The May bank holiday weekend is when London empties out, and villages like Chipping Norton come alive. Emma was packing the last of their groceries into the boot while Oliver fiddled with the satnav, double-checking the route.

“Absolutely certain we haven’t forgotten anything?” he asked for the third time, glancing back at their flat.

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Got it all. Double-checked: straighteners, chargers, books—everything’s here.”

“Did you sort things out with Mum? Who’s feeding Whiskers?”

At the mention of her mother-in-law, Emma stiffened. The subject of Margaret always put her on edge. The woman could be utterly charming in public, but in private? A relentless critic. Advice, comments, dissatisfied sighs—like she was running the place herself.

“I left her detailed instructions,” Emma said briskly. “Food’s in the left cupboard, litter tray cleaned daily, plants watered on schedule.”

“Maybe give her a quick call?” Oliver suggested gently.

“Why? She’ll read the notes.”

But then it struck her—the security camera! They’d installed it after a spate of burglaries in their neighbourhood—tiny, nearly invisible, but with a perfect view of the lounge. It sat on the bookshelf, disguised among the knick-knacks.

“You know what?” she said, suddenly animated. “I forgot to check if the camera’s on. One sec!”

She dashed back inside, found the little device—green light blinking. The app on her phone showed a crisp image, perfect audio.

“Sorted!” she announced, returning. “Let’s go!”

Oliver didn’t question her sudden enthusiasm. Three years of marriage had taught him when not to pry.

Margaret let herself in the next day—she’d had a spare key for ages, “just in case,” as Oliver always insisted. Emma, of course, had made no secret of disliking this arrangement.

“Here, Whiskers! Gran’s here!” Margaret called cheerfully as she stepped inside.

The black cat slunk out of the bedroom, stretched, then marched to the kitchen, eyeing his empty bowl pointedly.

“Hold on, darling,” Margaret cooed, fetching the food.

She glanced around the flat and frowned. Unwashed mugs, crumpled cushions, a newspaper left on the floor.

“What sort of housekeeping is this…” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves.

She switched on the radio—an old Beatles tune from her youth—and got to work. Half an hour later, the kitchen gleamed, cushions plumped, newspaper neatly folded.

Settling on the sofa, Margaret dialed her friend Barbara.

“Babs? It’s me. Guess where I am? Ollie and Emma’s flat—they’ve gone to the Cotswolds, left me to mind the cat and plants.”

She lowered her voice.

“Trust me? More like they had no choice. That girl left another bloody instruction manual! As if I’ve never cared for a cat before. Raised three children, yet here I am, reduced to reading memos…”

Meanwhile, Emma, lounging on the cottage patio, watched this unfold on her phone. Every word crystal clear.

“Ollie! Come here!” she called as he chopped firewood.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping his hands.

“See what your mum’s saying about us!”

On screen, Margaret continued:

“Sometimes I feel like a ghost in their lives. Oliver tries, but that Emma… Marches to her own drum. My advice goes in one ear, out the other.”

She pointed at the curtains.

“Take these! I told them to get blackout liners—stops the sun bleaching the wallpaper. But no, ‘We want more light.’ And now—look! One side’s already faded!”

Oliver stared between the phone and Emma, baffled.

“You… set up a hidden camera? To spy on my mother?”

Emma scoffed.

“Not on her, on our flat! Security! And it’s worked brilliantly, hasn’t it? Now we know what she really thinks.”

On screen, Margaret continued:

“And her cooking! Good lord, Babs. Last week, she served quinoa with avocado mash. What even is that? Why not a proper roast for guests? Oliver grew up on my shepherd’s pie, and now he’s eating grass!”

With that, she walked to the bookshelf and picked up a framed photo of Oliver.

“Oh, my boy’s changed since he married…” Margaret sighed. “Used to visit every Sunday. Now I’m lucky if it’s once a month. Always Emma this, Emma that…”

She stopped abruptly, carefully setting the photo down.

