My motherinlaw, Margaret Richards, once threw my wifes food away in front of everyone.
Are you still putting little Jack in that thin sweater? Its freezing outside!
Mum, its fifteen degrees. He wont catch a cold.
He wont! You youngsters dont understand a thing. A child must be bundled up warm!
Emma stood in the hallway, watching as Margaret slipped the light cardigan off our son and pulled a thick jumper over him. Jack squirmed and whined, but Margaret was relentless.
Mum, itll be too hot for him, Emma tried to protest.
Better hot than sick! Margaret thrust the jumper onto Jack and nodded approvingly. Thats the way. Go on, enjoy your walk.
Emma bit her lip, swallowing any retort. She took Jacks hand and left the flats. We lived a floor above; Margaret liked to keep tabs on every move Emma made.
Emma married David four years ago. At first we rented a flat of our own. When Jack was born, David suggested we move into his parents house in Surrey more space and a helping hand from Grandma. Emma agreed, and she regretted it within the first week.
Margaret interfered with everything: how to feed the baby, what to dress him in, when to put him to bed. Emmas voice meant nothing. Any opinion she voiced was instantly dismissed.
Youre young and inexperienced. Ive brought up three children, I know best, Margaret would say.
David usually kept quiet, saying his mother was only being caring and not to take it to heart. But it wore Emma down. She felt like a servant, not the lady of the house.
The kitchen was the worst battleground. Margaret fancied herself a great cook and rejected any other method.
Borscht must be made like this! With smoked ribs! What have you added?
Meatballs need a touch of bacon! Yours are as dry as a shoe sole!
The pie isnt mixed right! The dough should rest three hours, not one!
Emma tried to argue at first, proving her ways could work too. Margaret never listened. Eventually Emma stopped cooking altogether. Why bother if shed just be criticised?
But this time she resolved to try. The next day was her fatherinlaw Peter Richardss birthday. Emma wanted to do something nice, to show she could cook. She rose early while everyone slept and got to work.
She made a shrimp salad Peters favourite baked chicken with vegetables, and baked a classic apple crumble using her mothers recipe. She poured her heart into it.
By lunch the kitchen smelled wonderful. Peter walked in, sniffed the air.
Oh, that looks delicious! Emma, youve gone all out?
Yes, Peter, happy birthday!
Thank you, dear! Peter was a kind man, unlike his wifes mother, who often took Emmas side.
Margaret appeared from the bedroom, an annoyed look on her face.
Whats that smell this morning?
Mum, Emmas made this for my birthday, Peter smiled.
Margaret moved to the kitchen. Emma stood at the stove, plating the chicken. Margaret lifted the lid off the salad bowl, sniffed, and grimaced.
Whats this?
Its shrimp salad, Emma turned. Peter loves it.
Shrimp? Margaret made a face. Peter gets heartburn from those!
But he said he liked them
He never said that! Margaret slammed the bowl down. And whats this?
Chicken with veg.
Margaret opened the oven, poked the chicken with a fork.
Dry. Overcooked.
Mum, its just out of the oven, David intervened, walking in. Let us try it.
No need to taste, I can see it, Margaret snapped the oven shut. And that horrible pie?
Its an apple crumble, Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. My mums recipe.
Your mum cant cook, Im sure. An apple doesnt fall far from the tree.
Emma clenched her fists. Her own motherinlaws criticism cut deep.
My mum cooks beautifully!
Sure, she taught you, Margaret said, picking up the salad bowl and marching it to the trash.
What are you doing? Emma lunged forward.
Throwing it away. No one will eat it anyway.
In front of everyone Margaret dumped the salad into the bin. Emma stood frozen. Shed spent hours preparing that salad, bought the pricey shrimp herself, made sure it looked perfect. And Margaret just tossed it.
Mum, what are you doing? David stepped forward. Why did you throw it away?
Because Peter gets heartburn from shrimp! I know whats good for him!
Id love a bite, Peter interjected. Why waste it?
Dont argue with me! Margaret turned to David. Ive cared for you thirty years, I know whats harmful!
Emma stared at the trash, tears threatening, but she held back. She wouldnt cry in front of that woman. She turned and left the kitchen, went to the bedroom, closed the door, and let the tears flow.
She felt humiliated, publicly shamed, crushed. The bedroom door opened quietly; David entered.
Emma, dont cry. Mum was just worried.
Worried? She threw my food away, in front of everyone!
Well she does worry about Peters stomach. He does get heartburn sometimes.
From shrimp? He told me he loves them!
Maybe he liked them before, now he cant.
Emma watched David defend his mother again. He never took her side.
Why do you always defend her? she asked.
