation about neighbours, rising prices at the shops, and the weather floated through the air—ordinary family talk that left no room for her.
«Emma, love, where’s the shepherd’s pie?» Margaret called from the living room. «You said you’d make it yesterday!»
Emma pressed her lips together. She’d never mentioned shepherd’s pie. In fact, she couldn’t stand the dish, and Margaret knew it perfectly well.
«Mum, I’m making beef stew,» Emma replied, forcing calm into her voice. «Remember, we agreed on it yesterday?»
«Beef stew?» Margaret appeared in the kitchen with a frown. «William can’t stand beef stew. He’s always been picky about his food.»
William, Emma’s husband, had lived with her for eight years and enjoyed her stew. But she knew he’d never contradict his mother.
«It’s fine, Mum,» William’s voice came from the living room. «Stew’s all right.»
«See?» Margaret shook her head disapprovingly. «Now my son has to eat what he dislikes, just to please you.»
Emma turned back to the stove so Margaret wouldn’t see her face. How tired she was of these endless complaints! Nothing she did was ever right. Roast dinner? Should’ve been fish and chips. Bread from Tesco? Should’ve been Waitrose. Laundry on Wednesday? Saturday was better.
«Margaret, perhaps you’d like to cook instead?» Emma suggested without turning. «I don’t mind.»
«Oh no, dear. You’re the lady of the house—it’s your job. I’ve done my time. The young should take over now.»
*Young.* Emma was forty-three, and she didn’t feel young anymore—especially not after conversations like this.
Margaret retreated to the living room, and Emma finished cooking. Half an hour later, lunch was ready. She set the table and called William and Margaret in.
«William, sit here,» Margaret fussed, patting the chair beside her. «Emma’s put you in a draught again.»
Emma glanced at the window—it was firmly shut, no draught in sight. Still, William obediently moved where his mother pointed.
«Oh, I forgot the horseradish,» Emma said, heading to the fridge.
«William won’t eat stew without horseradish,» Margaret remarked. «You should’ve remembered.»
«It’s fine, Mum,» William said peaceably. «Emma’s getting it now.»
Emma placed the horseradish on the table and sat down. They ate in silence. The stew was rich and flavourful, but Margaret ate it as if it were medicine.
«Remember, William, how I used to make stew for you when you were little?» Margaret said suddenly. «With pearl barley, just the way you liked. You’d always have seconds.»
«Yeah, Mum,» William smiled. «It was proper good.»
«Proper homemade stew,» Margaret went on, giving Emma a pointed look. «Not like nowadays. Young people can’t cook properly—always rushing, taking shortcuts.»
Emma felt a lump of hurt rise in her throat. She’d spent three hours on this stew, carefully selecting ingredients, tending to each step. Yet Margaret still found a way to criticise her.
«Margaret, why don’t you teach me? Your way, I mean,» Emma asked, swallowing her irritation.
«It’s too late now, love. Cooking’s something you learn young. No use trying now—you’ll never get the knack.»
«Mum, Emma’s cooking is fine,» William surprised them both by speaking up. «I like it.»
Margaret stared at her son as if he’d betrayed her.
«Course you do. Men don’t know good food—just wolf it down.»
After lunch, Margaret went to her room to rest, and William turned on the telly. Emma cleaned the kitchen, thinking about how exhausted she was of this life. The same routine every day: work, home, cooking, cleaning. And always the gnawing sense that she didn’t belong.
That evening, William’s sister, Lucy, arrived with her husband and two kids. Emma brightened—maybe this would break the monotony. But her hope faded fast.
«Emma, how’ve you been?» Lucy kissed her cheek. «You look peaky. Not ill, are you?»
«No, just tired from work,» Emma said.
«Right. Where’s Mum? I want to show her the kids.»
Lucy went to the living room, and the usual family chatter began—neighbours, relatives, updates from the Yorkshire village they all grew up in. Emma was from Manchester, so most names meant nothing to her.
«Remember Auntie Carol from down the lane?» Lucy said. «She’s in hospital now. Blood pressure’s gone mad.»
«Oh, poor love,» Margaret sighed. «I was wondering why I hadn’t seen her. William, go check on her tomorrow.»
«Will do, Mum,» William nodded.
«And remember our old neighbour, Dave?» Lucy continued. «Finally got married. Nice local girl. Parents are chuffed.»
*Local.* Emma caught Margaret’s glance and knew the word wasn’t accidental.
«Good when people are from the same place,» Margaret said meaningfully. «Understand each other better. Not like when strangers come in—always causes trouble.»
Lucy’s kids tore through the flat, and one of them—seven-year-old Oliver—knocked over a vase of flowers. It shattered on the floor.
«Oliver! Say sorry!» Lucy flustered. «Emma, I’m so sorry!»
«It’s fine,» Emma knelt to gather the shards. «It was old.»
«Old?» Margaret gasped. «That was from my late sister! A family heirloom!»
Emma froze with a piece in her hand. Margaret had never mentioned the vase being special before—it had just sat there for years.
«Margaret, I didn’t know… Maybe we can glue it?»
«Glue it? Some people just don’t respect other folks’ things.»
Lucy went quiet, and her husband, Tom, coughed awkwardly.
«Maybe we should head off. It’s late.»
«Don’t be daft,» Margaret waved it off. «It’s just a vase. Family’s family.»
*Family.* Emma thought bitterly that to Margaret, family meant only her own blood. A daughter-in-law would always be an outsider.
Guests left by eleven. Emma washed up, tidied, then went to the bedroom. William was already in bed, reading the paper.
«William, we need to talk,» she said, sitting on the edge.
«About?» He didn’t look up.
«Your mum. The way she treats me.»
He sighed, setting the paper aside.
«Emma, don’t start. She’s like that with everyone.»
«Not with Lucy. Not with you.»
«Well, we’re her kids.»
«And what am I? A lodger?»
William was silent before saying,
«Mum’s set in her ways. Give her time.»
«Eight years, William. How much more time?»
«Emma, not now. I’ve got a headache.»
She knew the conversation was over. He’d never stand up to his mother—she’d always come first.
The next morning, voices from the kitchen woke her. Margaret was talking rapidly, William murmuring replies. Emma crept to the door and listened.
«William, love, I can see you’re unhappy,» Margaret said. «That woman’s not right for you. She’s cold, unfeeling.»
«Mum, stop.»
«Stop what? Speaking the truth? Look at Lucy—married Tom, and they’re happy. Because he’s one of us. But you—you tied yourself to an outsider.»
«Emma’s good to me.»
«Good, but not for you. The way she looks at me—like I’m in her way. This is *my* home. I raised you here!»
«It’s *our* home, Mum. Mine and Emma’s.»
«Yours, William. Yours. She’s just passing through—here today, gone tomorrow.»
Emma pushed the door open.
«Morning,» she said.
They fell silent. Margaret turned away, William guiltily meeting her eyes.
«Tea’s gone cold,» Margaret muttered. «Heat your own.»
Emma silently filled the kettle. William finished his tea and stood.
«Off to work. See you tonight.»
He kissed Margaret’s cheek, gave Emma a half-hearted pat, and left.
Alone with Margaret, the silence was suffocating.
«Margaret,» Emma finally said, «let’s be honest. What have I done wrong? Why don’t you like me?»
Margaret turned, her dislike plain.
«What’s to say? You’ll never be one of us.»
«But why? I *try*—»
«Because you’re not *from* here. Different habits, different ways. You’ll never fit in.»
EmmaShe picked up her suitcase, stepped out into the crisp morning air, and for the first time in years, felt the weight lift from her shoulders as she walked away without looking back.