“Yes, but…” Daniel looked away. “She’s only trying to help.”
“And what about me?”
The question hung there, unanswered. Daniel opened the refrigerator and began staring into it, pretending he had suddenly remembered something terribly important inside.
The next day, Margaret showed up with a painter—a thin, nervous young man who already looked as if he regretted taking the job.
“This is Tyler. He’ll get it done quickly,” Margaret announced, giving orders as though the house belonged to her. “Start with the ceiling.”
“Margaret, maybe we should wait? Daniel hasn’t even seen—”
“Why bother him with this? Men don’t understand decorating anyway.” She was already carrying toys out of the nursery. “This is women’s business.”
Funny how, whenever renovation costs came up, it instantly became men’s business again.
Emily retreated to the kitchen. She sat there listening to strangers remake her home while she gently rubbed her belly. The baby shifted restlessly inside her.
“Put it on thicker! Can’t you see the yellow showing through?” Margaret barked from the nursery.
By evening, the room was blue. Cold. Unfamiliar.
“Well?” Margaret admired her work with satisfaction. “Now it actually looks like a boy will grow up here.”
Emily stood in the doorway and barely recognized the little room she had decorated with such tenderness only days before.
A week later, Margaret returned with curtains—dark blue ones with stripes.
“The bunnies don’t belong in here. A boy needs a serious environment.”
She was already taking down the old curtains, the ones Emily and Daniel had bought together on that bright, happy day when they found out they were going to have a baby.
“But those are brand-new…”
“New doesn’t mean right.”
Something inside Emily snapped. Quietly, but for good.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Put the curtains down. Right now.”
Margaret turned slowly, the fabric still clutched in her hands.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“This is my house. And my nursery.”
Her mother-in-law stared at her as if Emily had abruptly started speaking another language.
“What do you mean, yours? This is my son’s house!”
“Your son lives here. But the house belongs to me.”
“How dare you speak to me like that?” Margaret went pale, and the curtains slipped from her grasp. “I’m doing all of this for you. I’m thinking about my grandson!”
“No,” Emily said. “You’re thinking about yourself. About how to make everything match your taste and your rules.”
Emily moved toward the cabinet.