The Daughter-in-Law with Attitude
Margaret stirred the pot of beef stew, listening to the noises from the next room. The familiar click of heels on hardwood, followed by the sharp slam of wardrobe doors. Her daughter-in-law was rummaging around again—with all the entitlement of someone who thought the house belonged entirely to her.
“Margaret, have you seen my red jumper?” called Emily from the bedroom, her tone just shy of demanding.
“No, dear,” Margaret replied without turning from the stove. “Where did you leave it?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”
The words dripped with condescension, as if she were scolding a housemaid. Margaret pressed her lips together but said nothing. After a year and a half of marriage to her only son, David, she’d grown accustomed to Emily’s little performances.
The front door opened, and David trudged in, grocery bags in hand—wrinkled from work, exhausted, but still smiling.
“Hey, Mum,” he said, kissing her cheek. “How’s it going? What’s cooking?”
“Your favourite beef stew,” Margaret said warmly. “And I’ll do some roast potatoes later.”
“Brilliant! Where’s Em?”
“Rooting through the bedroom. Misplaced a jumper, apparently.”
David headed off to his wife, and Margaret caught the murmur of conversation, followed by Emily’s laughter—soft and bright, nothing like the clipped, artificial chuckle she used with her mother-in-law.
“Dave, could you tell your mum not to touch my things?” Emily’s voice floated through the doorway. “I left my jumper on the chair, and now it’s gone.”
David reappeared in the kitchen, sheepish. “Mum… you didn’t happen to tidy up in our room, did you?”
Margaret set the spoon down and turned to him. “I did. Like I do every day. Because your wife doesn’t seem to think cleaning up after herself is necessary.”
“Mum, please, not this again.”
“I’m not starting anything, David. Just stating facts. Her jumper’s in the wardrobe, where it belongs. She could’ve looked before making a scene.”
With a sigh, David retreated to relay the message. Margaret went back to cooking, her mood thoroughly soured.
She *tried* to get along with Emily—she really did. When David had first brought her home, Margaret had sensed something off about the polished, picture-perfect girl. But David had been smitten, so she’d given Emily the benefit of the doubt.
The first few months had been tolerable. Emily visited, played the part of the gracious guest, even helped set the table—though her “help” had always felt more like an audition for the role of Perfect Daughter-in-Law.
Then came the wedding. The young couple moved into Margaret’s three-bedroom house, and Emily dropped the act entirely.
“David, explain to your mother that I’m the woman of the house now,” she’d declared on day one. “She should check with me before rearranging anything.”
Margaret had merely moved a vase from the windowsill to the sideboard. But for Emily, it was an excuse to redraw the boundaries.
“Mum, she just wants to feel at home,” David had pleaded. “She’s big on making spaces her own.”
“Oh, she’s big on that, all right,” Margaret had countered. “Just not on cooking, laundry, or cleaning.”
Emily worked in PR, and household chores were decidedly “below her pay grade.” She left for work each morning in sleek outfits, sipping her latte, and returned in the evening to sprawl on the sofa with her phone.
Margaret did the cooking. The laundry. The cleaning.
“Margaret, will there be tea?” Emily breezed into the kitchen, now wearing the missing red jumper.
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
“And any biscuits? I’m *starving* after work.”
“There’s shortbread. Homemade.”
Emily plonked herself at the table and pulled out her phone, scrolling through Instagram while Margaret bustled about setting out cups and plates.
“Oh, by the way,” Emily said, not looking up, “we’re having friends over tomorrow. About eight people.”
“Why?”
“It’s my friend Sophie’s birthday. She wants a house party—restaurants are too pricey.”
Margaret set down the teacup with a clink. “And who’s cooking?”
“Dunno.” Emily shrugged. “Something simple. Salads, maybe a pie. You’re good at that sort of thing.”
“Hold on,” Margaret said, sitting opposite her. “You want *me* to cook for eight of *your* friends?”
“What’s the problem? It’s your house, isn’t it?”
“Are they *my* guests or *yours*?”
Emily finally looked up, blinking as if Margaret had grown a second head.
“Margaret, you wouldn’t say no to your own son, would you?”
David walked in just then, frowning at the tense silence. “What’s going on?”
“Your wife wants me to cook a full dinner tomorrow for her friends,” Margaret said flatly.
“Mum, come on,” David said, settling beside Emily. “Em, explain properly.”
“Sophie’s birthday is tomorrow. She asked for a house party because going out is expensive. I said yes—thought Mum wouldn’t mind helping.”
David turned pleading eyes on Margaret. “Mum, *please*. It’s important to me, too—I want to get to know Em’s mates.”
Margaret exhaled. She could never refuse David.
“Fine. But next time, give me notice. And you’ll both help.”
“Course, Mum,” David agreed quickly. “Right, Em?”
“Sure,” Emily muttered, already back to her phone.
The next day, Margaret was up at six, chopping vegetables, marinating chicken, baking a cake. David helped where he could, but he had work.
Emily sauntered in at eleven, gulped down a coffee, and announced she was off to the salon to get ready.
“What about helping?” Margaret asked pointedly.
“I *told* you I had an appointment. David knows.”
By six, the house was spotless. Margaret was changing when the doorbell rang.
Emily’s friends poured in—loud, tipsy, laden with wine bottles and gifts. Emily played the perfect hostess, ushering them into the lounge, seating them at the table.
“Guys, this is David, my husband,” she announced brightly. “And his mum, Margaret. She did all the cooking!”
Margaret forced a smile and retreated to the kitchen to heat the mains. She didn’t mind being introduced as the help—as long as David was happy.
The party was boisterous but civil. The guests praised the food, thanked her for hosting, and Margaret even found herself laughing at their stories.
Then they left, and the real mess began.
“Em, help me clear up,” David said.
“I’m *exhausted*,” Emily yawned. “We’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s a workday.”
“So? Margaret’s home all day.”
Margaret stacked dirty plates in silence, her blood boiling.
“Emily,” she said tightly, “I do *not* sit around all day. I work part-time. I run this house. I clean up after *you*.”
“Margaret, don’t be like that,” Emily cooed. “I’m *shattered* from the office. You’re used to housework—it’s harder for me.”
David stood between them, torn. “Ladies, come on—let’s just clean up and go to bed.”
They managed, though Emily was more of a hindrance—dropping cutlery, spilling water, moaning about exhaustion.
After that night, things only worsened. Emily began openly complaining about living in Margaret’s house.
“David, when are we buying our own place?” she’d ask pointedly. “It’s awkward living with your mum.”
“Em, we talked about this. We can’t afford it yet.”
“Then ask your mum for a loan. Or put the house in our names—we could rent her a room.”
Margaret listened, realising Emily’s long-term plan was her eviction.
One morning, she was jolted awake by drilling. Emily was hanging a garish painting in the living room.
“Could’ve asked first,” Margaret said.
“Why? It’s a nice painting.”
“This isn’t your house, Emily.”
“Whose is it, then?” Emily smirked. “David’s my husband—half of it’s mine.”
“It’s *mine*. In *my* name.”
“For now,” Emily said sweetly. “But David’s your only heir.”
That night, Margaret tried talking to David.
“David, I don’t think your wife likes me very much.”
“Don’t be daft, Mum. Em’s just… direct. She’s lovely once you get her.”
“Have you noticed how she speaks to me?”
David hesitated.
“Sometimes she’s a bit sharp, yeah. But she doesn’tMargaret finally realized her happiness mattered too, so she sold the house, moved to a quiet seaside cottage, and left them to sort out their own mess—and for the first time in years, she slept peacefully.