The Daughter-in-Law with Attitude
Margaret stirred the pot of beef stew and listened to the sounds from the next room. The familiar click of heels on hardwood, then the slamming of wardrobe doors. Her daughter-in-law was at it again, rummaging about as if the entire house belonged to her alone.
«Where’s my red jumper?» came Emily’s voice from the bedroom. «Margaret, have you seen it?»
«No, I haven’t,» Margaret replied without pausing her stirring. «Where did you leave it?»
«If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking.»
The tone was sharp, as if addressing a maid. Margaret winced but stayed silent. After a year and a half of marriage to her only son, she had grown used to these little performances.
The front door opened, and Oliver walked in, arms laden with grocery bags. Tired and rumpled after a long day at work, but smiling.
«Evening, Mum,» he said, kissing her cheek. «How’s things? What’s for dinner?»
«Your favourite beef stew,» Margaret said fondly. «And I’ll make some mashed potatoes too.»
«Brilliant! Where’s Em?»
«Rooting about in the bedroom. Looking for some jumper or other.»
Oliver went to his wife. Margaret heard whispered conversation, then Emily’s laugh—warm and light, nothing like the icy tone she used with her mother-in-law.
«Ollie, tell your mum not to move my things,» Emily called out. «I left that jumper on the chair yesterday, and now it’s gone.»
«Mum,» Oliver reappeared in the kitchen sheepishly. «You haven’t been tidying our room, have you?»
Margaret set the spoon down and turned to him.
«I have. Like I do every day. Because your wife doesn’t see the need to clean up after herself.»
«Oh, Mum, don’t start, please.»
«I’m not starting anything, Oliver. I’m just stating facts. Her jumper’s in the wardrobe, where it belongs. She could’ve looked before making a scene.»
Oliver sighed and went to relay the message. Margaret returned to her cooking, though her mood had soured.
She had tried to get along with Emily—really tried. When Oliver first brought her home, Margaret had sensed something off about the polished young woman. But her son had been glowing, so she’d given Emily the benefit of the doubt.
The first months had been civil enough. Emily visited, helped set the table, played the part of the perfect girlfriend. It had felt forced, but Margaret chalked it up to nerves.
Everything changed after the wedding. The newlyweds moved into Margaret’s three-bedroom house, and Emily dropped the act.
«Oliver, tell your mother I’m mistress of this house now,» she’d declared on day one. «She should ask me before rearranging anything.»
Margaret had merely moved a plant from the windowsill to the sideboard. But to Emily, it was a boundary crossed.
«Mum, Em just wants to feel at home,» Oliver had explained. «She wants a say in things.»
«She only wants a say in decorating,» Margaret had countered. «Not in cooking, cleaning, or laundry.»
It was true. Emily worked as an office manager and saw housework as beneath her. She left in the mornings, perfectly dressed, and came home to lounge on the sofa, scrolling her phone.
Margaret did the cooking. The washing. The cleaning, naturally.
«Margaret, is there tea?» Emily asked, sweeping into the kitchen in the red jumper.
«I’ll put the kettle on.»
«And any biscuits? I’m starving.»
«Some shortbread in the tin. Homemade.»
Emily sat and pulled out her phone, scrolling absently while Margaret bustled about setting the table.
«By the way,» Emily said suddenly, eyes still on her screen, «Oliver and I are having friends over tomorrow. About eight people.»
«What for?»
«My mate Lucy’s birthday. She asked for a house gathering.»
Margaret placed a cup of tea in front of her.
«And who’s cooking?»
«Dunno.» Emily shrugged. «Something simple. Salads, maybe a roast. You’re good at that.»
«Hold on.» Margaret sat opposite her. «You expect me to cook for eight of your friends?»
«What’s the problem? It’s your house, your guests.»
«*My* guests or *yours*?»
Emily finally looked up, feigning surprise.
«Margaret, you wouldn’t refuse your own son, would you?»
Just then, Oliver walked in.
«What’s going on?» he asked, sensing the tension.
«Your wife wants me to cook for her friend’s party tomorrow,» Margaret said flatly.
