My mother-in-law marched in and deposited her gift straight into our bedroom. The room finally looked exactly as Id daydreamedwalls like the blue of an English dawn, a little window peering over the village green, a simple oak bed, and a low chest of drawers. Nothing superfluous. Peace. Air. Our own tranquil nookthe very first place that was truly ours, after years of renting. Everything smelt of fresh paint, new linen, and that unnameable cosiness the British are famous for pretending doesnt matter.
The first time my mother-in-law, Janet, visited after wed finished decorating, she went around the house with the air of a self-appointed home inspector. She gave stingy compliments and one or two approving nods, but something in her eyes looked deeply unsatisfiedas though she felt the absence of her own signature move.
Its nice. All so fresh and light, she announced in the living room. But, well, theres something missing. Soul, Id say. Its allshe waved a handa bit anonymous.
I kept schtum. I knew exactly what she meant by soul: a hodgepodge of heavy furniture, overwrought carpets, and an avalanche of knick-knacksprecisely the sort of drama wed spent years trying to escape.
A week later, her true invasion began.
Janet reappeared just seven short days after, clutching a massive, blanket-swaddled parcel. Her face practically shone, as if shed been called to bring glad tidings.
Ive brought you something vital! she declared, as if bringing news of a royal birth. Especially for your bedroom. That bare space above your bed! Its just not right.
She unfurled the bundle, and there it wasa gigantic portrait in an ostentatiously gilded frame. The painting showed her as shed been years ago, my husband George as a truculent teen, and his late father, looking even sterner than in memory. The whole thing radiated the sort of weight only the British aristocracy might envy. Their eyes seemed to follow you around like a detective with a chip on his shoulder.
For blessings, Janet intoned. A family must display its roots right above the marital bed. Its tradition. Keeps you aware of who you are and where you come from.
My soul shrivelled a bit. I glanced at George, who was staring between me and his own adolescent face in abject confusion.
Mum thanks. But its, well, rather large And the styles not quite us, he tried, meekly.
Style? Whats style got to do with family? Janet retorted. Family is family. Thats final.
He fell silent, caught between my desperate look and his mothers steely glare. And as usual, the side of least resistance won.
Darling Mum means well. Lets just hang it up for a bit. If it feels odd, we can always take it down later.
But that later never actually arrived.
The portrait landed above our bed like a watchful guardian, and there it stubbornly stayed.
Every visit, Janet would sweep through the bedroom first thing, nodding in satisfaction and tutting over her visible handiwork. There now! Much more like a proper family home.
George adapted in record timeone can get used to most things, I suppose. Eventually he stopped even noticing the thing.
But me? I couldnt ignore it. It wasnt just a portraitit was a throbbing reminder that even our most private space was not truly ours. Every morning, first thing I saw: Janets younger self scowling at me from a golden frame.
And then, the final straw.
At Janets birthday dinner, amidst all the discussion about real family values, she proudly announced before friends and relatives: Im so glad George and his wife have their own home now. And I contributed, you knowI brought the family touch. Hung our portrait in their bedroom, just where it should be! So they never forget what matters.
Everyone nodded dutifully, including George.
That bob of his head said it all.
I realised that waiting for George to grow a spine was an exercise in futility. Hed sign a truce at any price, including my peace of mind.
So, the next morning, I hatched a little plan.
I phoned my friend Emily, a quick-witted photographer whod shot our wedding. Shed once caught, quite by accident, a perfect picture: George and I cuddling and kissing, looking gleeful and daft, andjust to the sideJanet, half-in, half-out of the frame, clearly trying (and failing) to wedge herself into the moment.
Perfect.
I popped the photo round to the local print shop.
I ordered it up as titanic and absurd as the original portrait. Same size. Same ridiculous gilded frame, just to make the point.
And the next time Janet came to visit I returned the favour.
While she was holding forth in the lounge about what should be in every home, I gently interrupted with my most winsome smile. Janet, I wanted to thank you for being so involved. So thoughtful. I have a little present for you, in return.
There it was, a massive, awkwardly wrapped object handed over with great ceremony.
Whats this? she sniffed suspiciously.
Go on, have a look!
She removed the covering and there it was: our wedding photoGeorge and me, madly happy up front, and Janet, very much on the fringe, just barely included. Beneath, Id had them write: With love, 12th July.
A heavy hush fell.
Janet went rather pale, then crimson.
What on earth is this? she snapped.
My favourite wedding photo, I said cheerfully. Portraits are important, arent they? Since yours is in our bedroom to remind us of family, this can hang in your house, to remind you of our familyyour son and his wife.
Now, the ultimatum.
She declared she didnt want the photo up in her house.
I nodded. Perfectly understandable. But in that case, lets be fairif that doesnt belong on your wall, perhaps your portrait doesnt belong over our marital bed.
I marched straight to the bedroom, climbed up on the stool, and lowered her grand portrait from the wall.
Back in the living room, I offered George the painting: Would you please help your mum store this? The airing cupboards got plenty of room.
Finale.
The next morning, for the first time in forever, the space above our bed was gloriously empty.
At last, the room felt like it belonged to us.
Sometimes, justice doesnt come in the form of a shouting matchit comes when you simply let someone see their own actions reflected right back at them.
What about you? Would you have lived with the gift and the meddling for the sake of domestic peaceor drawn a line in the sand, even if it meant a good old British row?
And just quietlyshouldnt a husband stand up for his wife in these situations, or is that too much to hope for?
