**The Wife and Her Ultimatum**
This morning, my daughter-in-law, Emily, looked me straight in the eye and declared: Margaret, from today, dear mother-in-law, you wont eat any more of my cooking. Do as you pleaseIll give you a shelf in the fridge, cook for yourself. Preferably before I wake up or get home from work. I stood there, stunned, as if Id been struck by lightning, unable to believe what I was hearing. So, after all these years of cooking for the family, I, the mother-in-law, am now banished from the kitchen and denied the right to a home-cooked meal? Im still simmering with anger, and I need to vent before I explode at such audacity.
My husband, William, and I have lived in the same house as our son, James, and his wife, Emily, for two years. When they married, we suggested they move inthe house is large, plenty of room for everyone, and I thought I could help the young couple. At first, Emily seemed lovely: she smiled, thanked me for dinners, even asked for my meatball recipe. Foolishly, I was delighted James had found such a woman. I cooked for everyone, cleaned, did my best to make them comfortable. And now she says this to me! As if Im an intruder in my own home, as if my stews and pies are beneath her highness.
It started a few months ago when Emily began grumbling that I cooked too much. She claimed she was on a diet and my dishes were too heavy. I was baffledwho forced her to eat my steak and kidney pies? Want a diet? Boil your own greens, I dont object. But instead, she criticised everything: the gravy was too salty, the roast potatoes soggy, why so much butter? I bit my tongue, not wanting arguments. James, my son, would say, Mum, dont take it to heart, Emilys stressed with work. But I knew it wasnt stress. Shed decided the kitchen was now her domain, and I was in the way.
Then yesterday was the final straw. As usual, I made pancakes for breakfastthin, crispy at the edges, just as James has loved since he was a boy. I set them on the table, called everyone down. Emily came in, glared at the pancakes like they were public enemies, and said, Margaret, Ive asked you not to cook so much. James and I have porridge in the mornings. I wanted to say porridge wasnt banned, but then came the ultimatum. A shelf in the fridge! Cook for myself! In *my* house, where Ive ruled for 40 years, where every corner bears the sweat of my labour!
I tried talking to James. I said, Son, so now Im to cook just for myself, like Im in barracks? This is your home, but Im not a servant. But he, ever the peacekeeper, said, Mum, Emily just wants her space. Try to understand. Space? And wheres *mine*? Ive devoted my life to this family, and now Im relegated to a shelf? William, my husband, didnt back me either. Margaret, dont overreact, he said. Emilys young, she wants to run the house. *Run* it? And what am I, then?
Honestly, I dont know how to respond. Part of me wants to pack my bags and stay with my sister in another town, let them manage on their own. But this is *my* home, *my* kitchen, *my* son! Why should I be the one to yield? Ive tried to be a good mother-in-law: never interfered, never mocked Emilys vegan experiments, even did her washing-up when she was too tired. And now she strikes me from the family table like Im a stranger.
Last night, I went to the kitchen and made my dinnermushrooms on toast, just how I like it. Emily huffed when she saw: Well, Margaret, isnt this better? I stayed quiet, but inside, I boiled. *Better*? Is it better to split a family into yours and mine at mealtimes? Ive always believed food brings people together, that problems are solved over shared meals. Now were at war over pancakes and a bloody fridge shelf.
Im still deciding what to do. Maybe talk openly with Emily? Tell her it hurts, that I wont live like a guest in my own home? But I fear shell twist it, accuse me of smothering or disrespecting boundaries. Or maybe Ill stop cooking altogether. Let James and Emily have their porridge while I order takeaway. See how long they last without my shepherds pie.
What cuts deepest is James. Hes caught between a rock and a hard place: me, his mother, and his wife, whos clearly forcing him to choose. I dont want him to suffer, but I wont grovel either. Ive worked my whole life, raised him, built this home. And now some girl dictates my shelf? No, Emily, not like this.
For now, Ill stay neutral. Ill cook for myself, as she ordered, but I wont surrender. Maybe shell rethink when she sees I wont beg for forgiveness. Or perhaps Ill need to sit William and James down for a serious talk. I dont want war, but I wont stay silent anymore. This house is mine, and Ive earned my place at the table. Emily ought to ask herself if her boundaries are worth tearing a family apart.
**Lesson learned:** Too much politeness lets others forget where home truly belongs.