«Mum, don’t be like that. Em, explain properly.»
«Lucy’s birthday,» Emily said sweetly. «She asked for a quiet do at home—restaurants are pricey. I thought Mum wouldn’t mind helping.»
Oliver turned pleading eyes on Margaret.
«Please, Mum? It’d mean a lot to me too, meeting Em’s friends.»
Margaret exhaled. She couldn’t say no to her son.
«Fine. But warn me properly next time. And you’ll help.»
«Course, Mum.» Oliver nodded. «Won’t we, Em?»
«Yeah,» Emily muttered, already back to her phone.
The next day, Margaret was up at dawn—chopping salads, marinating meat, baking a cake. Oliver helped when he could, though he had work.
Emily emerged at eleven, sipped coffee, and announced she was off to the salon to get ready.
«What about helping?» Margaret asked.
«I *told* you I had an appointment. Oliver knows.»
By six, the house was ready. Margaret was changing when the doorbell rang.
Emily’s friends arrived—loud, young, bearing bottles and gifts. Emily played hostess, ushering them in, seating them at the table.
«Everyone, this is Oliver, my husband,» she announced. «And his mum, Margaret. She did *all* the cooking.»
Margaret forced a smile and retreated to the kitchen. She didn’t mind being introduced as the help—so long as Oliver was happy.
The evening was raucous but pleasant. The guests complimented the food, thanked her. Margaret even laughed at their stories.
Then came cleanup.
«Em, help me clear up,» Oliver said.
«I’m wrecked,» Emily yawned. «We’ll do it tomorrow.»
«We’ve work tomorrow.»
«So? Margaret’s home all day.»
Margaret stacked dirty plates, simmering.
«Emily,» she said tightly, «I *work*—part-time, but I work. And I run this house. And clean up after *you*.»
«Margaret, don’t be dramatic,» Emily cooed. «You’re used to chores. I’m shattered after the office.»
«And I’m not?»
Oliver hovered helplessly.
«Ladies, come on. Let’s just tidy up together.»
They did, though Emily mostly complained and dropped dishes.
After that night, relations deteriorated. Emily grew bolder in her dissatisfaction.
«Oliver, when are we getting our own place?» she’d ask pointedly. «It’s awkward living with your mum.»
«We’ve talked about this, Em. We can’t afford it yet.»
«Then ask your mum for a loan. Or transfer the house to us—we’ll rent her a room.»
Margaret listened, realising Emily was plotting her eviction.
One morning, the sound of drilling woke her. Emily was hanging a painting in the living room.
«You could’ve asked,» Margaret said.
«Why? It’s a nice piece.»
«This isn’t your house, Emily.»
«Whose is it? Oliver’s? He’s my husband—it’s *ours* now.»
«It’s *mine*. In *my* name.»
«For now.» Emily smiled coldly. «Oliver’s your only heir.»
A chill ran down Margaret’s spine. The threat was plain.
That evening, she tried talking to Oliver.
«Son, I don’t think your wife likes me much.»
«Don’t be daft, Mum. Em’s just blunt. She’s lovely once you know her.»
«Have you heard how she speaks to me?»
Oliver hesitated.
«Sometimes she’s a bit sharp, yeah. But she doesn’t mean harm. That’s just her *personality*.»
*Personality*—the magic word excusing Emily’s behaviour.
Margaret tried bonding—theatre trips, shopping. Emily obliged but acted as if doing a favour.
At the shops, she’d point to expensive dresses.
«Margaret, this’d suit me perfectly. Buy it for me? I’m skint.»
Margaret paid—not out of kindness, but to avoid a scene.
At home, Emily showed off her gifts.
«Look what Mum got me!»
Oliver beamed, blind to the manipulation.
Margaret felt like a stranger in her own home. Emily rearranged furniture, replaced curtains, tossed anything «old-fashioned.»
«Margaret, that china’s outdated. Let’The final straw came when Emily convinced Oliver to ask Margaret for her house—but when Margaret quietly sold it and moved away, leaving them with nothing, she finally found peace in her own small flat, free from their selfish demands.