**The Baked Truth: How One Cod Shook the Family**
Oliver came home from work, tired but content. A delicious aroma wafted from the kitchen. He peeked in, rubbing his hands together.
“Mmm, smells amazing! What’s cooking, Emily?”
“Just baked some fish,” his wife replied calmly.
Before he could ask about the spices, odd noises echoed from down the hall. Oliver frowned.
“Are the neighbours at it again?”
“No, not the neighbours. There’s a surprise waiting for you in the back room,” Emily said with a cryptic smile.
“What kind of surprise?”
“Go and see for yourself.”
Oliver walked slowly down the hallway, cautiously opened the door—and froze. Sitting in the armchair, as if it were perfectly normal, was his mother—Margaret Whitmore.
She’d arrived unannounced earlier. Emily, thinking it was a delivery, had opened the door without hesitation.
“Margaret, hello. Why didn’t you call first? What if we hadn’t been home?”
“Oliver works, and you’re here. I can manage—I’m not an invalid yet. Where’s my room?”
“You can wait here for now, and we’ll figure it out.”
“You’ve got three bedrooms, and you can’t decide straight away? Didn’t he know?”
“He had no idea. You didn’t tell him?”
“Why would I? I’m not visiting. I’m staying.”
Emily bit her tongue, though she felt her insides tighten. She needed to finish her work and asked her mother-in-law to wait. Margaret gave the room a once-over before adding sharply:
“The fridge is empty.”
“Groceries are on the way.”
When the delivery arrived, Emily quickly put together a simple meal—sliced cheese, ham, bread, and a pot of tea.
“Would you like porridge or toast?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll manage.”
Emily nodded and left. Half an hour later, after wrapping up work, she returned to the kitchen—only to find Margaret had claimed the room near the bathroom, Oliver’s makeshift office.
“What a mess. Does he even clean up after himself?”
“He works hard. He relaxes in there.”
“Works hard? Looks like he’s playing games. You stay at home, order food online, while he slaves away day and night?”
Emily held her tongue. Too much bitterness had built up, but now wasn’t the time. She remembered a recent chat with her own mother, where she’d complained about Oliver’s habits.
“At least he’s not out drinking. He plays quietly,” her mother had soothed.
“And what about when we have kids?”
“Sounds like he never got it out of his system.”
True enough. The money his mother had given them for the flat, Oliver had poured into expensive gadgets—a childhood dream, he’d said. But the flat was in Emily’s name, thanks to her parents’ contribution.
After lunch, Margaret dozed off in her “new” room. Oliver returned from work, heard the snoring, and frowned.
“Are the neighbours that loud?”
“No. Your mother. Go talk to her.”
Margaret woke just in time. No greeting—just demands.
“I’m retired now. Planning to travel, but I’ll stay here between trips. I’ll sell my flat—I gave you the money, so I’ve got a right to space here too.”
“Mum, seriously? We wanted that room for a nursery. Emily won’t agree.”
“Then give me my money back. Fair’s fair.”
“I already send you money every month. We’ve got our own life.”
“Your own life? Emily sits at home. You’re the only one working. Show me the paperwork—I hope it’s all in order?”
Emily said nothing, returned with a folder.
“Here. The flat’s in my name. My parents paid for it.”
“And my money?”
“Gone. Spent on your precious son’s ‘childhood.’”
Oliver stood, guilt flashing in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mum. But I wanted it so badly back then. Now—I’m done. No more.”
“Oh really?” Emily snapped. “If you don’t quit, I’m filing for divorce. You can go live with Mum and your toys.”
“Emily, don’t! I’ll sell it all. Promise. Let’s eat. No computer tonight.”
At dinner, Margaret sulked in silence.
“So I’m nothing here? Thought I’d be the lady of the house.”
“You’re Oliver’s mother. But this is our family. I won’t be ordered around.”
“Oliver, you’re whipped!”
“Better under my wife’s thumb than yours. You’ve controlled me all my life. Enough. I’ve grown up.”
Margaret stood, grabbed her bag.
“Call me a taxi. I’m leaving. You’ll remember me yet.”
Oliver silently escorted her to the car. Returning, he slumped at the table.
“I’ll have the fish. And the roast. I’m starving.”
“And about the games… you meant it?”
“Yes. Selling it all. We’ll need the money for kids. I’m ready now. As for Mum… we’ll sort it. Just stay with me.”
Emily smiled. Inside, she felt it—this forbidden fruit had finally ripened.
