I was bustling about the kitchen in our little Nottingham home, waiting for my son to arrive with his fiancée. The oven was still humming, filling the air with the scent of our signature roast duck, while steaming meat pasties curled on the table and a jar of aspic sat chilling in the fridge.
My motherinlaw, Margaret Whitaker, always took the arrival of guests seriously. The spread was already overflowingshed been at it since the night before. And this visit was a big one. Daniel had been dating Emily Clarke for a year, and at last hed decided it was time for her to meet the family.
The doorbell rang. After a quick brush in the hallway mirror, I swung the door open.
Daniel, my love! Come in, come in. Let me take your coat, I said, trying to sound warm. He gave me an awkward grin, stepped aside, and let Emily slip in first. He hung his coat himself.
Emily, this is my mum, Margaret, he announced.
Margarets eyes fell immediately on Emilys slight frame. The woman looked frail, and a tattoo peeked from her wrist. My motherinlaw raised an eyebrow but kept her thoughts to herself; after all, Daniel had been raving about his girl.
Good evening, MrsWhitaker. Its a pleasure to finally meet you, Emily said, beaming.
I watched Daniels gaze linger on his future wifepure adoration.
We chatted politely over tea, but Margaret soon noticed something odd. Daniel was picking at his food, his plate halfempty, and Emily wasnt offering him any of the dishes. With a disapproving glance, Margaret got up, shuffled over, and began ladling tiny portions onto Daniels plate.
Mum, Ive got it, really, he protested, though years of my mothers meddling had taught him it was pointless to argue.
Having rescued my son from a slowdeath hunger, Margaret turned her attention to Emily, clearly fascinated by her manners. When she reached for Emilys salad, the young woman calmly replied,
MrsWhitaker, everything looks absolutely delicious, but I dont eat that sort of thing. That salad over there is wonderfulIve already helped myself three times. Could you share the recipe?
Emily, what nonsense, Margaret snapped, pulling a duck leg from the platter and setting it down, then adding a sprig of buttered sprats and a spoonful of cottagecheese salad.
Dont, Mum. Emily watches her diet, I tried to intervene.
Settle down, love, thats proper nutrition! Margaret chanted.
My dear, leave the girl alone, my husband Geoffrey began, but fell silent under Margarets sharp stare.
Satisfied with the plates, Margaret perched back at her seat.
We grew up on bacon, potatoes, and a bit of dairy, and we turned out just fine, she declared.
Mom, the doctor told you to watch what you eat. Youve been complaining about feeling poorly, I reminded her.
What nonsense. Do you even have breakfast at home? she retorted.
Daniel and Emily exchanged a quick smile.
We eat plenty of veg, and I try to avoid heavy meals, Daniel said.
Margaret stared at her son, astonished. Look at you, Danielso skinny!
What does Emily feed you? she asked.
We cook together, he answered. Both of us work late, so we often order in.
Sounds efficientclean house and more time for useful things, Emily added.
Margaret was shocked. In her day, a man never set foot at the stove; Geoffrey had never even peeled potatoes in thirty years of marriage. When I was a bride, my mother and grandmothers told me a wife must keep the house spotless, cook hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes in order. Geoffrey could hardly iron a shirt, and Margaret had taken pride in that. Now she was horrified by the modern household routine her son lived.
Daniel, youre cooking? You have such a demanding job, you should be resting, Margaret fretted. Emily, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage wont last.
Emily shrugged. I work too, sometimes earn more than Daniel. We share everything equally, and were happy enough.
Margaret was taken aback by Daniels tone. Hed once been a shy kitten, now he seemed a different person. She didnt want a fight, so she tried to smooth things over.
Fine, its your business. Ill just tidy up. Come inside, Ill make sure there are no leftovers. Emily, youre looking a bit underweightno good.
The conversation drifted on. Margaret kept trying to feed them, but they ate modestly. Emily revealed she worked in media, organising concerts and travelling often. That unsettled Margaret even morehow could a woman be on the road so much and still keep a home?
Finally, Margaret decided to ask about the tattoo.
Emily, whats that on your wrist? Some sort of translation? she asked, halfjoking. It looks nice, but you can wash it off, right? No need to scar your skin.
We got matching ones half a year ago, Daniel and I. We like them, Emily replied confidently.
Daniel, you know those are what the prisoners wear, Margaret gasped. Geoffrey, will you say something?
Son, Im not sure what to say, my father lingered, never having a firm stance on anything. Hed always bowed to my mothers opinions.
Emily softened the blow. The worlds changing, MrsWhitaker. Tattoos are trendy now, many think theyre beautiful, and they can be removed. Daniels twentyeight; he can decide for himself.
Margaret nearly choked on her tea.
Sweetheart, thats crossing a line! Parents opinions should matter most. We never allowed our son to do something so foolish.
Mum, calm down. Youre the one pushing the limits of polite conversation. Like Emily said, Im an adult now, Daniel said with a grin. Its my life, and I trust my choices.
The evening fell apart quickly. Daniel and Emily gathered their things and left, despite my polite refusals of their leftovers. Alone, I washed the dishes while Geoffrey dozed on the sofa with the newspaper. A thousand thoughts raced through my head.
I couldnt understand how my son had ended up in this predicament. Yes, he and Emily seemed happy; hed often call to tell me how supportive she was. Emily was welleducated, welloff, from a respectable family. Yet was this the right way for a man to live today?
Ive always seen myself as the perfect housewife. For decades Id started each day caring for everyone, never going to bed until the last cup was clean. It didnt stop my marriage from its small squabbles; Geoffrey had his own affairs in his youth, which I eventually forgave. Our thirtyyear wedding anniversary had just passed, but now we spoke rarely. Geoffrey spent evenings glued to the telly, while I knitted, tended the garden, and phoned my friends. What else is there to say when everythings been aired so many times?
Will my son be happy with this girl? Is he making a mistake? Hes changedhis voice now carries a firmness, his work is flourishing thanks to Emilys advice. He calls less often, but when he does, hes ready to drop everything for mum, provided he doesnt have other plans with his fiancée. Hes stopped visiting the country house, claiming its cheaper to shop in towns, though I argue nothing beats homegrown potatoes. I understand him less each day.
Its his decision, after all but a mothers word should still count. Well see who wins out.
Meanwhile, Daniel and Emily were driving home. Daniel had already apologised several times to Emily, who waved it off with a smile.
I figured it would turn out like this. No worries, Im good at handling other peoples hiccups. Just stay on my side, Daniel, alright? Thats the most important thing.
Of course, Daniel whispered, planting a kiss on her temple.
Our family life promised to be interesting.
