You wont become a grandmother until your son earns more than I do, can afford to buy a house, and is able to support a wife and child for at least a while. As for your lovely home, Mrs. Margaret Thompson, I wont be setting foot in it again.
It all began with another argument with my mother-in-law. Margaret Thompson didnt just want to know everything about our family; she desperately wanted to control it all as well.
Three years of marriage had brought me enough criticism from the in-laws to last a lifetime. Apparently, not wanting to move in with them was an insult, working long hours was a flaw, and my cooking was unacceptable who ever heard of a wife ordering takeaway and hiring a cleaners? And, since I never helped out at their allotment, I didnt expect a single tomato from their greenhouse. Honestly, I could do nothing right in her eyes.
I did my best to ignore the endless complaints whats the harm, I told myself, I just married a bit of an old-fashioned mother-in-law, not the end of the world.
My wife, Emily, deserves credit; at first, she tried to gently smooth things over and even ask her mother to back off. But soon she realised Margarets habit of micromanaging wasnt limited to her own household. Eventually, Emily suggested I ignore my mother-in-laws remarks, insisting, You cant teach an old dog new tricks best to let her be.
Emily was initially against that she believed it was important to try for a healthy relationship with both sets of parents. She knew it took effort on both sides. After all, Margaret needed time to accept that her beloved Paul now had a partner and a new life.
At a family gathering, Margaret decided to loudly quiz Emily in front of all the guests about starting a family and spending too much time at work. Emily finally snapped.
She stood up in the middle of the living room and declared, Youll be a grandmother the day your son out-earns me, can afford to buy a house, and can look after a wife and child for a spell. And as for your welcoming home, Mrs. Thompson, you wont see me there again.
Then she left.
I came home a couple hours later, sulking.
Emily, dont you think you went too far? I said from the hallway. We agreed to just ignore her jabs.
I remember, Paul. But I cant stay silent forever. Ive asked your mother at least twenty times not to ask me those questions, especially in public. If shes so uninterested in listening, she can talk to someone else.
Do you know what she said after youd gone?
I can hazard a guess.
She gave everyone a lecture on a womans true role in the family and how unlucky I am to have you as a wife.
Do you agree with her, then? Emily asked.
No, but
You could have left with me or walked out during the lecture.
I could have. But shes my mum I cant just walk out on her like that.
If you cant, you cant. But lets agree on this I wont be visiting her again, dont even suggest it.
I sighed heavily.
Silence implies agreement, Emily concluded. Surely you realise I only mentioned money to get your mum to back off, finally?
Shes still hurt, regardless.
Paul, lets be honest weve had this conversation plenty of times. I want us to have a house in the countryside, and Ill do whatever I can to get us started.
A bit of context: we lived in a flat that was bought with a mortgage by Emilys parents. While she was at university, her parents decided to invest in her future and get a small flat. Initially, it was let out and the rent paid off the mortgage. Emily lived in halls and dreamed of becoming independent as soon as possible.
By her third year, Emily had started working. After university, she landed a promising job, quickly increased her income, and helped pay off the mortgage.
We never told Margaret that I was living on Emilys property instead, we fibbed and said we were just renting together. Margaret was already miffed: she thought Emily was working in some odd, incomprehensible field and was paid far more than her precious son.
My mother bottled up her resentment and often muttered about divorce. Emily stopped visiting entirely, and I mostly stuck to phone calls, only turning up for Christmas or birthdays. Then one day, I broke the news:
Mum, youre going to be a grandmother!
Really? said Margaret, in a distinctly lukewarm manner, after years of suggesting Emily and I ought to split up. Now here we were, expecting a baby.
Yes, were expecting a girl in the summer. And once shes older, were planning to get a mortgage and build a house Emilys dream since childhood.
What do you mean, a mortgage? Shes leading you into debt now? Wants a house, does she? The queen herself! A two-bedroom flat isnt good enough?
Mum!
What? Are you even sure its your baby? Emily is always off on work trips, anything could happen.
Thats enough! I slammed the door.
When Emily gave birth, her parents and my entire family came to visit. Margaret loudly announced her amazement on hearing wed had a son.
But Paul said it would be a girl!
Someone tried to explain mistakes happen with scans, but Emily just wanted to go home.
It was nine months before Margaret even saw her grandson. But then Emily was hospitalised, and we had no choice but to ask Margaret for help.
The very day, Margaret started going on about how my son didnt look like me at all. She dug up old photos and insisted there was no resemblance, even as a baby.
She had me so spun around that one day I said to Emily,
Maybe we should do a DNA test?
Why? Emily asked, bewildered. You think hes not yours?
You never know, I fumbled. Mum says sometimes babies get switched in hospital.
So why didnt you have the test done while I was away?
I didnt want to go behind your back.
Oh, I see. Thanks for that. I need time to think.
…A month later, Emily got the test done and filed for divorce deciding a father who doubted his own son was only fit to be a weekend dad.
I was stunned. I moved back in with my mother and buried myself in computer games.
Margaret is convinced Emily faked the test and my son Charlie is not her grandson.
Emily found a wonderful nanny, returned to work, and started saving up to eventually build her dream house.
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