Now I only ask for a bowl of soup.
I am seventy-seven, and I have lived to see the day when I ask my daughter-in-law, Eleanor, for nothing more than a bowl of soup. Not long ago, I believed it was her duty to keep the house tidy, cook, sew, and care for the family, just as I did in my time. But life has changed, and I, Margaret Whitmore, have come to understand that my expectations belong to the past. My son, Charles, and Eleanor took me into their home, and now I live under their roof, feeling at times like a guest, at others like a burden. The thought pains me, but I am learning to accept this reality, though a quiet hurt still smolders within.
Once, I was the mistress of a large house. I rose with the dawn, cooked hearty stews, baked pies, stitched curtains, and raised Charles. My late husband, God rest his soul, worked at the factory, and I kept the home in order so he would return to warmth. I thought it only natural—a woman’s place was as the heart of the home, and when Charles brought Eleanor into our family, I hoped she would become like a daughter to me, that we would work side by side, sharing recipes and traditions as in the old days. But it was not to be.
Eleanor is a woman of today. She works in an office, always on her phone, dresses fashionably, and seldom cooks. When she and Charles married, I still lived in my own flat, but two years ago, my health began to fail—my legs grew weak, my head dizzy. Charles insisted I move in with them: “Mum, we’ll manage. You’ll be better off with us.” I agreed, sold my flat to spare them the trouble, and gave the money for renovations to their house. I thought I might help with the household, as best I could. Yet Eleanor did not want my help—nor my expectations.
From the very first day, I noticed she disliked my presence in the kitchen. Once, I offered to make beef stew, the way Charles likes it, but she smiled and said, “Margaret, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll order in—it’s quicker.” Order in? To me, food was care, not a button on an app. I tried to clean, but Eleanor gently stopped me: “No need, we have a vacuum robot.” A robot? Where was the soul in that? The warmth? I held my tongue, but inside, I felt increasingly out of place. Charles, my own son, would only shrug. “Mum, Eleanor’s got it handled. Just rest.” Rest? At seventy-seven, rest isn’t idleness—it’s feeling needed.
What wounded me most was her manner. I always believed a daughter-in-law should respect her mother-in-law, lend a hand, listen to advice. But Eleanor does things her own way. She serves salads with avocado, not the proper roasts I taught her. The house is neat but feels hollow—none of the little touches that breathe life into a home: no embroidered linens, no scent of fresh bread. Once, I hinted, “Eleanor, perhaps we could bake a pie. Charles always loved treacle tart.” She only replied, “Margaret, we’re cutting back on sweets these days. Healthier choices.” Healthier choices? What of the soul’s nourishment?
Resentment grew. I thought she did not respect me, did not value my years of experience. I tried speaking to Charles: “Son, your wife doesn’t keep house properly—everything ordered, everything through a screen. Is that a family?” But he only waved it off. “Mum, we’re fine. Don’t make a fuss.” Fine, perhaps, for them. But I felt like furniture pushed into a corner. When I confided in a neighbor, she sighed. “Margaret, times are different now. 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.
Then, the other day, something broke in me. Eleanor was making dinner—something with chicken and a strange sauce. I sat in my room, listening to her and Charles laugh, and suddenly felt like a stranger in my own family. I went to the kitchen and said, “Eleanor, would you make me a bowl of soup? Just plain, the way I like it—with potatoes.” She looked surprised but nodded. “Of course, Margaret. I’ll do it tomorrow.” And yesterday, she brought me that soup—simple, warm, almost like mine. I ate it and nearly wept. Not from the taste, but because I understood: this was all I asked for now. Not sewing, not cleaning, not my ways—just a bowl of soup.
I have realized my expectations belonged to another life. Eleanor will never be like me, and perhaps that’s not wrong. She works, she’s weary, and at my age, I no longer have the right to dictate how their family should live. But it hurts, not being needed as I once was. Charles loves me, I know, but his life is his own. And here I sit in their house, wondering: where is the woman who ran everything? All that’s left is an old woman asking for soup.
I have resolved not to give in. I will learn this new way—watch my programs, take walks in the garden, call old friends. Perhaps I’ll even ask Eleanor to show me how to order food on that phone of hers—who knows, I might take to it? But I won’t be a burden. If they no longer see me as mother and grandmother, I will find others who do. For now, I ask only for a bowl of soup—and maybe, just maybe, a little of the warmth I miss so dearly.
