“Exactly the Daughter-in-Law We Want!”
Margaret smoothed the buttery shortcrust pastry into the baking tin. Her son, James, and his wife, Emily, were due to arrive in a couple of hours. The peaceful silence was shattered by the shrill, insistent ring of the landline. Wiping her hands on her floral apron, she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Is this Margaret Williams?”
“Speaking,” Margaret replied, instinctively tensing.
“My name is Patricia Whitmore. I’m Emily’s former mother-in-law. Your daughter-in-law.”
Margaret wordlessly pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. *Former mother-in-law?* Her thoughts raced to Emily—to the rare but bitter mentions of her past marriage.
“I see,” Margaret said evenly, keeping her tone neutral. “How can I help, Patricia?”
The woman’s voice shed its polite veneer instantly, turning sharp, mocking, dripping with spiteful curiosity.
“Just wanted to check how *our* Emily’s getting on with you lot! Behaving herself? I bet you’ve had your fill of her nonsense already. Or is it still coming? Oh, you’ll regret taking that layabout in—mark my words!”
“Patricia, I don’t follow. Emily’s a lovely girl. Why on earth would we regret it?”
“*Lovely?!*” Patricia screeched. “She’s bone idle! I mop my floors *daily*—as you should! And her? Once in a blue moon, and only if nagged half to death! And the *curtains*—when did she last wash hers, eh? Once a month for me—sacred duty! But her? Maybe once a year if the stars align! Dust gathering like she’s running a museum! And her *cooking*—my poor boy’s stomach was in shreds! Soup like dishwater, rubbery meatballs—inedible! And now he’s got *gastritis*!”
“Patricia, their flat’s always spotless. Impeccable. And Emily cooks beautifully—I taught her a few tricks myself. She’s a natural. No complaints here. Besides, if your son had gastritis, it was likely from too much *whiskey*.”
“*No complaints?!*” Patricia shrieked, ignoring her. “And how she treated my boy! He’d come home tired—had a *perfectly normal* pint or three to unwind, like any decent bloke! And her? Instead of pouring him a nightcap and tucking him in—she’d *scream* at him! Drama queen, that one! Heartless shrew!”
Margaret closed her eyes. She knew from Emily that “a pint or three” meant stumbling home at dawn, smashing things, hurling abuse. And she knew her James—responsible, teetotal, bringing Emily flowers “just because” and bragging about her promotions.
“My son, *James*,” Margaret enunciated, “does *not* come home drunk. *Ever.* He respects his wife and his home. Emily has *no* reason to shout. They’re happy.”
A heavy silence. Then Patricia’s voice returned, venomous, hissing:
“*Happy?* Ha! And d’you even *know* she’s from a *children’s home*? We took her in, but I *know* what those places are like! No wonder she’s barren! Useless! Years’ll pass, and no grandchildren for you—*then* you’ll see what trash you’ve welcomed!”
Margaret exhaled sharply. “Patricia, you’re *profoundly* mistaken. About *everything.* Our family has peace, order, and love. I adore Emily. She calls me *Mum*. Yes, we know she grew up in care—*not her fault.* If anything, I’ve tried to give her the warmth she missed. She’s kind, wonderful. And about grandchildren… you’re *too late.* Emily and James are expecting. Soon. So *save* your ‘warnings.’”
Silence. Then a ragged, wet inhale. A sob. The malice dissolved into clumsy, gulping tears.
“A *baby?*” Patricia croaked, voice broken. “*Really?* Or—maybe not even *his*, ever thought of *that*? Oh God… my boy… he’s *wasted*. Drinks, hops jobs, penniless… And I *ache* for grandchildren—just *one*!”
Margaret listened, pity stinging—not for Patricia, but for the Emily who’d endured years of this.
Patricia’s voice turned wheedling. “Listen… if things with *your* James go south… *ring me*, yes? Promise? I’ll talk sense into my son! Maybe he’ll sober up! You *say* she’s improved—cooks, cleans? Maybe she’d… come *back* to us? You’ll *tell* me, won’t you? *Please!* She’s got nowhere else!”
There it was. No remorse. Just a woman realizing what she’d tossed aside had become precious—and clawing to reclaim it.
“A daughter-in-law like Emily,” Margaret said coldly, “is *exactly* what *we* want. *Never* call again.” She hung up, blocked the number.
Her throat tightened—anger, pity for Emily’s past, sheer *disbelief* at the audacity. But strongest of all? *Protectiveness.* Of her nest, James, and the once-timid girl now glowing with happiness.
She draped a tea towel over the pastry. Soon, the house would buzz with laughter, the smell of baking, warm voices—and soon, a tiny, insistent cry.
Margaret remembered meeting Emily—a shy sparrow of a girl. Winning her trust took time, but now? She was family.
A knock at the door. Margaret wiped a stray tear, straightened her apron. On the doorstep stood James with a lush bouquet of peonies and Emily—her belly softly rounded, face radiant.
“Mum!” Emily chirped, hugging her. “Smells *amazing*! What’s baking?”
“Shortbread tart, love.” Margaret kissed her cheek. “James, pop those in water.”
She ushered them in, glancing at the phone. That call, that voice, seemed like echoes from some alien, miserable world. Here, in this sunlit room, fragrant with flowers and love, was *real* life.
The life they’d built. The life she’d guard fiercely.
Everything was just as it should be. And always would be.
