Years ago, when the mother-in-law came to stay for a fortnight, she never left—well, not with her business still in tow, at any rate.
«Mum, you said you were only visiting for two weeks,» sighed Emily, pushing a steaming mug of tea across the table.
«And so I did! Just stretched it a tad longer. You need the help, love—what with the baby, your husband, you recovering…»
James sat hunched over his laptop in the corner, silent. His colleagues on Zoom had long grown accustomed to the background chorus—a wailing infant, the drone of the hoover, and, as a special treat, the mother-in-law’s voice cutting through.
«Jamie, dear, sorry about this, but I’ve just got to set up the iron here,» announced Margaret, smoothing fabric over the sofa. «A skirt needs finishing by tonight.»
He didn’t object. He hadn’t objected in a month.
At first, Margaret had simply helped—simmering soups, changing nappies, pressing baby clothes. Then she’d brought in the sewing machine—»just in case someone needs a quick hem.» Then came the bolts of fabric. Then a worktable. Then a mannequin.
«What’s this?» James had asked one evening, returning from the shops.
«My very first! Clarence!» she’d declared, proudly embracing the plastic torso.
«First…?»
«There’ll be more. I’ve started an atelier. A small one. Just here. While you’re all at home.»
«But I *am* working.»
«Yes, but you’re quiet about it. If you don’t touch your computer, it’s no bother.»
He said nothing, just sank back into his chair and tried to focus on code while words like «overlock» and «zigzag stitch» hummed in his skull.
That night in the kitchen, he’d murmured, «Emily, maybe we find your mum a studio?»
«James… she’s helping. We’d struggle without her. It’s only temporary.»
«Hope so. Because the fridge is hers now. I can’t even find my own food. She’s labelled the coffee jar ‘Mum’s.’»
Two weeks later, his laptop vanished.
«I just wanted a second mannequin,» Margaret explained. «Household gadgets belong to everyone—we’re family! I’ve popped it in pawn. We’ll fetch it tomorrow.»
James stared, feeling not rage but something worse: utter, hollowed-out resignation.
«Mum—» he began, but Emily shuffled in then, baby in arms, exhausted, grateful eyes fixed on her mother.
He swallowed the words. Slipped out to the nearest café, ordered a coffee, and thumbed open a group chat: *Lads, whose mother-in-law lives with them? Bonus points if she’s opened a dress shop in your front room.*
Replies flooded in. *»Mine did.» «Still does.» «Left after ultimatum.» «Divorced.»* One bloke sent a photo of a mannequin captioned, *»Thank God he’s in the shed now.»*
Back home, a note on the door: *James, lunch in the oven. Don’t touch the velvet—drying. Margaret.*
Next morning, he steeled himself.
«Margaret, can we talk?»
«Of course, dear. Briefly—I’ve a client at two.»
«You moved in. We didn’t mind. But this isn’t help anymore. It’s an occupation.»
«James, I respect you, but you don’t understand. A woman needs purpose! You’ve your work. Am I to rot in retirement?»
«I’m all for it. Just not atop my head. This is our home. Not a workshop. And my laptop isn’t a sewing machine—it’s my livelihood.»
«So you’re against my self-fulfilment?» Her eyes widened.
«I’m for it. On different turf. Let’s find you a studio, a garage—I’ll pay rent. But this ends now.»
That evening, tempers flared. Emily wept. Margaret clattered about, packing fabrics. Clarence stood mute in the corner, a tape measure draped over his shoulders.
«You don’t get it—she’s like a sister to me!» Emily sobbed.
«I do. But she’s not a flatmate. She’s colonised us. I can’t live like this.»
Dawn broke in silence. No whirring machine, no hissing steam, no scent of chicken pie. Just quiet, and the baby’s soft breaths.
Margaret was gone. A note remained: *You’re a family. I won’t intrude. Need a hem? Call. Clarence stays with me.*
Three months on, Emily still sulked. But James knew: sometimes, to save a family, you must fence it in.
