**Too Clean for a New Mum**
When Emily opened the door and saw her mother-in-law, her heart gave a little lurch. In her arms was half-dressed little Sophie, who she’d been trying to rock to sleep for the past three hours. Her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, her hair was a mess, and her voice was thin with weariness.
“Still not sleeping?” asked Margaret, stepping inside and giving the cluttered room a quick glance.
“Not a wink,” Emily sighed.
“And when did you last sleep?” Margaret’s tone was firm but not unkind.
“Can’t even remember. She only settles on me,” Emily murmured, dropping her gaze slightly.
“Here, give her to me. I’ll take her out in the car—she always nods off on a drive. You get some rest. I’ll bring her back in a couple of hours.”
Emily barely managed a nod. Margaret scooped up Sophie, her husband grabbed the nappy bag, and off they went, leaving Emily standing alone in the suddenly quiet flat.
Emily had always been a bit in awe of her mother-in-law. Margaret wasn’t sharp or cruel, but there was something in her voice that made you straighten your spine and nod along. Petite, slender, with long dark hair and pale skin, she could deliver a silent critique with just a look.
Emily and her husband, James, had been sweethearts since secondary school. Their wedding had been inevitable: both families chipped in—bought a bit of land in the countryside, built a cottage. The keys were handed over with speeches and happy tears. And Margaret had said simply, “Live long and be happy.”
They’d tried. Within a year, the garden was thriving—Emily planted flowers, strawberries, even a little herb patch. They didn’t bother with chickens; both sets of parents kept them stocked with eggs. Life was modest but comfortable.
Margaret never meddled, but Emily still felt the weight of expectation. Before her visits, Emily would scrub the house spotless, bake something impressive, play the part of the perfect homemaker. She’d even told Margaret about the pregnancy first—before James, before her own parents.
Sophie arrived right on schedule—almost a birthday gift for Margaret. But the baby was fussy: she barely slept, cried constantly. Emily took her into bed, surviving on snacks and sheer willpower. She lost weight. Her milk supply dwindled.
“You look dreadful,” her own mother had said, shaking her head. “Let me take her so you can nap.”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
She’d tried so hard to be perfect. Never asked for help, never complained. And then Margaret dropped by unannounced, ringing the bell just before stepping inside. The flat was a mess, exhaustion written in every unfolded blanket and unwashed mug. But Margaret didn’t scold. She just took Sophie.
When she returned a few hours later, the place was unrecognisable: gleaming mirrors, a spotless kitchen, the smell of apple crumble in the air. Emily greeted them with a bright smile, though her eyes were suspiciously shiny.
“We won’t stay for dinner,” Margaret said quietly. “It’s… a bit too clean in here.”
Emily blinked, confused.
“We took Sophie so you could rest, not so you could scrub the floors and bake. You need to look after yourself, love. Sophie doesn’t need pies—she needs you well and rested. We’re here whenever you need us. And James isn’t helpless; he can manage an hour with his own daughter.”
With a brisk wave, Margaret was gone. And Emily stood in the middle of her immaculate flat, suddenly hollow.
Margaret was right. Absolutely right. That lesson stuck with Emily for life.