Im not defending her. I just understand. She likes to control everything.
And my feelings? Dont they matter?
Of course they do, David sat beside her. But dont take it to heart. She treats everyone like that.
David, she doesnt respect me at all. Im nothing to her.
Thats not true.
It is! She calls me foolish, incompetent! Everything I do is wrong!
David fell silent.
Lets not fight. Its Peters birthday, lets sit together.
Emma shook her head.
I dont want to.
Emma
Youll just say youre not feeling well.
David sighed, stood, and left. Emma lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, boiling inside.
Enough. She couldnt endure any more. Something had to change.
That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Emma returned to the kitchen. The chicken and crumble sat untouched. Margaret was making her own dinner fried chips and meat patties. Everyone ate her food; no one touched Emmas dishes, except Peter. He sneaked a piece of the crumble, ate it, and winked.
Delicious, thank you, dear.
At least someone appreciated.
Emma cleared the table, washed the dishes. Margaret lounged in the living room watching TV, offering no help. She assumed it was Emmas duty.
When Emma finished, David came over.
Emma, Mum wants to talk to you.
About what?
I dont know. Shes in the sitting room.
Emma wiped her hands and went in. Margaret turned off the TV, faced her.
Sit down.
Emma perched on the edge of the sofa. Margaret looked her over.
I want you to understand one thing. This is my house. My rules. If you want to live here, youll do as I say.
Emma stayed silent.
Im the one who cooks in this kitchen. Got it? No more of your shrimp and other nonsense.
I was only trying to please Peter.
Pleasing him means obeying me, not running your own kitchen.
Margaret, Im also a member of this family. I have a right to cook.
Margaret smirked.
A family member? You live on my provisions. I feed you, I wash your clothes. What do you do? Sit at home with the baby.
I look after him!
Look after him. I did the same, and I also worked. All you do is whine.
Emma sprang up.
Im not whining! I just want respect!
Respect must be earned, Margaret stood too. What have you done to earn mine? Nothing. Just complain.
Emma turned and left the room. She couldnt take any more. She went to the bedroom where David lay awake.
David, we need to move out.
He looked surprised.
Move out? Where to?
Find a flat. I cant live here any longer.
Weve talked about this. We dont have the money for a new place.
Well find it. Ill get a job.
What about Jack?
Hell go to nursery.
Emma, be realistic. My salary barely covers our bills. If we rent somewhere, therell be nothing left.
So I just stay and put up with your mother forever?
Shes not that bad
Mum! She threw my salad away in front of everyone! She humiliated me!
Maybe it was a mistake, but dont make a scene.
Emma stared at David, who was scrolling on his phone, oblivious to her pain.
Youre always on her side.
Im not on her side. I just dont see the point in fighting.
My opinion doesnt matter?
It matters, but lets be adults. Hang on a bit longer. Ill get a bonus in six months, well save, and then well move.
Six months of putting up with Margaret. Emma didnt know if she could last.
But there was no other option. They truly had no savings for a new flat, and Jack was still a toddler who needed care.
The next morning Margaret acted as if nothing had happened, cooking breakfast, issuing orders. Emma ate in silence, avoiding her gaze.
Later that day Emmas mother called.
Emma, love, hows the birthday?
Emma stepped onto the balcony, away from ears.
Mum, its terrible.
What happened?
She told her about the tossed salad and the argument. Her mother listened.
Darling, why do you put up with it? Move out.
We have no money.
Maybe we can help. Your dad and I could
No, Mum, youre barely getting by yourselves.
You cant keep letting her treat you like this!
I know. David promised wed move in six months.
Her mother fell silent.
Have you thought about getting a parttime job? Youd have some money and a break from Margaret.
Emma considered it. She hadnt thought of it before.
What about Jack?
Theres a nursery nearby. Hes three now, perfect age.
Mum says its harmful, but
All kids get sick sometimes. Hell make friends, learn, grow.
David will object.
He might, but you both need this.
Emma nodded, though her mother couldnt see her.
That evening, after Jack was asleep, Emma brought it up.
David, I want to start working.
He looked up from his laptop.
Work? Why?
So we have money. So we can move sooner.
What about Jack?
Hell go to nursery. Hes three, thats ideal.
David frowned.
Mum says nursery is bad. Kids catch colds.
All kids catch colds. Hell be social, not isolated.
Mum will fight.
Let her stay out of it! This is our child, our decision.
David fell silent.
Fine. Well try. But keep it from Mum for now.
Why?
Shell try to stop it.
Emma agreed. The next day she queued for a nursery place; it was long, but she secured a spot for the following month.
