Fateful Meeting
The village of Woodbury, nestled under ancient oaks near York, greeted us with a frosty morning. Tomorrow, I was supposed to meet my future mother-in-law, and I, Emily, was a nervous wreck. My married friends, meaning well, only made it worse:
“Chin up, love, you’re not some alley cat!”
“Don’t let her boss you around—show some backbone!”
“Good mother-in-laws? Don’t exist, trust me.”
“Remember, you’re the one doing them a favour, not the other way round!”
I barely slept a wink, and by dawn, I looked like I’d been dug up from the grave. My fiancé, Edward, met me at the station. The two-hour train ride dragged on forever. Stepping off, we walked through a sleepy town, then a snow-covered wood. The cold air smelled of pine and Christmas, snow crunched underfoot, and the oaks whispered overhead. I was freezing, but soon, the rooftops of Woodbury came into view.
An old woman in a faded coat and a worn headscarf stood by the gate. If she hadn’t called out, I’d have walked right past.
“Emily, love, I’m Margaret, Edward’s mum. Pleasure to meet you!” She pulled off a threadbare mitten and shook my hand firmly. Her sharp, piercing gaze felt like it could see right through me. We followed a narrow path between snowdrifts to an old timber cottage, the wood dark with age. Inside, it was warm, the stove glowing red.
It was like stepping into another century. Eighty miles from York, and no running water, just an outhouse. A radio? Rare in these parts. The dim cottage was lit by a single weak bulb.
“Mum, let’s put the light on properly,” Edward offered.
Margaret frowned.
“We’re not posh, sitting in bright light. Afraid you’ll miss your mouth with the soup, love?” But then her face softened. “Alright, son, go on then.”
She twisted the bulb above the table, and the dim glow brightened the kitchen.
“Hungry, I bet? Made some broth—help yourselves!” She bustled about, ladling hot stew.
We ate in silence, exchanging glances, while she prattled sweetly—but her eyes dissected me like a scalpel. I felt like I was under a microscope. Whenever our eyes met, she’d dart off—slicing bread, tossing logs in the fire.
“Tea’s on,” she chirped. “Not just any tea—blackberry leaf. Helps with aches, warms the soul. Strawberry jam too, go on, dig in!”
It felt like a scene from a medieval tale. Any second, a director would yell, *Cut!* The warmth, the food, the sweet tea made me drowsy. I wanted to collapse into bed, but Margaret had other plans.
“You two, pop down to the shop—fetch a few pounds of pastry. Pies for supper—Ed’s sisters are coming, Lucy and Kate, and Lizzie from York with her bloke. I’ll fry up some cabbage, mash the spuds.”
As we bundled up, she hauled a massive cabbage from under the bed, chopping it while muttering,
“Chop, chop, the cabbage top, till nothing’s left but the stalk.”
Villagers tipped their hats to Edward as we passed. The shop was in the next hamlet, through the woods. Snow sparkled in the sun, but dusk came early. Back home, Margaret announced,
“Time to bake, Emily. I’m off to the garden—trample snow so mice don’t gnaw the bark. Edward, grab the spade.”
Left with a mountain of dough, I regretted taking so much. *If I’d known I’d be baking…* “Start and you’ll finish,” Margaret coaxed. “Hard at first, sweet at the end.” My pies were a mess—lopsided, some bursting with filling, others hollow. Later, Edward admitted: his mum was testing if I was wife material.
The house soon burst with relatives—blond, blue-eyed, all smiles. I hid behind Edward, awkward. The table was moved to the center, and I was plonked on the bed with the kids. It creaked, my knees nearly touching the ceiling, the little ones bouncing—I was dizzy. Edward dragged over a crate, draped it with a quilt—there I sat, on display. I hate cabbage and onions, but I ate enough for three, stuffing myself silly.
Night fell. Margaret’s narrow bed was by the stove, the rest of us in the main room. “Cozy, but cheerier together,” she said. As the guest, I got the bed. Starched linen from Edward’s late father’s carved chest made it feel like sleeping in a museum. She smoothed the sheets, muttering,
“House so tight, not a spot left, yet here’s the guest bed—soft and deft!”
The relatives sprawled on the floor, buried under attic quilts. Then nature called. I tiptoed out, groping for the floor to avoid stepping on snoozing bodies. The hallway was pitch black. Something furry brushed my leg. I shrieked—*rat!* The room erupted in laughter—just a stray kitten, roaming by day, home by night.
Edward escorted me outside. No door, just a flimsy screen. He stood with his back turned, lighting matches so I wouldn’t topple into the hole. Back inside, I flopped into bed and slept like the dead. Fresh air, silence—the countryside.
