July 15, 2023
Dear Diary,
Well, the bloody in-laws are at it again. Margaret, my mother-in-law, was already bustling around the kitchen of her cottage by half past eight, arranging little scones with clotted cream into delicate pastel-colored libraries on a lace doily. She demanded tea or that homemade “rum punch” of hers—whatever that actually is. I couldn’t fault the thought, though. It was just the timing.
“Really, Mother, rum on a Tuesday?” Louise said, though I saw her eyes glint like coins at the thought. “But go on then—just a splash, since it’s a special occasion.”
“It’s *always* a special occasion when I get to see my daughter!” Margaret gaped dramatically, flipping her silver fox fur like a woman playing cards. “God, Harry, has it really been six months since the last time she came back?”
Harry, her husband, never missed his cue. From the window, he rolled his eyes, as he always did when the drama began. Louise and I had driven from London to this village—what a cursed name, *Wetherby*—in the ungodly hour to cheer Margaret up. She’d missed Louise, yes. Me? I was just the unfortunate side dish. Harry, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement to drag me fishing.
“Mam, I brought you a few things,” Louise said, already prying through her handbag.
“Later, later! First, let me just take you in!” Margaret clutched Louise’s hands to her chest like a Victorian actress. “James, look at your wife! She’s thinner than a willow branch! Who’s feeding her?!”
“Every three hours, as the Queen commands,” I deadpanned, though it came out more like a grimace.
“Oy, shut your gob! And what about you, fat arse? You still wolfing down pies for breakfast?” Margaret japed back, jabbing a finger at my stomach.
I groaned half-heartedly. Her theatrics were exhausting, but I had to admit, it was better than the eye-rolling.
While Margaret “rummaged” for her famous punch, Louise leaned toward me and whispered, “Just don’t start with her, darling. A week, yes? Just a week.”
“A *week*?!” I choked. “We said the *weekend*! Saturday, Sunday, and *gone*!”
“Mummy’s precious plans, James. The kids will notice if I’m not here. You know how she gets. You can work from the train station, or whatever it is you do.”
I sighed. Louise was soft as a meringue in normal life but turned granite beside her mother. Margaret had that effect on people.
“Liz—” a deep voice boomed from the hall, and in strode Harry, Margaret’s husband. “Oy, son. We’re off for the day. Catch fish, bodge the boat, make a mess. You in?”
“Absolutely!” I gushed, my voice cracking in relief.
“Oh no you don’t,” Margaret reappeared, brandishing a tray of tiny glasses. “They’ve had a long drive, Harry. Let them *rest*.”
“Mam, the best rest is new activity,” Harry shrugged, unshaken by his wife’s glare. “We’ll be back for tea like clockwork. Louise here’ll handle the lion’s share, and you, son, we’ll drag back like a fish on a line.”
I nearly kissed him. But Margaret, as always, had last say.
“No. We’ll sit now, catch up, and then do *whatever* you like,” she declared, her tone leaving no room for diplomacy.
Harry gave me a wink and a grimace. “Later, lad. We’ll survive.”
We sat, the table already a canvas for teacups and guilt. Margaret launched into tales of Louise’s childhood—how she’d recited a poem at a school play (when she *won second place*) and how Harry sewed her a sapphire-blue jumpers (when it was cream with embroidery). Every memory, a corrected fib.
By the time she asked about grandchildren, I nearly spilled my rum punch. Louise blushed; Margaret scoffed. “We said we need to settle the finances first, get a bigger flat…”
“Bah! My generation sorted it all out before twenty-five! No chance without a handful by now!”
I cleared my throat. “Times change, Margaret.”
“Changing nothing. You could be a father at sixty!” she snapped. “But *girls*—they go *past*!”
I didn’t miss the way Harry subtly hid behind the newspaper, upside-down of course. He’d perfected the art of escape.
“Harry,” I said seriously, “how do you survive this?”
Harry looked up, deadpan. “Don’t. Just… leave. I do. I work the garden, build shelves, polish the boots. She does her, I do mine.”
“Thirty years?” I gaped. “And you—”
“Borsh is magnificent though,” he shrugged.
The fishing trip was bliss. We caught enough fish to make up for six months of steak dinners. Harry was a decent bloke, earnest and straightforward. I found it baffling he endured his wife, but I suppose love’s all mysteries.
Back home, Margaret ruled over dinner with sardonic precision, her every moment a performance. The cottage was “redone” with new curtains and “upcycled” vases—though it looked exactly the same. Louise shrank under her scrutiny, shoulders slumping like a wilted sprig. At night, we huddled in the tiny room, whispering like teenagers.
“Sorry,” Louise mumbled. “I didn’t realize it’d be this much.”
“Shall we sneak off to the lake tomorrow?” I offered.
“Only if she lets us,” she sighed.
She didn’t. Again.
By the end of the week, the tension snapped. During an argument over “meaningless work hours” and “childfree choices,” I snapped too.
“Mum, we’ve been trying for *two years*. Doctors, tests, injections—none of it’s working. We’re *trying*.”
The room fell deathly quiet. My words, heavy as lead, hung in the air. Margaret’s face crumpled—I’d never seen her *shaken*. Harry simply placed his hand on her shoulder, a silent signal.
Later, I found them on the kitchen table, hands clasped, tears unspoken.
Back in London, Louise whispered, “You made her understand, I think.”
“I almost hated her,” I admitted. “But maybe she didn’t know *how* to love without commanding.”
Fairytale endings? Not so much. But Margaret now asks to visit *no more than three days a year*, and she’s very careful to call first.
And when Louise called this morning from the clinic, I heard the tremor in her voice.
“Mam, I think we might have a little addition this year.”
No more grief, just the soft sound of a mother’s joyful sobs.
Somehow, I think we’ll make it.
—James
Another week passed, and when I received the postcard from Wetherby with a single handwritten note—“James, let’s talk when the time’s right”—I realized the real healing had already begun.
