A Morning Surprise from Mother-in-Law
“Good morning, darling!” said my father-in-law, John Wilson, with a broad smile as he opened the door. Behind him stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, wearing an expression so innocent you’d never guess she’d just been up to mischief. She gave a slight smile and glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where, as it turned out, she’d left her little “surprise.” Unsuspecting, I nodded in return—only to nearly groan aloud five minutes later. Margaret had a talent for surprises, though not always the kind I appreciated. And now, sitting there, I wondered whether to laugh or despair, because these unexpected gestures from her were becoming a tradition.
My husband, James, and I had been living with his parents for six months. When we married, they insisted we move in—their house was spacious, there was plenty of room, and “family should stick together.” I agreed, though secretly, I’d dreamed of our own flat. John was easygoing—always tinkering in the garage or watching football, never interfering. But Margaret? That was another story. She wasn’t cruel, no, but she had a knack for inserting herself where she wasn’t asked and calling it “looking after us.” And her “surprises” always came with a catch.
That morning, I’d woken early to make breakfast. James had already left for work, and I planned to whip up an omelette, brew some coffee, and ease into the day. But stepping into the kitchen, I froze. On the table sat an enormous pot, lid on, with a note beside it: “For you and James, enjoy your lunch, love Margaret!” Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped—inside was stew, but not just any stew. It was an experimental concoction, overloaded with cabbage, smelling oddly sharp, and seemingly packed with enough parsley to herb an entire garden. I liked stew, but this looked like Margaret had raided the vegetable patch and the spice rack with reckless abandon.
Turning, I found her standing in the doorway. “Well, my dear, what do you think of my little surprise?” she asked, beaming as if she’d presented a gourmet masterpiece rather than a culinary gamble. I forced a smile. “Thank you, Margaret, it’s… certainly unique.” She nodded proudly. “I stayed up half the night making it—you’re always on that diet of yours, but a man needs proper food!” Proper food? James happily devoured my omelettes, and no one had ever complained. But arguing with Margaret was like shouting into a hurricane.
I tried hinting we could manage on our own. “Margaret, we usually keep things light for lunch. Maybe you needn’t go to such trouble?” She waved me off. “Oh, don’t be silly! I’m happy to help. You’ll learn how to run a household properly in time.” Learn? I’d been cooking since I was fifteen, and my roast dinners vanished faster than her “famous” shepherd’s pie at family gatherings! Yet Margaret acted as though we’d starve without her stew.
This wasn’t her first “surprise.” Last week, she’d hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar and stacked them in our fridge, shoving my yogurt aside. “For winter!” she’d declared. Winter? We lived together—why did I need three jars of onions? A month before, she’d “helped” tidy our room, rearranging my wardrobe because “it made more sense.” I’d spent hours hunting for my favourite jumper. James just laughed. “You won’t change Mum, love—best humour her.” Humour her? Easy for him—he was at work while I navigated her “kindness.”
The oddest part? Margaret genuinely believed she was helping. She wasn’t the scheming mother-in-law type—she truly thought her stew rescued us from starvation and her advice would mould me into a “proper wife.” But I didn’t want to be a wife by her standards! I loved making stir-fries, experimenting with Thai flavours, not simmering vats of stew for days. And I wanted my kitchen to be mine, not an extension of Margaret’s cooking school.
I’d tried talking to James, but he took the usual neutral stance. “Love, she means well. Have a spoonful, praise her, and she’ll be happy.” A spoonful? I’d spent the night gulping water after that salt-laden stew! I suggested a compromise: Margaret could cook, but she should ask first. James promised to talk to her, but I doubted it would work. She was already planning her next “surprise”—something about a steak-and-ale pie. I braced myself for another pot.
Sometimes, I dreamed of a flat where no one rearranged my spices or boiled unsolicited stews. But then I’d remember—Margaret, for all her quirks, wasn’t malicious. She was from a different time, when mothers-in-law ruled the kitchen. Maybe I should relax and accept her surprises as part of family life. Yet, staring at that pot, I thought: if she called my cooking “not proper food” one more time, I’d start making sushi right in front of her. Let her try to drown it in parsley.
**Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff—but sometimes, you’ve got to draw the line at unsolicited stew.**
