**”A Week’s Worth of Sausage—Or How Mother-in-Law Decided We Eat Too Much”**
On that sweltering July morning, Eleanor Margaret had been cleaning windows, fluffing pillows, reminding her daughter that it was high time she and Oliver paid a visit to the countryside—the garlic was ready. Emily tried to explain: work, errands, the kids—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 snapped over the phone. “The berries will go to waste, the potatoes will turn, and you two will still be glued to your screens!”
Eventually, they agreed: they’d come at the weekend, help in the garden, and, as usual, relax together in the evening.
Oliver wasn’t thrilled about the trip. The last visit had ended badly—an incident he still hadn’t gotten over. Back then, he’d simply asked for a bit of sausage to go with the roast dinner, and his mother-in-law had outright refused. So sharply, in fact, that he’d nearly choked on his surprise.
They set off early Saturday. The work was done quickly—garlic pulled, sorted, and stored. Now, surely, came the reward: dinner, a quiet evening. Oliver showered and stepped into the kitchen, where Emily and her mother were setting the table. The smell of roast beef filled the air. To tide himself over, he opened the fridge, reached for the sausage, and was about to make a sandwich when—
“Don’t you dare!” Eleanor’s voice cut through like a whip.
The sausage was back in the fridge before he could blink. Oliver froze, baffled.
“What’s all this about, Mum?” Emily asked, just as confused.
“Sausage is for breakfast, with toast!” her mother shot back. “We’re having roast now—don’t spoil your appetite!”
Oliver took his seat, cut into the meat—only to find it was mostly vegetables. He asked for just a slice of sausage. Another refusal.
“Why the obsession with it?” Eleanor huffed. “You’ve already eaten half the pack! Do you know how much that costs? I bought it to last the week!”
Oliver pushed his plate away. His appetite had vanished. He stood and walked outside. Emily found him later, sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s go home. I can’t stay here. Every move I make, it’s like she’s watching over my shoulder. God forbid I spread an extra bit of butter—she’d probably snatch it from my hand.”
“There’s not even a shop here,” Emily admitted guiltily. “Just the mobile grocer once a week.”
“We should’ve brought food—not just cherries and plums!” Oliver scoffed. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll come back for you. I won’t last long without proper meat.”
“We’ll go together,” Emily said firmly.
And they did. She lied to her mother, claiming Oliver had been called into work. Eleanor saw them off with a sour look.
Nearly a year passed. They didn’t visit. But Eleanor came back—regularly. And the oddest thing? She raided their fridge like it was her own, taking whatever she pleased without asking. Even Oliver laughed about it:
“Look at her with the sausage! Apparently, it’s fair game here…”
But come spring, the calls started again:
“Well? When are you coming? The garden won’t wait forever.”
Oliver resisted at first. Then Emily had an idea:
“We’ll bring our own food. That way Mum won’t be counting every bite.”
Oliver agreed—on one condition: they’d stop at the supermarket on the way. And so, there they stood once more, on the cottage doorstep, arms loaded with bags.
“What’s all this? More plums?” Eleanor pursed her lips—until she peeked inside and spotted the cheese, the beef, the sausage. She hesitated.
“Now you won’t have to weigh how much I eat,” Oliver smirked.
Eleanor snorted but stayed quiet. Later, in the kitchen, out of earshot, she whispered to Emily:
“It’d be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, less hassle for you.”
Emily nodded silently. She was equal parts irritated and amused. But the important thing? Oliver was willing to come back. Even if it meant packed groceries. At least there were no more rows. And as it turned out, that counted for something—a quiet kind of family harmony.
