**”A Week’s Worth of Sausage — Or How Mother-in-Law Decided We Ate Too Much”**
On that sweltering July afternoon, Eleanor Whitmore had been scrubbing windows, fluffing pillows, and reminding her daughter since dawn that it was high time she and James paid a visit to the countryside—the garlic was ready to harvest. Diana tried to excuse herself—work, errands, the children—but her mother was as persistent as ever.
“Summer will be over before you know it, and you’ll still be rotting in the city!” she huffed over the phone. “The berries will go to waste, the potatoes will sprout, and there you’ll be, glued to your screens!”
So it was settled: they’d come that weekend, help in the garden, and, as usual, spend a quiet evening together.
James wasn’t keen on the trip. The last visit had ended badly, and the memory still rankled. All he’d done was ask for a bit of sausage to go with the shepherd’s pie—and his mother-in-law, quite literally, refused. So sharply, in fact, he nearly choked on his surprise.
They set off early Saturday. The work was done quickly and well—the garlic pulled, sorted, and stored. Now, surely, came the reward: supper, relaxation, a pleasant evening. James washed up and wandered into the kitchen. Diana and her mother were setting the table. The aroma of shepherd’s pie was intoxicating. To stave off hunger, James opened the fridge, took a slice of sausage, and reached for the bread—when—
“Put that back!” Eleanor’s voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage was returned at once. James froze, baffled.
“What’s all this, Mum?” Diana asked, equally confused.
“Sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not now—you’ll ruin your appetite!” her mother snapped.
James sat down, took a bite of the pie—only to find no meat in it. He asked, just once more, for a sliver of sausage. Another refusal.
“Why must you pester me about it?” Eleanor fumed. “You’ve already had half the packet! Do you know how much it costs? I bought it to last the week!”
James pushed his plate away. His appetite was gone. He stood and walked outside. Diana joined him later. Her husband lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s go home. I can’t stay here. Every move I make feels watched, as if I’m stealing. God forbid I spread an extra bit of butter—she might snatch it from my hands.”
“There isn’t even a proper shop here,” Diana said guiltily. “Just the mobile grocer once a week.”
“We should’ve brought food, not cherries and apricots,” James grumbled. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll come back for you later. I won’t last long without proper meat.”
“We’ll go together,” Diana said firmly.
And so they did. Diana lied, telling her mother James had been called to work. Eleanor saw them off with a disapproving glare.
Nearly a year passed. They didn’t visit Eleanor—but she came to them, often. And strangest of all, she treated their fridge as her own, taking what she pleased without a word. Even James laughed about it:
“Look at that—sausage! Seems she’s allowed here after all…”
But come spring, the calls began again:
“Well? When are you coming? The garden won’t wait forever.”
At first, James resisted. Then Diana proposed a solution:
“Let’s bring our own food. Then Mum won’t be tallying every bite.”
James agreed—on one condition: they’d stop at the supermarket on the way. And so they stood once more on the cottage doorstep, arms laden with bags.
“What’s all this? More apricots?” Eleanor pursed her lips—until she peeked inside and saw cheese, meat, sausage. She fell silent.
“Now you won’t have to count how many grams I’ve eaten,” James said dryly.
Eleanor scoffed but said nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Diana:
“It’d be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, calmer for you.”
Diana nodded silently. She felt both amused and exasperated. But the important thing was James would come again—groceries in hand, but without the quarrels and lectures. And that, as it turned out, was its own kind of happiness.
