Now I only ask for a bowl of soup.
I’m seventy-seven, and I’ve lived to see the day when I ask my daughter-in-law, Emily, for nothing more than a bowl of soup. Not long ago, I believed it was her duty to keep the house clean, cook, do needlework, and care for the family, just as I did in my time. But life has changed, and I, Margaret Thompson, have come to understand my expectations belong to the past. My son, Edward, and Emily took me in, and now I live in their home, feeling somewhere between a guest and a burden. The thought aches in my heart, but I’m learning to accept this reality, though resentment still flickers inside.
Once, I was the mistress of a large house. I rose with the dawn, cooked hearty stews, baked pies, sewed curtains, and raised Edward. My late husband, God rest his soul, worked at the factory, and I kept our home in order so he’d return to warmth. I thought this was how it should be: a woman as the keeper of the hearth, and my daughter-in-law, in her time, would carry on the traditions. When Edward brought Emily home, I hoped she’d be the daughter I never had, that we’d work side by side in the kitchen, sharing recipes like the old days. But it wasn’t to be.
Emily is a modern woman. She works in an office, always on her phone, dresses fashionably, and rarely cooks. When she and Edward married, I still lived in my flat, but two years ago, my health faltered—my legs grew weak, my head dizzy. Edward insisted I move in: “Mum, we’ll manage. You’ll be better off with us.” I agreed, sold my flat to ease their burden, and gave them the money for home repairs. I thought I’d help around the house where I could. But Emily doesn’t want my help—or my expectations.
From the very first day, I noticed she doesn’t like me in the kitchen. Once, I offered to make Edward’s favorite lamb stew, and she smiled and said, “Margaret, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll order in—it’s quicker.” Order in? To me, food is care, not a button on an app. I tried tidying, but Emily would gently stop me: “No need, we’ve got a Roomba.” A robot? Where’s the soul in that? I stayed quiet, but inside, I felt more and more out of place. Edward would just shrug: “Mum, Em’s got it covered—just relax.” Relax? At seventy-seven, I don’t want rest—I want to feel useful.
What hurts most is her indifference. I always thought a daughter-in-law should respect her mother-in-law, lend a hand, heed advice. But Emily does things her way. She makes avocado salads instead of shepherd’s pie like I taught. The house is tidy, but cold—no embroidered linens, no scent of fresh bread. Once, I hinted, “Emily, perhaps we could bake a treacle tart? Edward loves it.” She just said, “Margaret, we’re cutting back on sugar these days.” Cutting back? And what feeds the soul?
I grew resentful. I thought she didn’t respect me, didn’t value my ways. I tried talking to Edward: “Son, your wife doesn’t keep a home—everything’s takeaway, everything’s on the phone. Is this really family?” He only waved me off: “Mum, we’re fine. Don’t stir trouble.” Fine for them, perhaps, but I feel like furniture pushed into a corner. My neighbor, when I confided in her, said, “Margaret, times have changed. Daughters-in-law aren’t what they used to be.” But I won’t blame the times. I want to be seen, not just fed and tucked away.
The other day, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Emily was making dinner—some chicken with a fancy sauce. I sat in my room, listening to her and Edward laugh, and suddenly felt like a stranger. I went to the kitchen and said, “Emily, could you make me a bowl of soup? Just plain, with potatoes, the way I like.” She looked surprised but nodded. “Of course, Margaret. I’ll make it tomorrow.” And yesterday, she brought it to me—simple, warm, almost like mine. I ate it and nearly wept. Not from the taste, but from realizing this is all I ask for now. Not needlework, not scrubbing floors, not my old ways—just a bowl of soup.
I’ve come to see my expectations were from another life. Emily won’t be like me, and maybe that’s not wrong. She works, she’s tired, and at my age, I can’t dictate how their home should run. But it still hurts not to be needed as I once was. Edward loves me, I know, but his life is his own now. And here I sit in their house, wondering: where is the woman who ran everything? All that remains is an old lady asking for soup.
I’ve decided not to give up. I’ll learn to live anew—watch my shows, take walks in the garden, call old friends. Maybe I’ll even ask Emily to teach me how to order food on my phone—who knows, I might like it? But I won’t be a burden. If they don’t see me as a mother or grandmother, I’ll find someone who does. For now, I ask only for a bowl of soup—and perhaps a little warmth to go with it.
Sometimes, letting go isn’t surrender—it’s simply learning to hold what’s still within reach.