“Listen to me, getting sentimental,” she chuckled. “Must be old age. You remember how it was, being the mother-in-law. Life goes on, doesn’t it? Call you later, love. Better check on dinner.”

Oliver set his phone down, glaring at Emma.

“This is too far. Recording my mum without her knowing? That’s an invasion of privacy!”

Emma gaped.

“Me?! What about her marching through our home, rearranging things, critiquing everything? That’s fine, is it?”

“But secretly filming someone—”

“Oh, give over! She’s in our flat!” Emma snapped.

She unmuted the feed. Margaret was now in the kitchen, opening cupboards, sniffing a spice jar.

“What even is za’atar?” she muttered. “No label, no price. Must’ve cost a fortune. This is where their money goes…”

Then she pulled a parcel from her bag.

“At least they’ll eat properly tonight. My boy’s looking peaky.”

Emma snorted.

“Hear that? Even our food’s not good enough. She’s brought her own shepherd’s pie!”

Oliver rubbed his temples.

“She’s just trying to care in her way…”

“She thinks I’m a terrible wife and worse housekeeper!” Emma’s voice cracked. “I’ll never be good enough for her ‘precious’ boy.”

On screen, Margaret walked into their bedroom and started straightening the duvet.

“Oh my God, she’s in our bedroom!” Emma gasped.

“Just making the bed,” Oliver sighed.

“And now?! She’s opening my wardrobe! Ollie, she’s going through my clothes!”

Sure enough, Margaret ran her hand along the hangers, stopping on a blue sundress—the one she’d helped pick for their engagement.

“Here you are,” she whispered, pressing it to her chest. “I remember Oliver beaming, ‘Mum, this is her colour!’ And she’s never worn it…”

After hanging it front and centre, she dialed Barbara again.

“Babs, you know… maybe I do expect too much. Their home’s clean, cosy. Emma tries. Not my way, but she tries… Maybe I should bite my tongue more?”

A pause.

“Then again—I’m still making them shepherd’s pie. A mother’s heart won’t be denied,” she added with a smile. “My boy’s too thin.”

Oliver and Emma exchanged glances. This wasn’t the twist they’d expected.

“You really thought she didn’t feel it?” Oliver said softly. “She’s lonely. Just doesn’t know how to say it right.”

“And I’m no better,” Emma admitted. “Installing a camera, spying… Like I’m not a grown woman.”

Oliver hugged her.

“What now?”

She stared at the sunset.

“We talk. All three of us. Honestly. No manuals. No cameras.”

Two days later, back in London, Margaret arrived as they unloaded the car. She looked composed, but her eyes were wary.

“Come in, Mum,” Oliver said, embracing her.

At the kitchen table, silence stretched until Emma spoke.

“Margaret… I owe you an apology. What I did was wrong. Cruel, even.”

Margaret met her gaze.

“For which part? The camera, or that I found out?”

“All of it,” Emma said. “The spying. The distrust. Choosing surveillance over conversation.”

Margaret nodded, though the hurt lingered.

“When I watched those clips,” Emma continued, “I saw you—not as my mother-in-law, but as a person. With fears, memories… I never considered how you felt.”

“And how do I feel?” Margaret asked drily.

“Lonely,” Emma murmured. “Afraid of losing your son. Hurt when your efforts feel like criticism.”

Margaret’s brows rose—she hadn’t expected such candour.

“Spot on,” she admitted quietly. “When children grow up… it’s like losing a piece of yourself. But life moves on.”

Oliver squeezed her hand.

“You’ll never be unwanted, Mum.”

“Yet that’s exactly how I feel,” she said softly.

Emma swallowed hard, seeing Margaret—raw, human—for the first time.

“I thought you hated me,” she confessed.

“Oh, Emma…” Margaret sighed. “I just wanted to help. My way—old-fashioned, maybe. But you make my boy happy. That’s what matters.”

Emma blinked back tears.

“Truce?” sheAs Margaret handed Emma the recipe for her famous Victoria sponge, Whiskers purred from his perch on the windowsill, watching the three of them share a proper cuppa—finally, just a family.