One day, he found a parcel marked *James. Personal.* Inside—coffee, chocolate, a laptop sleeve. Hand-stitched. Embroidered *J.*
«Mum sent it. She’s got a workshop now. ‘Clarence & Co.’ Three clients already.»
James smiled. Drew Emily close.
«Long may her business thrive. Just not in our parlour.»
«Agreed,» she said, kissing him. «Let our home grow quiet. Now and then.»
Months passed. James barely recalled Clarence’s face—the mannequin he’d half-suspected of haunting his dreams. Life settled: the baby toddled, Emily resumed remote work, and the hallway stayed clear of tangled thread.
Then, one evening, a new note: *James, expect a surprise. Love, Margaret.* His stomach lurched.
«Em—your mum’s not visiting today, is she?»
«No. But she phoned. Muttered about a client and a ‘big opportunity.’ Sure you want details?»
«Already dreading them.»
Half an hour later, the bell rang. There stood Margaret—mocha coat, fresh bob, and… a woman in her fifties trailing behind.
«Meet Laura! My investor—and new patron. She owns a beauty salon!»
«Charmed,» James muttered, left eyelid twitching.
«James, a proposal,» Laura cut in. «You’re in IT. I need a website for Margaret’s venture. Portfolio, orders, checkout. I’ll pay. Friends’ rates.»
«Which means… free?» he asked brightly.
«Don’t be silly! Just reasonable. ‘Clarence & Co’ is expanding—online sales, branding. We’ve even mock-ups!»
Ten minutes later, James stared at a file labelled *glamorous_dream_FINAL_v4*, wondering if fate had a sense of humour. He could help—then bar the venture from his home. Entirely.
«Fine. But remotely. No meetings. No mannequins here. No irons in the hall.»
«Deal,» Margaret nodded. «Clarence is in a showroom now. Painted bronze. Quite the celebrity.»
Emily shook her head. «My mum. Was a housewife. Now a mogul. All from one sewing machine.»
The website launched—sleek, functional, with a *Meet Our Mannequins* page and a discreet *Thanks, James* tab. At the grand opening, James arrived with flowers and his son perched on his hip.
«Daddy, is this Granny’s shop?» the toddler asked, eyeing the display.
«Yes, mate. See that dummy? Remember my scary stories? That’s him.»
«He’s funny. Not scary.»
«Exactly. We’re pals now.»
Margaret beamed, producing a tiny tailored blazer for the boy. Handmade. Perfect fit.
«Well?» she teased.
«Business may bloom,» James said. «Just not in my front room. The rest? I’ll support.»
She winked. «Deal, son-in-law. New rule: we keep out of your lounge, you keep hands off Clarence. He’s our mascot now.»
James laughed—properly, for the first time in ages.
Sometimes, boundaries aren’t walls. They’re footings—for something firmer.
A year on, the site thrived. Margaret amassed clients, landed interviews, even graced the *Women in Business* expo. James swallowed his sarcasm—secretly proud.
Then, over supper, Emily fixed him with *that* look.
«Mum’s been invited to exhibit. Wants you there—as ‘our IT director, marketer, and son-in-law. Three-in-one.’»
He sipped tea, weighed his spoon, deadpanned:
«Only if my badge reads *James. Survivor.*»
At the fair, amid lace sellers and *Crafting with Love!* stalls, «Clarence & Co» stood out—the mannequin now draped in a velvet blazer.
«James! More charm with the ladies,» Margaret hissed. «Say *handmade soulfulness*—like we practised!»
He tried. Nodded, demoed the cart, smiled through *»Is this fabric *real*?»*
Exhausted, he spotted two lads selling ironic tees. One read: *»Not on paternity leave—just hostageAnd as James handed his son an embroidered handkerchief from the stall—tiny initials stitched in the corner—he realised that even the most stubborn family sagas could, with time, thread their way into something resembling peace.