Now I only ask for a bowl of soup.
I’m seventy-seven, and I’ve lived long enough to see the day when all I ask of my daughter-in-law, Emma, is a simple bowl of soup. Not long ago, I believed her duties were to keep the house clean, cook, tend to the family, and practice needlework—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, James, and Emma took me in, and now I live in their home, feeling neither quite a guest nor entirely a burden. It aches my heart, but I’m learning to accept this reality, even if resentment still lingers inside.
Once, I was the mistress of a large house. I rose at dawn, made hearty stews, baked pies, stitched curtains, and raised James. My late husband, God rest his soul, worked at the factory, and I kept the home orderly so he’d return to warmth. I thought that was how it should be—the woman as the heart of the home, and the daughter-in-law, in time, would carry on these traditions. When James married Emma, I hoped she’d be like a daughter to me, that we’d share chores and recipes like in the good old days. But everything turned out differently.
Emma is a modern woman. She works in an office, always on her phone, dresses stylishly, and rarely cooks. When they married, I still lived in my flat, but two years ago, my health worsened—my legs grew weak, my head dizzy. James insisted I move in: “Mum, we’ll manage, you’ll be better off with us.” I agreed, sold my flat to avoid being a burden, and gave them the money for home improvements. I thought I’d help where I could. But Emma doesn’t want my help—or my expectations.
From the start, I noticed she dislikes it when I step into the kitchen. Once, I offered to make a stew, the way James likes it, but she just smiled and said, “Margaret, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll order something—it’s quicker.” Order? To me, food is an act of care, not a button on an app. I tried cleaning, but Emma gently stopped me: “No need, we’ve got a robot vacuum.” A robot? Where’s the soul? Where’s the warmth? I stayed silent, but the feeling of being unwanted grew. James only shrugged: “Mum, Emma’s got it covered—just rest.” Rest? At seventy-seven, rest isn’t idleness—it’s being needed.
The hardest part is her attitude. I always thought a daughter-in-law should respect her mother-in-law, lend a hand, heed advice. But Emma does things her own way. She makes salads with avocado, not the proper roast dinners I taught her. Their house is clean but lifeless—no knitted blankets, no smell of fresh bread. Once, I hinted, “Emma, perhaps we could bake a pie, James loves a good apple one.” But she replied, “Margaret, we’re cutting back on flour now—healthier eating.” Healthier? What about feeding the soul?
I grew bitter. I thought she didn’t respect me, didn’t value my ways. I tried talking to James: “Son, your wife doesn’t keep a proper home—everything’s ordered, everything’s through a screen. Is this what family is?” He just waved me off: “Mum, it’s fine, don’t make a fuss.” Fine for them, perhaps, but I feel like a piece of furniture shoved into the corner. A neighbor once told me, “Margaret, times have changed—daughters-in-law aren’t what they used to be.” But I don’t blame the times. I want to be seen, not just fed and put to bed.
The other day, something broke in me. Emma was cooking dinner—something with chicken and a sauce I didn’t recognize. I sat in my room, listening to her and James laugh, and suddenly felt like a stranger. I went to the kitchen and said, “Emma, would you make me some soup? Just a simple one, with potatoes, the way I like it.” She looked surprised but nodded, “Of course, Margaret, I’ll do it tomorrow.” And yesterday, she brought me soup—plain, warm, almost like mine. I ate it with tears in my eyes. Not for the taste, but because I realized: this is all I ask for now. Not needlework, not baking, not my old rules—just a bowl of soup.
I see now that my expectations belonged to another life. Emma won’t be like me, and maybe that’s no bad thing. She works, she’s tired, and at my age, who am I to say how their home should run? But it hurts to feel unneeded. James loves me, I know, but he’s busy with his own life. And here I sit in their house, wondering—where is the woman who once ran everything? All that’s left is an old woman asking for soup.
I won’t give up yet. I’ll learn this new way—watch my shows, walk in the garden, call old friends. Maybe I’ll even ask Emma to teach me how to order food on the 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’ll ask only for a bowl of soup—and perhaps a little warmth, which I miss so much.
