“Dont you dare contradict your husbandyour place is in the kitchen,” scolded my mother-in-law in front of the guests.
“No, Mum, it’s not just an ordinary sponge. There’s almond flour and orange zest for flavour,” Lina replied gently, watching as her mother-in-law prodded the dessert with a sceptical fork. “And the cream is mascarpone-basedthats why its so delicate.”
“Delicate, yes, but not sweet enough,” snapped Tamara Pavlovna, pushing the plate away. “In my day, cakes were propersugary, substantial. This? Just air. You cant feed guests with this. Anthony, say something to her.”
Anthony, Linas husband, cleared his throat awkwardly. He sat at the head of the table in their spacious new flatbought not without his parents helpand carefully avoided his wifes gaze.
“Mum, come on, its lovely. Lina put a lot of effort into it,” he muttered, shoving a large forkful into his mouth. “Honestly, darling, its delicious.”
Lina felt her insides twist. *Effort*. As if shed slapped together a childs craft project rather than perfected a complex recipe over weeks. Before marriage, her baking had been a point of pride. Friends commissioned birthday cakes from her, and she dreamed of opening her own little patisserie one day. When they were dating, Anthony had raved about her talent, calling her his “fairy” and “magician.” He could polish off half a pie in one sitting, swearing hed never tasted anything better.
But after the wedding, everything changed. They moved closer to his parents, and Tamara Pavlovna became a frequent visitor. At first, her drop-ins were gentlehomemade preserves, housekeeping tips. Lina, whod grown up without a mother, had even welcomed it. But soon, advice became commands, and concern became control.
Her mother-in-law barged into their bedroom unannounced, inspected the bathroom for cleanliness, rearranged the kitchenware to her liking. She lectured Lina on ironing Anthonys shirts (“inside out, so the collar doesnt shine”), making proper roast beef (“only from the butcher, none of that supermarket rubbish”), and raising their five-year-old son, Danny (“dont let him cryyoure raising a softling”).
Lina endured it. She loved Anthony and wanted peace. She told herself Tamara Pavlovna was just old-fashioned, that she meant well. And Anthony? To every complaint, hed say, “Just bear with it, Lin. You know how Mum is. She doesnt mean harm.”
Tonights dinner was another test. Tamara Pavlovna had arrived unannounced, as usual, catching Lina mid-recipe. All evening, shed watched like a stern examiner, and now, before the whole family, she delivered her verdict.
“Im not saying its inedible,” Tamara Pavlovna relented, noticing Linas fallen face. “Just next time, dont skimp on sugar. Men need something hearty. Right, son?”
Anthony nodded, finishing his slice. Lina silently stood and began clearing the table, her throat tight. The sting wasnt just her mother-in-laws wordsit was her husbands silence. He hadnt defended her. Hed just agreed to avoid conflict.
When Tamara Pavlovna finally left, Anthony hugged Lina from behind.
“Lin, dont take it to heart. Mums set in her ways. The cake was brilliant, honestly.”
“Then why didnt you *say* that?” she asked quietly, not turning.
“Why argue? You wont change her mind. Easier to nod along.”
“Easier for *you*,” she said bitterly. “Anthony, I feel like a maid in this house. Like my opinion doesnt matter.”
“Here we go again,” he sighed, letting go. “No one thinks that. But Mums the head of the familyyou have to respect her. Shes lived longer; she knows better.”
Lina turned. His eyes held no support, no sympathy. Just weariness and a wish for the conversation to end.
“And what about *me*? Dont I know anything? Are my feelings unimportant?”
“Lina, not now. Im tired. Just add more sugar next time, alright?”
He left. Lina stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by expensive appliances Tamara Pavlovna had chosen. She felt like a stranger in her own home. Her dream of a patisserie now seemed naive. What business? She couldnt even bake a cake to please her own family.
Weeks passed. Lina played the perfect wife. She rose early, made breakfast, took Danny to nursery, cleaned, cooked. More butter in the pastry, more sugar in the puddings. She ironed shirts inside out, bought meat from the butcher. She bit her tongue when Tamara Pavlovna lectured her.
Anthony was content. The house was peaceful. He praised her cooking, kissed her goodbye, and never noticed the light fading from her eyes.
Then came her father-in-laws anniversarya grand party at their country house. Tamara Pavlovna took charge, relegating Lina to the kitchen.
“Heres the menu,” she said, handing Lina a long list. “Everything must be impeccable. Proper dessertsnone of your airy nonsense. A classic Victoria sponge, treacle tart, roast beef, salads Start prepping early.”
Lina took the list. Dozens of dishes. Shed never manage alone.
