**A Week’s Worth of Sausage—Or How Mother-in-Law Decided We Ate Too Much**
On that sweltering July morning, Margaret Whitmore had been scrubbing windows, fluffing pillows, and reminding her daughter it was high time she and James visited the countryside—the garlic was ready to harvest. Emily tried to excuse herself: work was busy, the kids had activities, but her mother was as persistent as ever.
“Summer’s nearly over, and you’re still cooped up in the city!” she huffed over the phone. “The blackberries will go to waste, the potatoes will rot, and you two will just sit there staring at your phones!”
In the end, they agreed—they’d come for the weekend, help in the garden, and, as usual, unwind with a quiet evening.
James wasn’t keen on the trip. Their last visit had ended badly, and he hadn’t forgotten. Back then, he’d simply asked for a bit of sausage to go with the roast—only for his mother-in-law to outright refuse, so sharply it nearly made him choke.
They left early Saturday morning. The work was done quickly and efficiently: the garlic was pulled, sorted, and packed away. Now, surely, it was time to relax—dinner, a cosy evening. James showered and wandered into the kitchen, where Emily and her mother were setting the table. The smell of roast filled the air. Not wanting to wait, James opened the fridge, grabbed a stick of sausage, and reached for the bread—
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret’s voice cut through like a gunshot.
The sausage was shoved back into the fridge before he could blink. James froze, baffled.
“What on earth was that, Mum?” Emily asked, equally stunned.
“Sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not now—you’ll ruin your appetite!” Margaret snapped.
James sat down, took a bite of the roast, but found no meat in it. He asked for just a slice of sausage—denied again.
“Why the fuss over a bit of sausage?” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve already had half the pack! Do you know how much this costs? I bought it to last the week!”
James pushed his plate away. His appetite vanished. Without a word, he left the house. Emily followed him later and found him lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s go home. I can’t stay here. Every move I make feels watched, like I’m stealing from her. Heaven forbid I butter my bread twice—she might snatch it from my hands.”
“There’s not even a shop here,” Emily said apologetically. “Just the grocery van once a week.”
“We should’ve brought food, not baskets of cherries and apricots,” James muttered. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll come back for you later. Can’t survive here without proper meat.”
“We’ll leave together,” Emily said firmly.
And they did. Emily fibbed to her mother that James had been called back for urgent work. Margaret watched them go with a sour expression.
Nearly a year passed. They didn’t visit Margaret’s cottage again—though she had no qualms dropping by theirs. And, curiously, she treated their fridge as her own, taking whatever she pleased without a second thought. Even James laughed about it.
“Look—sausage! Seems she’s allowed to help herself here…”
But come spring, the calls started again.
“Well? When are you coming? The garden won’t tend itself.”
At first, James made excuses. Then Emily proposed a plan.
“Let’s bring food with us. Then Mum won’t be counting every bite.”
James agreed—on one condition: they’d stop at the supermarket on the way. And so they stood once more at the cottage door, arms full of groceries.
“What’s all this? More cherries?” Margaret pursed her lips—until she peeked into the bags and spotted the cheese, the bacon, the sausage. She hesitated.
“This is so you won’t tally how many grams I’ve eaten,” James said dryly.
Margaret sniffed but said nothing. Later, when no one else was around, she whispered to Emily,
“It’d be grand if you always came stocked like this. Easier for me, less fuss for you.”
Emily nodded silently. She felt both amused and a little hurt. But the important thing was—James was willing to visit again. Even if it meant arriving with bags of food. At least there’d be no more squabbles. And as it turned out, sometimes peace was its own kind of happiness.
