Now all I ask for is a bowl of soup
I’m seventy-seven, and I’ve lived long enough to reach the day where all I ask from my daughter-in-law, Eleanor, is a simple bowl of soup. Not too long ago, I believed her duties were to keep the house tidy, cook, do needlework, and care for the family—just as I did in my time. But life has changed, and I, Margaret Whitmore, have come to realise my expectations belong to the past. My son, Edward, and Eleanor took me in, and now I live in their home, feeling somewhere between a guest and a burden. The thought makes my heart ache, but I’m learning to accept reality, even though resentment still smoulders inside.
Once, I was the lady of a proper house. I’d rise at dawn, make hearty stews, bake pies, sew curtains, and raise Edward. My late husband, God rest his soul, worked at the factory, and I kept the home running so he’d return to warmth and comfort. I thought that was how it should be—a woman as the heart of the home, and when the time came, the daughter-in-law would carry on those traditions. When Edward brought Eleanor home, I hoped she’d be like a daughter to me, that we’d share chores and recipes like in the good old days. But that wasn’t how things turned out.
Eleanor is a modern woman. She works in an office, always on her phone, dresses smartly, and rarely cooks. When she and Edward married, I still had my own flat, but two years ago, my health took a turn—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 so as not to burden them, and gave them the money to renovate their house. I thought I’d help with the chores where I could. But it turned out Eleanor didn’t want my help—or my expectations.
From day one, I noticed she didn’t like me stepping into the kitchen. Once, I offered to make Edward’s favourite beef stew, and she just smiled and said, “Margaret, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll just order in—it’s quicker.” Order in? To me, food was an act of care, not a tap on a screen. I tried tidying up, but Eleanor would gently stop me: “No need, we’ve got a robot hoover.” A robot? Where’s the soul in that? Where’s the warmth? I kept quiet, but inside, I felt more and more out of place. Edward, my own son, would just shrug and say, “Mum, Ellie’s got it handled. Take it easy.” Take it easy? At seventy-seven, rest isn’t about sitting idle—it’s about feeling needed.
The hardest part is her attitude. I always thought a daughter-in-law should respect her mother-in-law, lend a hand, listen to advice. But Eleanor does things her own way. She makes salads with avocado instead of proper roast dinners. The house is clean, but cold—none of the little touches that make a home alive: no embroidered cushions, no smell of fresh bread. I hinted once, “Ellie, maybe we could bake a pie? Edward loves a good steak and kidney.” She just replied, “Margaret, we’re cutting back on starchy foods now.” Cutting back? What about feeding the soul?
I started feeling hurt. I thought she didn’t respect me, didn’t value my experience. I tried talking to Edward: “Son, your wife doesn’t hold the home together—everything’s ordered, everything’s through a screen. Is that really a family?” But he just waved me off: “Mum, we’re fine, don’t make a fuss.” Fine? Maybe for them, but to me, I feel like a piece of furniture pushed into a corner. My neighbour, when I told her, said, “Margaret, times have changed—daughters-in-law aren’t the same anymore.” But I don’t want to blame the times. I just want to be seen, not just fed and tucked away.
A few days ago, something in me broke. Eleanor was making dinner—something with chicken and a strange sauce. I sat in my room, listening to her and Edward laugh, and suddenly I felt like a stranger in my own family. I went to the kitchen and said, “Ellie, could you make me a bowl of soup? Just a simple one, the way I like it—with potatoes.” She seemed surprised but nodded. “Of course, Margaret, I’ll do that tomorrow.” And yesterday, she brought it to me—plain, warm, almost like mine. I ate it and nearly cried. Not from the taste, but because I understood: this is all I ask for now. Not needlework, not cleaning, not my old ways—just a bowl of soup.
I’ve realised my expectations were from another life. Eleanor won’t ever be like me, and maybe that’s not a bad thing. She works, she’s tired, and at my age, I can’t dictate how their family should live. But it stings, not being needed the way I once was. Edward loves me, I know, but he’s busy with his own life. And here I sit in their house, wondering: where’s the woman who ran everything? Now there’s just an old lady asking for soup.
I won’t give up. I’ll learn to live differently—watch my telly shows, take walks in the garden, ring my old friends. Maybe I’ll even ask Eleanor to show me how to order food on that 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 something to live for. For now, I’ll just ask for a bowl of soup—and maybe a little of the warmth I’m missing so much.
