**Shadows of Misunderstanding: A Storm on Edith’s Jubilee**
Edith Harrington glowed with joy in her cosy flat in the heart of Canterbury, surrounded by the lively chatter of guests. It was her fiftieth anniversary celebration, and the house brimmed with family and friends. Only one couple remained absent—her son William and his wife Eleanor. When the door finally opened, Edith rushed forward.
“At last! We’ve been waiting ages!” she exclaimed, embracing her son.
“Sorry, Mum, we got held up,” William said with a smile, handing her a brightly wrapped box. “Happy anniversary! This is from both of us. Eleanor spent ages picking it out.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Edith beamed, accepting the gift. But when she lifted the lid, she froze, struck dumb with disbelief.
From the very beginning, Eleanor had sensed her mother-in-law’s disapproval. On Edith’s first visit to their home, her sharp eyes roved critically—inspecting the kitchen’s cleanliness, peering into the fridge, even bending to check beneath the sofa as if searching for incriminating evidence. Finishing her scrutiny, she declared coldly,
“I do hope you realise how fortunate you are? William is no ordinary man—being his wife is a privilege.”
“Well, I’m no slouch myself,” Eleanor quipped, masking her discomfort.
The jest seemed to sting Edith. At the wedding, she presented William with the latest smartphone, while Eleanor received an emerald-green blouse embroidered with the name “Margaret.”
“Oh dear, what a mix-up,” Edith feigned embarrassment. “Your name is so plain—I keep confusing you, Eleanor, Margaret…”
*If she meant to wound me, she’s succeeded brilliantly,* Eleanor thought, clenching her fists.
Thus began the tradition—Edith gifted Eleanor blatantly absurd presents. William received expensive gadgets, fine leather accessories, and luxury colognes. For International Women’s Day, Eleanor was handed *Cookery for Beginners* with a sly remark:
“I’d like you to learn to cook properly for my son.”
“I *can* cook,” Eleanor retorted. “I made seafood risotto just today.”
“Forgive me, darling, but your risotto isn’t fit for the dog,” Edith sniffed. “Start simple—buttered toast, perhaps.”
On Eleanor’s birthday, she unwrapped a bulky porcelain shepherdess, dust-coated, clearly dug from Edith’s attic.
“A rare heirloom,” Edith declared proudly. “Crafted by my late uncle.”
*No wonder it didn’t end up in the charity shop,* Eleanor mused darkly.
Next came a half-used embroidery kit with missing threads, remnants of Edith’s brief stitching phase. Then a cracked Santa mug from a tea promotion, faded blue eyeshadow, and a nightgown with peeling floral print. Each time, Edith would chirp:
“Where’s the shepherdess? It’d spruce up your decor! And why aren’t you wearing the eyeshadow? You’d never dare go bare-faced!”
Eleanor endured it—until the final straw: a bedazzled crop top three sizes too small. Edith handed it over with a smirk:
“You’ve put on weight, dear. Consider this motivation.”
Eleanor snapped.
“You bought this for your niece, didn’t you? It didn’t fit her, so you palmed it off on me!”
“So what?” Edith shrugged. “Perfectly good top—waste not, want not.”
“I’ve stayed silent to keep the peace,” Eleanor’s voice trembled. “But tell me—why do you despise me? I’ve done nothing to you. William’s happy with me!”
“Ungrateful, are we?” Edith’s eyes flashed. “My mother-in-law gifted me a mop, and I thanked her!”
“Frankly, a mop would’ve been kinder,” Eleanor shot back.
—
Eleanor spared no expense on gifts for Edith, hoping to mend things—rare orchids, designer scarves, luxury skincare—all met with indifference. Finally, she retaliated with anti-ageing cream for women over sixty.
“I’m not even fifty!” Edith spluttered.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” Eleanor quipped.
At home, William reproached her. “Why provoke Mum?”
“Because she keeps giving me rubbish! You get designer watches, and I get jumble sale rejects. You *never* defend me, William. That’s what hurts most.”
William flushed, realising his blindness. “You’re right. I’ll talk to her—and I’ll make it up to you with proper gifts.”
Eleanor softened. “With your mother’s taste, you’ll go bankrupt,” she teased.
True to his word, William confronted Edith. The row was fierce.
“You’ve turned my son against me!” Edith accused later.
“You brought this on yourself,” Eleanor replied calmly. “Insulting me insults William’s choice too.”
“Fine! You want extravagance? You’ll get it!” Edith snapped.
On Christmas, she handed Eleanor a large parcel with a saccharine smile. “Since you complained, here’s something ‘respectable.’”
Inside lay a moth-eaten faux-fur stole from the 1980s.
William’s jaw tightened. “Mum, we *talked* about this!”
“You said her gifts were cheap!” Edith retorted. “This cost a fortune back then! I wore it when I met your father—it’s *lucky*!”
Eleanor forced a smile. “Thank you, Edith. I’ll treasure it.”
*Until it disintegrates,* she added silently.
William wasn’t having it. “Mum, enough! Eleanor is my wife—love her or lose us.”
Edith recoiled. “How *dare* you!”
“I won’t let her suffer your digs,” William said firmly. “Give her something decent, or we’re done.”
Edith relented. “Very well. But know—every gift came from the heart.”
*Valued at a moth’s banquet and a dusty figurine,* Eleanor thought wryly.
The next day, Edith sent expensive perfume—expired, its box musty.
“She’s incorrigible,” William groaned.
Eleanor patted his hand. “Other women endure worse mothers-in-law.”
“There’s a way,” she mused. “How far will you go?”
“As far as needed.”
“And the next big occasion?”
—
Edith’s jubilee was in full swing when Eleanor arrived, radiant in the bedazzled crop top and fur stole. Gasps filled the room.
“You’re *wearing* that?” Edith hissed.
“Your gifts are too precious to hide!” Eleanor declared, flaunting the outfit. A guest whistled; wives elbowed their husbands.
At dinner, Eleanor sipped tea from the Santa mug. “So *charming*—Edith’s taste is impeccable!”
Finally, William presented Edith’s gift—a designer handbag she’d coveted.
“I know you dreamed of this,” Eleanor said gently. “Thank you for all you’ve taught me.”
The guests’ knowing looks made Edith flush crimson.
—
Weeks later, a parcel arrived—genuine perfume, spa vouchers, no expiry in sight.
“Peace at last?” William asked.
Eleanor smiled. “And if she relapses—I know exactly what to do.”