Are you a man who submits?! The motherinlaw gasped when she saw her son making breakfast himself.
What on earth is a man doing in the kitchen?! she shouted, horrified to discover that her son was preparing the morning meal on his own.
Valentine Lefèvre had come to visit for the first time in eight years. Since her son Théo and I were married, she had never set foot in our home. She lived in a tiny village near Bordeaux and rarely traveled to the cityage, health, and farm duties kept her anchored. This time she insisted: Im coming to see how you live. After all, you have a family, a mortgaged flat I need to make sure everythings alright.
Honestly, I was pleased. In all those years there had been no visits, no phone calls to check in. I hoped we could finally break the ice. We welcomed her properly: a prepared guest room, traditional dishes, a cozy bathrobe and soft slippers. Théo and I did our best. Between work and house chores it wasnt easy, but she deserved our attention.
The first days passed quietly, without incident. Then Saturday morning arrived. I allowed myself to sleep in, exhausted after a week of hard work. Théo, ever attentive, got up earlier. He liked to find small ways to please me. That day he decided to surprise us with a special breakfast for his mother and for me.
Halfasleep, I heard the kitchen soundsthe sizzle of a pan, the coffee maker humming, the scent of buttered toast. I smiled, feeling lighthearted. My man, my thoughtful Théo. That peace was shortlived, however, as Valentine entered the kitchen.
Her voice cut through the doorway:
What are you doing, my son? At the stove? Wearing an apron?!
Mom, I was just making breakfast. You must be tired from the trip. Camille is still sleepinglet her rest. Besides, you know I enjoy cooking
Take that apron off right now! A man in the kitchenhow shameful! Thats not why I raised you! Your father never washed a dish in his life, and now youre making omelettes like a servant! And Camille, why is she staying in bed? Thats her role! Youre completely under her spell, its pathetic!
I stayed under the covers, fists clenched, torn between laughing and stepping in. Her words disgusted me. I felt embarrassed for Théo, hurt for myself, and terrified that this visit might leave lasting damage.
When she began to choke on her own outrage, I got up. Théo still held his spatula, the omelette turning a gentle brown over the flame. Valentine trembled with anger, muttering about decadence, irresponsibility, and a man must be a man.
I quickly brewed a calming herbal teawithout it we would have witnessed a heart attack on the spot. I sat beside her, took her hand, and tried to explain calmly:
In our home things work differently. We are partners. I cook, I clean, I work. Théo helps, too. He cooks because he enjoys it, because he cares for us. Is that really such a problem?
She didnt listen. Her face was set, her gaze full of judgment. She said nothing, but her expression spoke: Youve turned my son into a weakling. When she left a few days later, without even an embrace, I realized she would never accept our way of life.
Later, Théo confessed that she had called his father to complain: Our boy has become his wifes slave, the poor thing cant even sleepup at dawn standing over pots. I thought, how sad it is to raise a man to believe that caring for others is a weakness, that love is a disgrace.
Im not angry, just sorryfor her, who spent a life treating the kitchen as a prison; for him, who had to fight for the right to be a good husband; and for myself, because Id hoped we could become close.
One thing I know for sure: my man isnt weak. Hes someone who loves. If that offends anyone let them be.
Are You a Submissive Man?!” — The Step-Mother’s Shock as She Sees Her Son Making Breakfast All by Himself
