“A Week of Sausage: When My Mother-in-Law Counts Our Bites”
That day in the middle of July, Margaret Whittaker was wiping the windows, plumping the cushions, and reminding her daughter it was time to visit the countrysidethe garlic was ready to harvest. Emily tried to explain: work, commitments, the kids But her mother, stubborn as ever, wouldnt take no for an answer.
“Summers nearly over, and youre all cooped up in your flat in London!” she snapped over the phone, exasperated. “The strawberries will go to waste, the potatoes will sprout, and youll just be staring at your phones!”
Eventually, they agreed on a weekendjust long enough to help in the garden and enjoy a quiet evening.
James, though, had no desire to make the trip. Their last visit had ended badly, leaving a sour taste. Hed only asked for a bit of sausage to go with the roast dinnerbut his mother-in-law had outright refused. So sharply, it left him speechless.
On Saturday, they set off early. They worked efficiently: the garlic was pulled, sorted, and stored. Then came the evening, dinner, and the usual family small talk. James took a shower and wandered into the kitchen. Emily and her mother were setting the table. The smell of roast lamb filled the room. To tide himself over, James opened the fridge and grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
“Dont touch that!” Margarets voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage went straight back in the fridge. James froze, stunned.
“Whats wrong, Mum?” Emily asked, baffled.
“That sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not before. And dont spoil your appetite!” her mother cut in.
James ate the roast, but not a scrap of meat was on his plate. He asked for a bit of sausage. Another refusal.
“Why the obsession?” Margaret huffed. “Youve already eaten half of it! Do you know how much it costs? Its meant to last the week!”
James pushed his plate away. His appetite gone, he walked out, flopped onto the garden bench, and stared at the sky. Emily joined him later.
“Lets go home. I cant stand this. Every move is watched like Im a thief. Im even afraid to butter my toast too thick in case she snatches it from me.”
“Theres not even a shop here,” Emily muttered, embarrassed. “Just the greengrocers van on Wednesdays.”
“We shouldve brought food instead of cherries and plums,” James grumbled. “Im leaving tomorrow. Ill come back for you later. Because without proper meat, I wont last long.”
“Were leaving together,” Emily said firmly.
The next morning, they drove back to London. Emily lied to her mother, claiming a work emergency for James. Margaret watched them go, her expression dark.
A year passed. They hadnt set foot in Margarets house again. But she, on the other hand, visited them without hesitation. And oddly, shed open their fridge like it was her own, taking whatever she pleased without asking. James even laughed about it:
“Look at thatthe sausage! Apparently, here, shes got free rein”
But come spring, the calls started again:
“So, when are you visiting? The garden wont wait forever.”
James resisted. Until Emily suggested a trick:
“Lets bring our own food. That way, Mum cant count our portions.”
James agreedon one condition: a detour to the supermarket. And there they were, back at the countryside house, arms full of bags.
“Whats all this? Plums?” Margaret said, lips pursed. But as she rummaged through the bags, she found cheese, meat, sausage. And stayed silent.
“Now you wont have to weigh every gram I eat,” James smirked.
Margaret let out a dismissive sniff but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she murmured to Emily:
“Itd be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, less fuss for you.”
Emily nodded, torn between irritation and amusement. But the main thing was this: James was willing to come back. With groceries, sure. But without arguments or scoldings. And really, when you thought about it, that was its own kind of family happiness.
