*Too Clean for a Young Mother*
When Eleanor opened the door to see her mother-in-law standing there, her heart clenched. In her arms, she cradled a half-dressed Emily, rocking her for what felt like the hundredth hour that day. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, her hair hung in tangled strands, and exhaustion seeped from her voice.
“Still not sleeping?” asked Margaret, stepping inside with a quick glance at the mess.
“No,” Eleanor sighed.
“When was the last time *you* slept?” Margaret’s tone was firm, but not unkind.
“I can’t remember. She only settles when I hold her,” Eleanor murmured, dropping her gaze.
“Give her here. We’ll take her for a drive—she always nods off in the car. You rest. We’ll bring her back in a few hours.”
Eleanor barely managed a nod. Margaret gathered Emily into her arms, her husband grabbed the nappy bag, and then they were gone, leaving Eleanor alone in the silent house.
Margaret had always unnerved her. Not cruel, not sharp—but there was something in her presence that demanded straight posture and quiet agreement. Petite, slender, with dark hair always perfectly pinned, she could convey disapproval with a single glance.
Eleanor and James had been together since secondary school. The wedding had been all their families hoped for—land bought, a cottage built, keys handed over with champagne and happy tears. And Margaret had lifted her glass, saying simply, *“Be happy.”*
They’d tried. The garden flourished under Eleanor’s care—roses climbing the trellis, strawberries in neat rows. No need for chickens; both sets of parents kept them stocked. Life was simple, comfortable.
Margaret never interfered. Yet Eleanor still felt the weight of her expectations. Before every visit, she scrubbed floors, baked pies, dressed as though for an inspection. She’d even told Margaret about the pregnancy first—not James, not her own parents.
Emily arrived right on schedule—a birthday gift for Margaret, the midwife joked. But she never slept, always fussing. Eleanor took her into bed, surviving on biscuits and stolen naps. The weight dropped from her, the milk dried up.
“You look awful,” her own mother fretted. “Let me take her.”
“No, no—I’m fine.”
She had to be perfect. Never asking. Never complaining.
Then Margaret came unannounced. No warning, just a knock at the door. The house was a mess—toys scattered, dishes piled. But Margaret said nothing. Just took Emily.
When she returned hours later, the house gleamed. Floors polished, lemon scent in the air, a fresh Victoria sponge cooling on the counter. Eleanor stood there, smiling on the brink of tears.
“We won’t stay,” Margaret said softly. “It’s… *too clean* here.”
Eleanor blinked.
“We took her so you’d rest. Not so you could scrub the grout.” A pause. “She needs *you*—alive. Not just the pies. We’re all here. Just say the word. And James isn’t useless—let him help.”
With that, Margaret turned and left. And Eleanor? She stood in the middle of that sparkling kitchen, hollowed out by the truth.
Margaret was right. So terribly right. It was a lesson Eleanor would never forget.
