“Thanks to my son for the celebration!” said my mother-in-law at the table I’d spent twelve bloody hours setting up. My response took exactly a year to deliver.
You know how it is, don’t you? December 31st. Normal people have their mince pies sorted by noon, but my kitchen? A proper wartime factory. Up since six, air thick with the scent of roasting fat, boiled spuds, and—let’s be honest—my quiet despair.
On the hob, a vat of gravy bubbles away. The oven hums with a golden goose (because turkey’s too pedestrian, apparently). The counter’s buried under veg for the inevitable prawn cocktail and Boxing Day leftovers. Standard festive fare, really—until the very sight of it makes you want to heave by teatime. Meanwhile, my beloved family plays the role of “quality control inspectors.”
Husband sprawls on the sofa, channelling his inner Gordon Ramsay: “Emily, love, the potatoes for the roast aren’t mushy, are they?” Helpful? Not a bit. Supervision? Olympic-level. The grown kids—son and daughter-in-law—glued to their phones, only popping in hourly to nick a slice of cheese.
And leading this merry inspection? My dear mother-in-law, Margaret. She trails me like a shadow, dispensing wisdom: “Darling, the cranberry sauce goes on just before serving, remember? And chop the parsley finer, won’t you?” Oh, how I wished to sprinkle that parsley right over her head. But I bit my tongue. Played the perfect wife. Because someone had to conjure the “Christmas miracle,” didn’t they?
Then—ding!—eleven o’clock. The table groans under the weight of it all. Glittering, gleaming, a proper feast. Me? Drained like a lemon, collapsing into a chair. You know the feeling—arms buzzing, back refusing to straighten, only one wish: not for champagne, but to face-plant into the trifle and sleep forever.
Everyone’s seated, looking frightfully posh. Glasses clink. Then Margaret rises, all regal, and I—naïve fool—think, “Oh, here comes my thank-you.” Ha!
“My dears,” she trills, “before we bid farewell to this year, I’d like to raise a glass to my wonderful son, our provider! Thank you, darling, for this magnificent feast and this glorious celebration!”
Cue cheers, clinking, my husband puffing up like a proud peacock. Me? Not a glance. As if the goose roasted itself and the sprouts teleported onto the plate.
Something in me snapped. Not tears, not a scene—just cold, crisp clarity. I looked at their blissfully chewing faces and thought: *This is my last Christmas as an unpaid caterer.*
The next year, I nursed that thought like a secret, warmer than any mulled wine. I played the dutiful wife—smiling, cooking—but inside? A masterplan. A sneaky, brilliant masterplan. Every month, I siphoned a bit into my “Sanity Fund” savings account.
When summer chatter turned to Christmas, I’d smile mysteriously. “Plenty of time yet!” Husband suspected nothing. Margaret assumed her free chef would, as ever, deliver. Bless her optimism.
Come December, my plan ripened. I did what I’d dreamed of for 365 days: I booked myself a spa retreat. Not just any retreat—a posh one, with massages, a pool, and absolutely zero sprouts. Paying for it felt like buying a one-way ticket to freedom.
Dawn, December 30th. Husband snores away. I tiptoe out with a suitcase, hail a cab. Writing this now, I grin imagining their faces when they find my “festive greeting”—a cheery note on the fridge:
*My dearest,
This year, I thought I’d let our resident Christmas wizard (the one you so generously praised last year) work his magic. Fridge is stocked—Google’s your friend for goose recipes.
Kisses, Emily.
P.S. Back January 10th. Try not to miss me!*
Oh, the phone call! His voice—shock, outrage, the sheer *audacity* of me daring to relax! Watching snowy pines whiz by, I just sighed: “Darling, I’m in a robe, getting a facial. Chop the parsley finer, like your mum taught you. You’ll manage.”
Did they? Rumor has it, they celebrated with microwave dinners and bargain bubbly. Me? Robe-clad, poolside, utterly serene.
So, ladies—too harsh? Or sometimes, does it take a grand exit to teach them: neglect the one who makes the magic, and one day, the magic just… leaves?