“Tamara Pavlovna, maybe we could order some dishes? Im not sure I can”
“*Order*? In this family, we cook properly! So guests see what a fine wife our Anthony has. A matter of family pride. If you cant handle it, Ill call Aunt Vera. But prove yourself.”
The challenge was clear. Lina accepted it. Shed show themher mother-in-law, her husband, *herself*that she wasnt just “trying.” She could be the best.
The week before, she barely slept. Days with Danny, nights in the kitchenrolling pastry, simmering custard, marinating meat. Every dish held her frustration, her hope. The kitchen became her battlefield.
Anthony, seeing her exhaustion, fumbled to help.
“Lin, take a break. You look pale.”
“No time. Your father deserves the best.”
On the day, the house buzzed. Guests arrived, toasting, praising. Lina darted between kitchen and dining room, refilling glasses, feeling like a taut wire.
The table groaned with food. The men especially praised the roast.
“Tamara, your daughter-in-laws a marvel!” boomed one of her father-in-laws associates. “A wife like thats a treasure!”
Tamara Pavlovna beamed, taking credit.
“She learns,” she said dismissively.
Linas heart sank. No one saw her sleepless nights. Her efforts were her mother-in-laws triumph.
Later, as drinks flowed, talk turned to businessan agro-tourism investment. Lina, serving tea, listened. Shed always read widely, followed finance.
“Risky,” her father-in-law said. “Whod holiday in the countryside?”
“I think its a good idea,” Lina spoke up, setting down a fruit platter. Eyes turned. “City folk crave nature retreats. With the right setupcheese-making workshops, farm toursit could work. Ive read about successful models.”
For a moment, she was herself againbright, opinionated.
Silence fell. The men looked startled; the women curious. Anthony flushed, shooting her a pleading look. *Stop*.
But Lina didnt see. She watched her father-in-lawuntil Tamara Pavlovnas voice cut in, icy.
“Dont contradict your elders! Your place is minding the cakes, not mens talk. Go check the dessert.”
The humiliation burned. Linas face flamed. She left without a word.
In the kitchen, she leaned against the cold wall, eyes shut. Not cryingjust trying to breathe.
Anthony stormed in later.
“What was *that*? You embarrassed me!”
“*I* embarrassed *you*?” Her voice was steel. “Your mother humiliated me in front of everyone, and you said *nothing*. Again.”
“Enough! Shes my *mother*! Business isnt womens workwhy couldnt you just keep quiet?”
*Why?* Because silence was suffocating. But she didnt say it. She just looked at himno fear left, only cold resolve.
“Go back to your guests, Anthony. Dont embarrass yourself further.”
He left.
That night, after the party, Lina kissed Dannys sleeping cheek and whispered, “Mummy wont be weak anymore.”
The next day, while Anthony was at work and Danny at nursery, Lina dug out an old boxrecipe notebooks, pastry books, her long-forgotten culinary diploma. She dusted it off and hung it in the kitchen, replacing Tamara Pavlovnas embroidery.
Then she opened her laptop and created a page: *Sweet Stories by Lina*. She photographed the last slice of her “airy” almond cakethe one Tamara Pavlovna had scornedand posted it with a caption about passion and craftsmanship.
Anthony came home grumpy that evening, oblivious to the diploma or the fire in her eyes.
“Im helping Mum with the greenhouse tomorrow,” he muttered.
“Fine,” Lina said calmly.
For a week, she lived two livesdutiful wife by day, budding entrepreneur by night. She baked what *she* loved: delicate entremets, elegant petits fours.
Then came her first order. A woman wanted a birthday cake for her mother. Lina baked through the night. The resulta masterpiece of fresh berries and sugar flowersearned rapturous praise and her first independent earnings. Not much, but to her, worth more than Anthonys salary. It was freedom.
That evening, Tamara Pavlovna called, furious.
“Working? Your job is *this family*! Anthony providesare you shaming us?”
“Im *not* ashamed. This is my passion,” Lina said firmly.
“Youll stop this nonsense!”
“Call Anthony if you like.” She hung up.
Half an hour later, Anthony burst in.
“Whats this about a *job*? Have you lost your mind? Mums hysterical!”
Lina handed him her phoneglowing with the clients review: *”The cake was magic! Mum cried happy tears! Youre an artist!”*
Anthony read it, then stared at her. No fear in her eyes nowjust certainty.
“I wont stop, Anthony. My place isnt just your kitchen. Its where Im happy. If you dont like that” She paused. “Thats your choice. Ive made mine.”
She turned to the window, breathing deeply for the first time in years. She didnt know what would become of their marriage. But she knew one thingno one would ever dictate her place again.
