“You’ll Have to Try Harder, Love”
“You know, darling, you’ll have to work very hard to fit into our family,” declared Lydia Margaret with the air of a stern headmistress.
Emily barely suppressed a chuckle. Predictable. The mother-in-law was already rapping the new pupil’s knuckles with a ruler before the lesson had even begun.
Beside her, James averted his gaze. He looked like he wanted to mutter, “Here we go.” But he didn’t intervene. Wise man. This wasn’t his battle.
“Work harder?” Emily echoed with a polite smile. “Could you clarify? Should I sign up for sewing classes? Or perhaps ballroom dancing?”
The conversation unfolded in Lydia Margaret’s kitchen—a place dripping with opulence: swagged curtains, chocolates in crystal bowls, a grand oak table with champagne-coloured chairs. Lovely, but Emily could never live here. It was all too perfect, like a stage set for a telly show rather than a home.
“Emily, dear, we’re a cultured family,” Lydia explained, as if oblivious to the sarcasm. “We’re refined people. Random outsiders don’t just… settle in here.”
Emily nodded absently, already tuning out. This role was painfully familiar. She’d swum in these waters before—only back then, she’d lacked both experience and a backbone.
…Fifteen years ago, Emily had been a different woman: young, eager, with wide, trusting eyes and a belief that being a “good wife” was the ultimate goal. She’d adored her husband, Peter.
Peter, however, had only adored his mother.
Her first mother-in-law, Margaret Anne, had fancied herself the local celebrity. She had Opinions (always capitalised), a voice that could shatter glass, and a habit of sharing both at every opportunity. At their second family dinner, she’d announced:
“This chicken’s drier than a Sunday roast left in the oven overnight. No matter—I’ll teach you how to cook properly, since your mother clearly didn’t.”
Emily had just smiled. She’d thought patience and politeness would earn her respect. So she called Margaret Anne “Mum,” made her beef Olivier instead of the cheaper ham version (as requested), and endured critiques on everything from her lipstick shade to her mopping technique.
When her daughter was born, it got worse. Margaret Anne lectured endlessly on “raising a proper young lady,” always with a smile that said, *You’re hopeless at this, aren’t you?*
“Nappies are child abuse!” Margaret Anne had declared once, thrusting a stack of cloth nappies at her. “They’re for lazy parents. You’ll do better, won’t you?”
Peter never stepped in. Not even when their toddler, who couldn’t yet pronounce her Rs, asked:
“Mummy, why are you stooopid?”
Emily had frozen.
“Excuse me? Who told you that?”
“Granny Maggie.”
When Emily asked Peter to talk to his mother, he’d just shrugged.
“Come off it. So she said something daft. She was emotional. You know how she is.”
Emily *had* known. She’d sat through Christmas dinners while Margaret Anne loudly lamented her “skimping on cheese and ruining the dish.” She’d bought expensive gifts, desperate for praise. She’d played the perfect daughter-in-law until she realised Margaret Anne’s idea of “perfect” would always be someone else.
After that, Emily filed for divorce. “Difficult personality?” To her, that just meant “awful behaviour with no intention to change.”
“You’ll die alone with cats!” Margaret Anne had prophesied.
But no cats appeared. Instead, Emily kept her flat, her job, and her sanity.
Then came James. They’d met through friends, exchanged numbers, and slowly built something real. James wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures or empty promises, but he respected her. He knew her past, accepted her daughter, and—crucially—wanted to marry her.
Emily had hesitated, watching closely. She loved James, but she wasn’t diving into another family where she’d always be the outsider. Yet James was different. His mother wasn’t the sun around which his world revolved. So Emily took the leap.
Now, sitting in Lydia Margaret’s immaculate kitchen, Emily listened to the same old script—but this time, she felt no shame, no fear. Just déjà vu and boredom.
“We don’t just let anyone in, you know,” Lydia continued. “James is soft-hearted. He might miss things or stay quiet. But I see everything. So… try harder, love.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Emily said coolly. “But if it’s all the same, I’ll just be your son’s wife. I already have a family. A daughter, a husband. That’s plenty.”
She didn’t wait for the evening to end. She stood, and James followed. Outside, he took her hand.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
“Fine. Don’t worry. This is just a rerun.”
This time, Emily knew her worth. So what if another mother-in-law disliked her? She wasn’t here to audition.
…Nearly two years passed since Lydia’s “warning.” To the older woman’s dismay, Emily never “tried harder.” No visits, no curtsies, no performances. She and James lived quietly in *her* flat. He even bonded with her daughter, Charlotte.
Lydia Margaret was kept at arm’s length—birthday calls, gifts delivered by James alone. No rows, but no olive branches either.
Emily never stopped James from seeing his mother. But she didn’t let Lydia cross her threshold. James respected that. He’d heard *that* conversation.
It was a far cry from Peter, who’d once said:
“Mum says you spend too much. Maybe she could help with the shopping list?”
And Emily had *agreed*. Bloody idiot. She’d wanted Margaret Anne to accept her. She never did.
James was different. He had a spine.
“Mum, she is who she is,” he’d tell Lydia. “If you don’t like her, fine. But I’m staying. Your call.”
That mattered more than roses or grand declarations. James gave her space to be herself—flaws, past, and all. No proofs required.
Then, out of nowhere, came… a thaw. Not spring, but the ice cracked.
One evening, Lydia called. Emily hesitated but answered.
“Emily, hello! How are you?” Lydia’s voice was cloyingly sweet.
“Fine. What do you need?”
“I was thinking… Fancy popping round for tea? I’ve baked cherry scones—simply divine!”
Emily stiffened. The syrup in Lydia’s tone made her check the caller ID. Nope, definitely Lydia. The same woman who’d once judged her “suitability.”
“Sorry, too busy.”
Lydia sighed. “Another time, then, darling.”
*Darling?* Emily nearly dropped her spoon. Was she hallucinating?
Days later, Lydia texted a photo of a vintage china set.
“You like pretty things, don’t you? It’s yours if you want it.”
“Kind offer, but we’ve got enough crockery. I prefer mugs that won’t cost a fortune to replace.”
The mystery solved itself when James mentioned his brother had moved to Manchester. New job, new life. Lydia’s other daughter-in-law didn’t want children. Suddenly, Emily—the last woman standing—was worth sweet-talking.
A week later, they bumped into each other outside Boots. Lydia’s face lit up.
“Emily! What luck! Do come over—I’ve a Victoria sponge going spare!”
Emily nodded politely but didn’t smile. The cold stung her cheeks; the irony stung worse.
“Lydia… remember when you said I’d have to ‘try harder’ to fit in?”
“Well… I was just getting to know you.”
“No. You didn’t want me in your family. I didn’t ask to be. Now you want into *mine*. But I’m not asking you to ‘try harder.’ I’m just not letting you in. Harsh, but honest.”
Lydia straightened her coat and walked off, pretending nothing had happened.
One Saturday, Emily, James, and Charlotte played bingo. Laughter filled the room. Then James’s phone rang.
“Alright, cheers. Bye.”
“Who was that?” Emily asked.
“Mum. Says happy International Women’s Day.”
“Lovely. Plenty of people to celebrate with, thank God.”
Once, she’d been expected to squeeze into someone else’s frame. Now, she’d painted her own canvas—vibrant, unapologetic. And she wouldn’t let anyone smudge it. Not even with cherry scones.
