Chapter 17: Emily vs. Mrs. Maddison

Her mother-in-law, Mrs. Maddison, had always rejected Emily.

It was not the outright hostility or the obvious insults that cut the deepest. It was the restrained, careful language, the lingering glances, and the sighs of disappointment.

For David's sake, Emily had borne it all. She had stifled her anger, bitten her tongue when she felt like losing control.

But today, she could not keep it in any longer.

The dispute had started over something small—a wrong teacup, of all things. Each day Mrs. Maddison stayed with them for a week, the stress mounted brick by brick until it finally broke under the weight of unspoken bitterness.

"I just don't see why things are always in shambles when I'm here," Mrs. Maddison muttered.

She picked up the teacup from the kitchen counter, holding it between two fingers as if it bore some foul sickness.

"Back in my day, a wife kept the house spotless."

Emily stiffened. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink to steady her shaking hands.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm.

"I do keep the house clean, Mrs. Maddison. Maybe it was just left there for a moment."

Mrs. Maddison set the glass down with a dramatic sigh and scoffed.

"A moment turns into a habit, dear. And habits shape a family. A well-run home reflects the value of a woman."

Emily turned slowly, her chest tightening.

At the dining table, David pretended not to hear. His eyes remained fixed on the newspaper in front of him.

Even as his mother subtly insulted Emily, he chose, as always, to stay a silent observer.

Emily set her jaw.

"Are you saying my house isn't run properly?"

Mrs. Maddison folded her arms.

"Standards have certainly changed," she said calmly. "And not for the better."

She glanced around.

"David was raised in a home where meals were always on time, laundry never sat in baskets, and everything had its place. I don't see that same level of care here."

Emily's face burned.

She had tried. She had worked tirelessly every single day to be the kind of wife David's mother wanted.

She did her job. She did the house chores. She cooked.

Yet, nothing was ever good enough.

She turned to David, wishing—praying—that he would speak.

That he would stand up for her.

But he merely turned the page of his newspaper. His silence was more painful than any words.

Emily swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

"I take care of this house, Mrs. Maddison," she said. "David is my responsibility. If I'm failing, it's only because I don't do things exactly the way you did."

Mrs. Maddison smiled knowingly, as if she had expected Emily's response.

"Honey, I never said you were failing," she said smoothly. "I just meant that some women are naturally gifted housekeepers. Others… struggle."

The words hit like a slap.

Emily's hands curled into fists. Her breath caught in her throat.

She had spent years trying to prove herself, trying to earn even a shred of Mrs. Maddison's approval.

But she was always lacking.

Always just a little short of David's mother's idea of the perfect woman.

Her voice was strained as she spoke.

"I love your son," she said. "Even if I don't do everything the way you did, that should be enough. I take care of him."

Mrs. Maddison let out a soft, mocking laugh.

"Love?" she repeated. "Oh, dear. Love is fleeting. It doesn't put food on the table. It doesn't hold a home together. A marriage is built on duty and responsibility—on knowing your place."

Emily's nails dug into her palms.

"And what exactly is my place, Mrs. Maddison?"

Mrs. Maddison tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with something Emily could only describe as quiet cruelty.

"A wife should be a help, not a burden," she said.

"A man should not come home to a tired woman complaining about how hard her day was. He should come home to peace. To warmth. A real wife makes her husband's life easier, not harder."

David shifted slightly in his chair.

But still, he said nothing.

Emily's vision blurred.

She had given everything to this marriage.

She had sacrificed. She had endured. She had bent until she felt like she might break.

And yet, here she was—being told she was failing simply because she was human.

Because she got tired.

Because she wasn't perfect.

Her voice trembled, but she refused to back down.

"I am not a failure."

Mrs. Maddison arched a delicate brow.

"Aren't you?"

Emily felt like she was suffocating.

She looked at David once more, silently pleading.

Tell her she's wrong. Say something. Show me that I matter.

David only sighed. Finally, he set his newspaper aside.

"Mom, let's not turn this into an argument."

That was it.

That was all he could muster.

Something inside Emily snapped.

Her voice shook.

"You always do this," she said.

"You let her belittle me. You let her say these awful things, and you just sit there."

David rubbed his temple.

"Emily, please," he muttered. "I don't want to argue—"

She cut him off.

"You don't want to fight," she said bitterly. "And you don't want to defend me, either. Do you even care how she treats me?"

Mrs. Maddison let out a soft sigh, shaking her head.

"You're being dramatic, dear," she said.

"A good wife doesn't seek conflict. She learns to handle things with grace."

A bitter laugh escaped Emily's lips.

"Grace?" she echoed. "You want me to smile while you insult me in my own home?"

Mrs. Maddison met her gaze evenly.

"I only speak the truth," she said.

"David is a hardworking man. He deserves a wife who makes his life easier. Not one who constantly needs reassurance and attention."

Emily took a deep breath.

Her first real breath in what felt like years.

Deep down, a small part of her feared they might be right.

And that made the words hurt even more.

David sighed again and shifted in his seat.

"Emily, can we just drop this?"

Drop it.

As if it were that simple.

As if she could just ignore everything his mother had said.

As if she hadn't spent years trying to be enough—only to be told she never would be.

Emily swallowed hard.

"Fine, David," she said quietly.

"Let's drop it."

Mrs. Maddison smiled in satisfaction.

Emily backed away, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She didn't know how much more of this she could take.

Emily stood at the kitchen counter, her body stiff with fury, her breath coming in controlled, fast inhalations.

The tension in the room was palpable, an invisible war raging beneath the surface.

