*”No one will eat your pasties,”* hissed my mother-in-law. A year later, she saw the queue outside my caféwhere her own husband stood waiting. *”What nonsense is this?”*
Margarets voice, though quiet, struck like a slap. She loomed in my kitchen doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed thin, inspecting the space like a health inspector. I had just pulled a tray from the oven. The scent of herbs, melted cheese, and golden pastry filled the air. My first test batch: spinach and cheddar pasties. My small hope.
*”I wanted to try something I love,”* I said.
She stepped inside, her gaze flickering over the spotless counters, yet her expression twisted as if shed walked into a den of vice.
*”Something you love? You left a proper job as a financial analyst to play with flour? Jeremys told me everything.”*
Her words were needles. *”Left”* wasnt quite right. The whole department had been cut. The recession. But in her mouth, it sounded like a mark of failure.
*”This is my chance to build something,”* I replied, quieter than I meant to.
Margaret plucked a pasty from the tray with two fingers, as if it were roadkill. She sniffed it. *”Whats this? Herbs? Might as well add nettles. Proper women bake with meat and potatoes.”*
I glanced at Jeremy, whod followed her in. He gave me an apologetic smile*dont argue, just endure.* That was his role: the peacemaker, smoothing edges even when those edges cut me.
*”Mum, its trendy. Artisanal fillings, gourmet tastes,”* he offered.
*”Gourmet?”* Her smile was vinegar. *”Listen to me, Emily. Drop this silliness before its too late. No one wants your odd little pies.”*
It wasnt criticism. It was a verdict. Final. Unappealable.
I looked at my flour-dusted hands, at the pasties Id thought perfect. Something hardened in menot hurt, but defiance. *”I think they will,”* I said, louder than intended.
Margaret didnt blink. She turned to Jeremy, her gaze an ultimatum.
*”Your wifes always been a dreamer. But this? A man needs proper food, not this greenery in dough. Tell her shes headed for ruin.”*
Jeremy flinched. He took a bite, chewed mechanically. *”Its fine. But Mums right, Em. This isnt sensible. Find a real job.”*
That hurt more than Margarets barbs. Because she was a stranger. He was mine. Or had been. In that moment, hed chosen her.
Margaret left victorious, tossing me a pitying glance. *”Glad youve come to your senses. Come, Jeremy. Ill fry you proper sausages at home.”*
The door clicked shut. I sat on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, staring at the cooling pastiesmonuments to my foolishness.
Then the door opened again. Jeremy returned. He sat beside me, voice barely audible. *”Im sorry. Im a coward. I saw her looking at you and I froze. Ive always been afraid of her. Its easier to agree.”*
He took my hand. *”Then I walked her to the car, watched her drive off, satisfied and realised Id betrayed the person who matters most. Over sausages. Over fear.”*
His eyes werent guilty now, just pained. Determined. *”These are incredible,”* he said, eating another pasty properly. *”Unusual, but brilliant. Well make this work. You bake. Ill handle the rest. Ill be your porter, your courier, your accountant. Just dont let her win.”*
That night changed everything. We became a team. We emptied our savings, perfected five more fillings: slow-cooked beef with juniper, wild mushrooms in cream, pumpkin and ricotta. Jeremy built a social media page, photographed them till they gleamed.
Our first order came three days later. A dozen pasties. Jeremy delivered them across town, returned beaming. *”They loved them! Said theyd order more!”*
But Margaret wasnt done. She called daily. *”Has your little chef found real work yet? No? I knew it. Mrs. Whittakers son needs a secretary. Ill arrange it.”*
*”Mum, shes busy. This is her business,”* Jeremy said, though it cost him.
*”Business?”* Her laugh was poison. *”Playing with flour isnt a business. Youll end up penniless!”*
She escalated. *”Accidentally”* bumping into our neighbour, Mrs. Burton. *”Poor Jeremys so thin. Emily doesnt feed him, too busy selling her odd pies.”* Soon, Mrs. Burton was sliding me tins of soup with pitying looks.
We struck a deal with a local coffee shop. The owner adored our pasties. A week later, he called, uneasy. *”Sorry, but I cant take your stock. A woman came in said you work in filth. My reputation”*
We knew who.
That evening, we sat in the same kitchen, staring at our earnings. Not much, but ours. Not defeatcold, furious resolve.
*”She wont stop,”* I said.
*”Then we get bigger,”* Jeremy replied. *”Stronger. So her poison cant reach us.”*
His idea was simple, risky: the citys annual food festival. Hundreds of vendors, thousands of visitors. Our chance to be seen.
We rented a stall, invested our last pennies. I baked through nights; Jeremy designed packaging, printed flyers. Exhausted but hopeful.
On festival day, we arrived early. Our stall, *”The Pasty Post,”* was tidy, inviting. The scent of golden pasties drew crowds.
Then they appeared. Two stern women in uniforms. And Margaret, lurking behind, triumphant.
*”Sanitary inspection,”* one said. *”Weve had a complaint. Food poisoning. A family fell ill after your meat pasty yesterday.”*
My stomach dropped. *Yesterday?* We hadnt sold anything yesterday!
*”This is a mistake,”* Jeremy began, but his voice shook.
*”We must investigate. Stall closed. Stock seized.”*
*”Seized.”* The end. The festival lasted two days. Losing today meant losing everything.
I looked at Margaret. Her eyes gleamed: *I told you Id destroy you.*
Then, calm. Clear as ice.
*”Jeremy, film this. Live. Now.”*
He obeyed, lifting his phone. I stepped forward.
*”My name is Emily Carter. This is my business. The complaint is a lie.”* I spoke loudly, the crowd thickening. *”Weve all certificates. We wear gloves. But most importantlywe opened ten minutes ago. We couldnt have poisoned anyone yesterday.”*
I turned to Margaret. *”The complaint came from her. My mother-in-law, Margaret Carter. Shes sabotaged me from the startspread rumours, ruined our coffee shop deal. Today, she filed a false report.”*
The crowd buzzed. Margaret paled. She hadnt expected this.
*”Mum, why?”* Jeremys voice wavered behind the camera.
*”II worried for you!”* she stammered. *”This isnt safe! Youre not professionals!”*
*”Your concern is envy,”* I said, cool. *”You cant bear that Ive succeeded where you didnt dare try.”*
To the crowd: *”Taste our pasties. Free. Decide for yourselves.”* To the inspectors: *”Inspect. Now. Weve nothing to hide.”*
I handed the lead inspector a beef-and-juniper pasty. *”Try it. This is my pride.”*
Flustered, she bit. Raised her brows. Her partner, seeing phones recording, muttered, *”Visual inspection only.”*
Five agonising minutes. They returned. *”No violations. The false report will be dealt with separately.”*
They left. The crowd stayed. Thena queue formed. Ten people. Twenty. Fifty. Jeremys live video hit thousands of views. The *”Mad Pasties vs. the Monster Mother-in-Law”* story spread.
We sold out in four hours. People came to eat, to support. It was unreal.
That night, Jeremys father called. *”Your mothers locked herself away, crying. Says you humiliated her. But Emily? Im proud of you. Just stay strong.”*
That mattered more. He didnt fix it. He stood with us.
A year later, the videos ripple brought investors. We opened *The Pasty Post* café. Central, cosy, open kitchen. Jeremy managed; I created.
