Edith wiped her hands on her apron and peeked into the oven again. The apple pie had browned on one side but wasn’t quite ready. Outside, the garden gate creaked—her daughter-in-law was home. And her son. And her grandson. Her whole family returning from their walk.
«Granny!» came the cheerful voice of four-year-old Oliver, and Edith couldn’t help but smile. For that voice, she’d endure anything—even sharing a home with Emily, her son’s wife.
«Mum, you’ve been at the stove all day again?» James, her son, walked in, kissed her cheek, and immediately reached for the warm pie.
«Wash your hands!» Edith lightly smacked his fingers. «And then you can have some.»
«Edith, you promised to rest today,» Emily said from the doorway, arms full of grocery bags. «We agreed—I’d handle dinner, and you’d relax.»
Edith pressed her lips together. There she went again, dictating what Edith should do in what was once her own home.
«I relax when I bake,» she said curtly. «And what’s wrong with spoiling my grandson now and then?»
Emily sighed and began unpacking the shopping. James gave his mother a warning look—not this again. Edith pretended not to notice.
«Ollie, wash up, and we’ll have tea with Granny’s pie,» she called, pointedly ignoring Emily.
There was a time when she had her own life. Her own house, where she was the undisputed queen. Friends dropping by for tea on Saturdays, her beloved roses blooming in the garden, evenings spent watching telly in her favourite armchair. But it all vanished in an instant the night of the damned fire.
She still remembered the acrid smell of smoke, the shouts of neighbours, the wail of fire engines. She’d stood outside in her nightdress, someone’s coat draped over her shoulders, watching flames devour thirty years of her life.
«Don’t worry, Mum,» James had said then, arm around her shoulders. «You’ll stay with us while we sort the insurance and paperwork.»
That «stay with us» stretched into months. Her son’s tiny two-bed flat became her reluctant refuge. She slept on a fold-out bed in the lounge, packed it away every morning, and always felt in the way.
«Granny, I’ll help knead the dough!» Oliver bounded back with damp hands and bright eyes.
«Next time, sweetheart,» Edith smiled. «The pie’s already done—see?»
«But I want to bake something now!»
«Not today, Ollie,» Emily cut in. «Granny’s tired. Besides, it’s nearly dinner time.»
Edith shot her daughter-in-law a sharp look. Always giving orders. Always deciding for her.
«I’m fine,» she snapped. «And I’ll spend time with my grandson whenever I please.»
«Mum,» James rubbed his brow. «Can we not do this again—»
«What did I even say?» Edith threw her hands up. «Can’t I have a moment with him?»
«Of course you can,» Emily said evenly, though her knuckles whitened around the milk carton. «But we agreed on a routine for Oliver. Remember?»
«He’s my grandson!» Edith felt the familiar irritation rising. «And I know what’s best for him. I raised my own son just fine, didn’t I?»
«Mum!» James slammed his palm on the table. «Enough!»
Emily walked out silently. Oliver clung to Edith’s leg, frightened, while she fought back tears.
She’d never have moved in by choice. Never. But there’d been no alternative. The insurance payout barely covered the mortgage on the burnt house. A new home was beyond her means; renting stretched her pension too thin.
«James, I didn’t mean—» she whispered. «It’s just so hard. I’ve always been my own woman, and now…»
«I get it, Mum,» James sighed. «But you must see—this is Emily’s home too. And she’s Oliver’s mum. Her rules matter.»
The same old argument, rehashed for months. Edith thought Emily too strict—just an hour of screen time, sweets only after meals, no snacks between. Pure cruelty, in her eyes.
«I’ll check on Em,» James muttered and left the kitchen.
Alone, Edith sank onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. She was exhausted—from the fighting, from bending to someone else’s rules, from feeling like a burden.
That evening, after Oliver’s bedtime and while James worked in the lounge, Emily knocked on the bathroom door where Edith brushed her silver hair.
«Can we talk?» Emily asked softly.
