**A Diary Entry**
My mother-in-law peered into the pot and gasped in horror.
Eleanor Wakefield woke at dawn and, as usual, made her way to the kitchen of her home in the Cotswolds. To her surprise, her daughter-in-law was already bustling by the stove.
“Good morning,” Charlotte smiled, stirring something in the pot.
“Morning,” Eleanor muttered, wrinkling her nose. “What on earth are you making?”
“Beef stew,” Charlotte replied without looking up. “Oliver adores it.”
“Stew?” Eleanor sniffed suspiciously. “Since when does stew smell like *this*?”
“What’s it supposed to smell like?” Charlotte shrugged, covered the pot, and walked out.
Eleanor wasted no time—she darted to the stove, yanked off the lid, and peered inside. What she saw made her recoil.
“What *is* this concoction?” she muttered, stepping back as if from poison.
Charlotte returned with bowls and, noticing her mother-in-law’s expression, calmly explained, “It’s stew, Eleanor. Vegetables from our garden—fresh, just picked. Cooking homegrown food feels like a feast.”
“A feast?” Eleanor scoffed, crossing her arms. “That garden of yours is pure drudgery! Why waste time digging in dirt when you can buy everything at the supermarket? I’ll never understand you.”
“I like it,” Charlotte said softly, ladling the stew. The scent of beef, carrots, and thyme filled the kitchen. “There’s something nourishing about working with the land.”
“Nourishing?” Eleanor rolled her eyes. “It’s a hobby for those with too much time. Proper people—” She stopped short, noticing Charlotte’s unchanged smile, as if the jabs hadn’t landed. “And who’s this mountain of food for?”
“Us,” Charlotte replied. “Enough for days. Oliver always asks for seconds.”
Eleanor theatrically reeled back, as if the very aroma made her queasy.
“I won’t touch a bite!” she declared. “That smell is revolting! What did you even put in there?”
Charlotte sighed, avoiding Eleanor’s gaze. From the corner of her eye, she saw Oliver enter, watching the scene with quiet tension.
—
Eleanor couldn’t fathom what had happened to her son. Two years ago, Oliver was a promising London banker. They’d attended galleries, debated new restaurants, and dreamed of his career. Now—this rustic life, the garden, this plain-spoken Charlotte! Even her name made Eleanor’s skin crawl.
Oliver had always been a catch—tall, clever, charming. Plenty of well-bred girls had admired him. Why had he chosen some country girl and a cottage in the middle of nowhere? Eleanor had hoped he’d outgrow this phase and return to *real* life. Yet time passed, and he only sank deeper into this “rural fantasy.”
She’d decided to act. Charlotte’s dinner invitation was her chance—to remind Oliver who he was and pull him back before it was too late.
—
Oliver walked in, kissed his wife, and turned to his mother.
“Mum, try the stew. Charlotte makes it brilliantly.”
“Oliver, darling, you know your father and I never ate these peasant dishes,” Eleanor waved him off. “You *hated* stew as a boy—called it old people’s gruel.”
Charlotte stifled a smile, picturing little Oliver grimacing at his bowl. But now her husband was grown, and his tastes had changed.
“Times change, Mum,” he chuckled. “Charlotte’s stew is perfection. Try it.”
“Perfection?” Eleanor gasped. “Oliver, you call a pot of vegetables *perfection*? True perfection is opera, art galleries—not this… *slop*!”
Charlotte clenched her fists but stayed silent. She knew Eleanor saw her as a bumpkin unworthy of her son. Still, she wished—just once—her mother-in-law might appreciate her effort.
“Mum, enough,” Oliver said firmly. “Charlotte does so much for us. We’re happy. That’s what matters.”
“Happy?” Eleanor pursed her lips. “We’ll see how long *that* lasts. You’re a city boy, Oliver. This—this *farming* nonsense is just a phase. You’ll remember my words.”
Oliver frowned.
“I’m an adult. We chose this life, and I don’t regret it.”
“Not yet,” Eleanor shot back. “You’ve forgotten *real* living. This girl’s enchanted you with her vegetable patch, but it won’t last.”
Charlotte finally snapped.
“Eleanor, what’s so wrong with our life? We’re not hurting anyone. Oliver’s content—shouldn’t that make you happy?”
“Happy?” Eleanor’s voice rose. “I’m watching you drag my son into this isolation! You’ll probably have a baby next, won’t you? Trap him for good!”
Charlotte froze, stung. Oliver stood, his eyes dark.
“Mum. Too far.”
Eleanor didn’t relent.
“It’s the truth. You can’t live like a hermit forever. How can a man like you enjoy *digging potatoes*?”
Oliver suddenly smiled.
“Funny thing, Mum—I *was* a city man because I didn’t know better. Charlotte showed me another way, and I prefer it.”
Eleanor huffed but said no more. Her plan had failed—but in her mind, another was already forming. She wouldn’t give up.
—
After Eleanor left, Charlotte sat at the table, staring at the stew. Oliver’s defense warmed her, but the bitterness lingered. She’d so wanted acceptance.
Oliver sat beside her, taking her hand.
“Don’t let it upset you. Mum thinks she knows best. But I chose you—*this* life. If she can’t accept it, that’s her loss.”
Charlotte nodded, leaning into him.
“I just wanted her to understand. Maybe I asked too much.”
“Maybe one day she will,” he said gently. “But even if not—we’ll still be happy.”
Charlotte smiled, the ache easing. Their little world, their home, their stew—this was their joy, and no one could take it.
“Here’s an idea,” she laughed. “Let’s finish this stew. To us—to our life, no matter how ‘simple’ it seems.”
Oliver raised his spoon.
“To us, to this stew, and to everything ahead.”