David had returned to his newspaper, his cowardice more evident than ever.

And Mrs. Maddison, triumphant in her own mind, sat across from him, sipping her tea with a pleased grin—acting as if nothing had happened.

But Emily was still standing.

Still fighting.

She had spent years holding her tongue. Years swallowing her pride. Years letting these tiny, sharp comments grind down her self-respect.

Not anymore.

She turned around, her voice cold and steady.

"You know what, Mrs. Maddison? You have plenty of opinions about how I manage my home and how I take care of David. But let's talk about you for a minute."

Mrs. Maddison's eyebrows lifted in startled delight.

"Oh? What about me?"

Emily crossed her arms and stepped forward.

"You act like your marriage was flawless. Like you were the perfect wife. If that's true, then why did your husband spend more time at work than at home? Why did David grow up barely seeing his father? Was that your idea of a 'well-run' household?"

The smug smirk on Mrs. Maddison's lips twitched ever so slightly.

"My husband worked hard to provide for this family," she said. "Something you wouldn't understand, given how much you complain about being 'tired.'"

Emily let out a humorless chuckle.

"Right. He was so 'dedicated' that he was never home. And if he were here today, I'd bet he'd be just as silent as David is now. Wouldn't he?"

David shifted uncomfortably.

"Emily, stop."

Emily's head snapped toward him.

"No," she said sharply. "Let's not stop. I want to know why she thinks she has the authority to tell me what a marriage should look like when hers was far from the fairy tale she pretends it was."

Mrs. Maddison gripped her teacup a little tighter but kept her face composed.

"You have no idea what my marriage was like."

Emily's voice was quiet but strong.

"I know enough," she said.

"I know you spent most of it alone. I know that instead of facing that truth, instead of admitting it hurt, you convinced yourself that being a wife meant duty and sacrifice. And now you want me to believe the same thing. You want me to think love doesn't matter—that all I have to do is be quiet and stay beside my husband. But I am not you, Mrs. Maddison. And I will not live like this."

Mrs. Maddison's lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

"You're twisting things, dear. My marriage was fulfilling. My husband respected me because I understood my role and didn't complain about it every second of the day."

Emily exhaled slowly, shaking her head.

"Respect?" she said. "Is that what you call it? Or was it just… convenience? He worked. You ran the house. You both played your parts, but did you ever really have a marriage? Did you ever feel like equals? Or were you just two people living separate lives under the same roof, doing what was expected of you?"

Silence.

For the first time, Mrs. Maddison had no response.

Emily felt a flicker of satisfaction, but it was quickly drowned by the weight of everything else—years of anger, of hurt, of feeling like an outsider in her own marriage.

David sighed and set his newspaper down.

"Emily, I think that's enough."

Her chest ached as she turned to him.

"Of course you do," she said, her voice quiet but sharp.

"God forbid we actually talk about something real. God forbid we admit that your mother has treated me like a failure since the day we got married—and that you have done nothing to stop it."

David rubbed his temple.

"I just don't see why you have to take everything so personally."

Emily let out a bitter laugh.

"David, it is personal. She sits in our home and tells me I'm not good enough. That I don't take care of you properly. That I don't run this house the way she wants me to. And you let her. You sit there and let her break me down."

Mrs. Maddison scoffed.

"You're simply too sensitive, dear."

Emily's hands curled into fists.

"No," she said, her voice firm. "I'm done."

David frowned.

"Done with what?"

Emily inhaled deeply, straightening her spine.

"Done trying to please someone who will never be satisfied."

"Done being the silent, submissive wife who just smiles and takes it."

She turned to Mrs. Maddison, locking eyes with her.

"You don't have to like me. You don't have to approve of the way I live my life. But you **will** respect me. This is my home. And I will not let you make me feel like I am less than I am just because I don't fit into your outdated idea of a 'perfect wife.'"

Mrs. Maddison's expression hardened.

"And if I don't?"

Emily gave a slow, steady smile.

"Then you're not welcome here."

David sat up straight.

"Emily—"

She cut him off.

"No, David. For years, I've let this go. For years, I've let her get away with it. And **you** have let her get away with it. It ends today. Right now.

"You can stand beside me, or you can keep letting her run this house from the sidelines. But if you choose her over me—if you choose to keep pretending that this isn't happening—I swear to God, I will not stay in a marriage where I am always made to feel like I am not enough."

David's lips parted, but he didn't speak.

Emily could see it in his eyes—he was weighing his options, trying to find the easiest way out.

And in that moment, she knew his answer already.

Mrs. Maddison let out a disappointed sigh as she stood up.

"Well, I see how it is," she said.

She smoothed her blouse, adjusting fabric that didn't need fixing.

"Then I suppose I'll cut my visit short."

Emily said nothing.

Mrs. Maddison picked up her purse and turned toward the door.

She stopped only once, glancing back at David.

"You'll regret this," she said.

"Marriage is difficult. And one day, you'll wish you had listened to me—when she starts to wear you down, when her needs become too much."

David clenched his jaw but said nothing.

With a final sigh, Mrs. Maddison stepped out, closing the door softly but firmly behind her.

The kitchen was quiet.

The air was heavy.

Finally, David turned to Emily, his face unreadable.

"Was that really necessary?"

Emily held his gaze, exhaustion washing over her like a wave.

"Yes, David," she said. "It was."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You just made things worse."

Emily let out a soft, bitter laugh.

"No," she said. "Your silence made things worse. I just finally stood up for myself."

David said nothing.

Emily turned away, her heart aching.

She had won the battle.

But for the first time, she wondered if she had already lost the war.