Edith stiffened. The last thing she needed was another row.
«I understand how hard this is for you,» Emily began, perching on the tub’s edge. «But please try to see my side too. He’s my child.»
Edith opened her mouth to retort but stopped, catching Emily’s reflection—weary, drained, with a worried crease between her brows. Not angry, just exhausted.
«I know,» Edith surprised herself by saying. «You’re a good mother. I just think you’re too strict.»
«Maybe,» Emily smiled faintly. «But Oliver’s allergic to nuts, which you keep forgetting. And the doctor said less sugar for his stomach. It’s not just my rules, Edith.»
Edith flushed. She’d often sneaked him sweets, dismissing their restrictions as nonsense.
«And I’m working double shifts,» Emily added quietly, «saving for a bigger place. Three bedrooms. So you’d have your own room, not just a sofa bed.»
Edith froze.
«What?»
«James wanted it to be a birthday surprise—to tell you when we’d saved the deposit.»
A lump rose in Edith’s throat. All this time, she’d assumed Emily wanted her gone, yet they’d been saving for her?
«I didn’t know,» she murmured.
«Of course not,» Emily stood. «James swore me to secrecy. But I can’t take this tension anymore. I don’t want war, Edith. Oliver deserves a loving grandmother—like you.»
Edith broke down, months of grief and resentment spilling over.
«None of that,» Emily awkwardly patted her shoulder. «It’ll get better.»
«Emily, forgive me,» Edith clutched her hand. «I thought you were tolerating me. That I was a burden. And I—I only made it worse with my nagging.»
«You’re not a burden,» Emily said firmly. «You’re James’s mum. Oliver’s grandmother. You’re family. We just all need space and respect.»
That night, Edith lay awake on her fold-out bed, replaying Emily’s words, remembering every time she’d stirred conflict thinking she stood her ground.
At dawn, she rose first. She tidied her bed, tiptoed to the kitchen, and made breakfast—not Oliver’s usual pancakes with syrup (which Emily forbade), but porridge with berries, just as Emily prepared.
«You’re up early,» Emily blinked at the set table.
«Thought I’d help,» Edith shrugged. «Made it just how you do. Hope I didn’t overdo the honey.»
Emily tasted it. «It’s perfect. Thank you.»
«Emily, I’ve been thinking,» Edith hesitated. «Could you show me what foods Oliver can’t have? I’ll write it down. And his schedule—I’ll follow it when I’m with him.»
Emily paused, then nodded. «Of course. I’ll pin the allergy list on the fridge. The routine’s not rigid—just bedtime by eight, or he’s grumpy at nursery.»
Suddenly, the rules Edith had resented made sense.
At breakfast, watching James and Emily exchange tired smiles, James squeezing Emily’s hand under the table, Edith realised—they loved each other. Truly loved, despite the exhaustion, the cramped space, the meddling mother-in-law.
«I want to say something,» Edith spoke as Oliver went to wash up. «Emily told me about the new flat.»
James shot Emily a look. «Mum, that was meant to be a surprise—»
«Good thing it wasn’t,» Edith interrupted. «Because I’ve realised—I won’t have you stretching yourselves for my sake. A small room’s fine. Even this sofa bed—»
«Mum, we were getting a three-bed anyway,» James said. «For when we have another child.»
Edith stared. «Another?»
«Not yet,» Emily smiled shyly. «But we’ve started planning. The flat’s part of that.»
Edith leaned back. Another grandchild. And they wanted her with them—part of their family.
«Thank you,» she whispered. «For not abandoning me. For putting up with me.»
«Mum, don’t be daft,» James squeezed her hand. «You’re my mother. Oliver’s gran. Where else would you be?»
«But I’ve been… difficult,» Edith admitted. «I’ll do better. I mean it.»
«So will I,» Emily saidAnd as Edith sat in the garden that evening, watching Oliver chase fireflies, she realised that home wasn’t a place, but the people who loved you—flaws and all.