“I wont eat that,” said the mother-in-law, eyeing the dish with disgust.
“Im not touching that,” she repeated, wrinkling her nose at the plate of beef stew as if it were a bin of leftovers.
“What *is* it?” Eleanor scoffed, as though someone had plonked a bucket of rubbish on the table.
“Its beef stew,” explained her daughter-in-law, Sophie, cheerfully lifting the lid from a ceramic tureen and ladling out steaming, richly coloured broth. “Its so satisfying cooking with homegrown veg, isnt it?”
“I dont see the difference,” sniffed Eleanor. “Though I suppose digging around in the dirt does take effort.”
“Absolutely,” Sophie laughed. “But when its a hobby, it never feels like work.”
“*Your* hobby, not an obligation,” Eleanor muttered, lips pursed. “Whos all this for, then?”
“For us. Its not that muchjust enough for two meals.”
“I wont eat this slop,” the mother-in-law declared, flapping her hands like startled pigeons and taking a step back. “Whats even *in* it?” She feigned a gag, covering her mouth and turning sharply away from the table.
Sophie rolled her eyes and sighed.
Shed met Mark, Eleanors son, eighteen months ago. Theyd fallen hard, married in a month with no fussjust a quick registry office do. The money they saved went into their dream: a countryside cottage, which theyd been lovingly fixing up.
In that time, Sophie had only seen Eleanor four times. Same as Mark. Well, *three* of those visits had been her nudging him to see his mother for the holidays.
Eleanor had always thought her sons marriage reckless. But since she couldnt control her grown, independent boy, she had to wait for what she saw as the inevitableand logicaloutcome.
Yet it hadnt happened, and patience wasnt her strong suit.
She couldnt fathom what Mark saw in this “utterly *ordinary* girl,” let alone how Sophie had snared him. He was handsome, always surrounded by far worthier, more polished women.
And Eleanor? A Londoner through and through, whod raised her son the same way. A mothers instinct told her he must already be sick of this rustic nonsenseone little push, and everything would snap back to normal.
After this bitter little experiment, she was sure hed finally find a partner whod forge a *proper* bond with her.
But shed need to hurry before crafty Sophie trapped him with a baby!
Eleanor had a plan. Shed phoned Sophie to invite *herself* over, complaining she hadnt been asked to the housewarming.
Sophie reminded her shed called twiceEleanor had always brushed her off with excuses about being “too busy.” Eleanor waved that away, insisting she *must* see her son.
Two days later, she stood in their bright, airy lounge, barely containing her outrage.
Her sonjust like her and her late husband*hated* soup. In their family, only clearly identifiable food was acceptable.
How had Mark let his wife steamroll him so quickly?
Was she a *witch*?
Eleanor shuddered. She dismissed the crude thought that Sophie was keeping Mark via *other* talents.
*Sophie*? And *tricks*?
Impossible.
*Definitely* magic.
How else could her son stomach this gloop?
Eleanor shot Sophie a venomous glare.
She might play the saint, but she was clearly *poisoning* her husband.
“Whats so unclear about it?” Sophie said, ignoring Eleanors theatrics as she served another bowl. “Its simplecabbage, onions, carrots, beetroot (my nans recipe). No potatoes todaynext time. Then fresh herbs from the garden, and a dollop of cream!”
“Well, eat your gruel!” Eleanor huffed, flapping again.
“You could use it at your age! Full of fibrekeeps everything *moving* nicely. Healthy gut, happy life!”
Eleanor flushed at the cheek but pressed on: “And why are you forcing Mark to eat this?”
Sophie blinked. “He seems to like it.”
“What choice does a man have if theres *nothing else*?”
“Cook what he prefers? Order a takeaway? Pop round a neighbours? Visit his mum?” Sophie ticked them off with a smile.
At the last suggestion, Eleanor reddened further.
“Dont be sarcastic! At least *pretend* to care what he likes!”
“Eleanor, I *asked* him. Hes a grown manhe says he loves it all.”
“Hes *lying*! Cant you tell? First, he didnt want to hurt your feelings. Now hes just giving in!”
“Ah!” Sophie pulled a long-suffering face. “Well, the stews madeno sense wasting it. Hell manage. Will you join him in solidarity?”
“*What*?!” The mother-in-law gaped.
“No? Pity. Im sure hed appreciate it.”
“You”
“Sophie! Were back!” Marks cheerful voice rang from the hall.
A fluffy white whirlwind of a dog barrelled into the room.
“*Agh!*” Eleanor yelped, ducking behind Sophie.
“Dont worryits Luna. She doesnt bite. Very well-behaved,” Sophie reassured, raising a hand. The dog instantly stilled and sat. “Good girl.”
“Why are you letting the *neighbours* dog in?” Eleanor hissed.
“*Our* dog. And indoors because she *lives* here.”
“*Inside*?! Thats unsanitary! And Mark *hates* dogs!”
“No, *Mum*, *you* hate dogs. Afternoon,” said Mark, strolling in. “Perfect timingyoure just in time for lunch.”
“Darling!” Eleanor stood stiffly, waiting for a kiss on the cheek. Mark gave her a quick hugthen planted one on Sophies lips.
“Solunch?” The man of the house sniffed the air, beaming.
“Gladly, but theres *nothing* here.”
“Nothing?”
“Pig slop. Whichyou never mentioned you kept pigs! The *smell* must be worse than London traffic.”
Mark stared at his mother, then Sophie, then the set table. His jaw tightened.
“Honestly, Id forgotten these little *quirks*,” he said dryly.
“What *quirks*, darling? These are our *preferences*! Our *standards*! You never complained!”
“Me? As a kid, I was scared of your temper. Later, I didnt want to *deal* with you.”
“What nonsense!” Eleanor shrilled, setting Luna barking again. “*Quiet!*” She scowled at the dog Sophie held back. “*She* gets her waybut why do you *let* her walk all over you? Happy gulping down slops? Letting her turn your home into a zoo? Whos in charge here?”
“Me,” Mark said flatly.
“Then *act* like it!” Eleanor crowed, smug.
“Wheres your bag?”
“Still in the hall! And Ive had *nothing* since the train!”
“Good. Thank Sophie for inviting you.”
“*What*?”
“Thank her for this *last* attempt. And apologise.”
“But she”
“*Mum*.”
“Th-thank youuu and *sorry*,” Eleanor ground out.
Sophie nodded.
“Lets go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere that suits your tastes, *your* rules.”
“But, Mark”
“These were *your* preferences with Dad, not mine. My opinion never mattered. But he once told me: Dont like ours? Make your own. So I did. Here, its *my* taste, *my* rules. And the lady of the house? Thats my wife. Dont like it? Youve still got *your* place.”
“Mark! Shes *poisoned* you against me!” Eleanor wailed, dropping to a whisper: “*Shes bewitched you!*”
Mark had had enough. He took his mothers arm, marched her to the hall, grabbed her suitcase, opened the door, silently led her to the gate, and said,
“By the waySophie was *on your side*. She gets on with her family. She couldnt believe *ours* was like this. Theres a meal in the kitchenmade just for you. The stew was a *test*. You failed.” He opened the taxi door. “Your rides here.”
“Youhow did you *book* this?!”
“Told Sophie to wait before cancelling. She listened.”
“*You*!”
“*Me*, Mum. Head of the house. LikeEleanor spent the entire train ride back to London muttering about herbal remedies and booking an exorcist.