A month later she landed a job as an administrator at a small firm, nine to three, allowing her to pick Jack up.
When everything was set, she told Margaret.
I start work on Monday.
Margaret looked up from the pot.
Work? And Jack?
In nursery.
Who decided that?
David and I.
You never consulted me!
Its our decision.
Margaret hurled a wooden spoon into the sink.
Your decision! Sending Jack to nursery and you working? What kind of mother are you?
A normal mother. Many women work and send kids to nursery.
Many! Margaret stepped closer. I never did that! I stayed home, raised you! And you want a career?
I want to earn.
Earn? Can you even afford it?
Maybe. I just want independence.
Independence? You think the child isnt important?
He is! Hell be fine at nursery.
Hell get sick! Hell catch infections!
This is my choice, Emma said firmly. Im working, period.
Margaret shouted for David.
David! Come here!
David entered.
Whats wrong?
Your wife wants to send the child away and go to work!
Mum, weve discussed this. Emma wants to work, thats fine.
Fine? You allowed her to send Jack to nursery without asking me?
Yes.
Without my consent?
Its our household, Mum.
Margaret stared at David, then stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the bedroom door.
David hugged Emma.
Shell calm down.
But for a week Margaret gave them the silent treatment, cooking only for herself and Peter. David and Emma had to do all the meals.
Emma didnt mind. At last she could cook what she liked without criticism.
On Monday Emma started work. Jack went to nursery, thriving, making friends and loving storytime.
Margaret predicted hed cry and fall ill, but nothing happened. Jack was cheerful and full of new tales.
Work went well. Colleagues were friendly, the boss fair. Emma earned a modest wage, saved every penny.
Three months later they had saved enough for a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts of London. They paid the deposit and signed the tenancy.
Now they had to tell their parents.
David hesitated, fearing his mothers reaction, but they had to move in a week.
That evening after dinner, David gathered everyone in the sitting room.
Mum, Dad, we need to talk.
Margaret looked wary.
About what?
Emma and I are moving out. Weve rented a flat.
Silence fell. Margaret placed her tea cup down slowly.
Moving out?
Yes. We need our own space.
Your own space? Does that mean youre ungrateful? Ive fed you, washed for you, looked after Jack! And now youre leaving?
Mum, were grateful, but were adults. We need our own home.
Its all your fault! Margaret pointed at Emma. Shes the one who convinced you!
Mum, this is my decision.
No, its hers! Shes been trying to take us away from the family!
Peter stood.
Margaret, calm down. Theyre right. They need their own life.
Dont interfere! You dont care!
Margaret stormed to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Peter sighed.
Dont hold a grudge. Shes used to controlling everything. Youre moving anyway.
Well visit on weekends, holidays.
Of course, Peter patted David on the shoulder. Just be happy.
Emma smiled gratefully. At last someone understood.
A week later they moved. Margaret never came to say goodbye, staying in her bedroom, refusing to appear. Peter helped carry boxes, wishing them well.
The new flat was small but cosy. Emma decorated it with gusto, finally feeling like a proper homeowner. She cooked what she pleased, cleaned how she liked, without anyones criticism.
David relaxed too. Without his mothers watchful eye, he was calmer and more cheerful. Their relationship revived, like the early days.
Jack loved his own room, his toys, and his new friends at nursery.
Margaret didnt call. She was still angry, but Peter called regularly, asking after them. He mentioned Emmas cooking, still admiring her talent.
Six months later Emma had settled into independent life, unable to imagine ever tolerating Margarets tyranny again.
One weekend David suggested a visit to his parents.
Emma, lets see Mum, Dad.
Alright, Emma agreed.
They arrived midday. Peter opened the door, delighted.
Come in, come in! Hows Jack grown!
Margaret appeared from the kitchen, froze, then managed a nod.
Hello.
Emma handed her a bouquet.
For you.
Margaret took it silently.
They sat down for tea. Margaret prepared the meal, as always excellent. Conversation was strained; Margaret gave oneword answers, avoiding eye contact.
After lunch David left to fix the car in the garage. Emma stayed with Jack in the living room. Margaret began clearing the table.
Let me help with the dishes.
No, thank you, Emma offered.
I said, Ill do it.
Im sure you dont need to.
Margaret hesitated, then softened.
Emma, can we try to make peace? Were still family.
Emma sighed.
I understand. I just needed my own space. Its not about you, really.
You took my son away, Margaret whispered. I thought you were steering him away.
I didnt. David decided, we both decided to move.
You convinced him.
No, we both wanted a life of our own.
Margaret loweredAnd as they all shared a quiet cup of tea, Emma realized that peace could be built step by step, even after years of friction.
