“I wont eat that,” said the mother-in-law, eyeing the dish with disgust.
“Its just stew,” explained her daughter-in-law, Sophie, lifting the lid off a ceramic tureen and ladling out steaming, richly coloured broth. “Its lovely cooking with veg straight from the garden.”
“What even *is* it?” Margaret wrinkled her nose as if shed been served a bucket of slop.
“I cant tell the difference,” scoffed the mother-in-law. “Though I suppose grubbing about in the dirt *does* take effort.”
“Of course,” Sophie chuckled warmly. “But when its your hobby, its always a joy.”
“*Your* hobby, not some chore forced on you,” sniffed Margaret, lips pinched. “Whos all this for, then?”
“Us. Its not muchjust enough for two meals.”
“Im not eating this slop,” the mother-in-law snapped, flapping her hands and backing away. “It looks like something scraped off the pavement!” She pretended to gag, covering her mouth and turning sharply from the table.
Sophie rolled her eyes and sighed.
Shed met Marcus, Margarets son, a year and a half ago. Their whirlwind romance was so intense they married a month laterno grand wedding, just a quiet registry office do. With the money saved, theyd bought their dream: a cosy countryside cottage, slowly fixing it up together.
In all that time, Sophie had only met Margaret four timessame as Marcus. Three of those visits were because *she* had nudged him to see his mum over the holidays.
Margaret had always thought her sons marriage was sheer madness. But she had no hold over her grown, independent boy, so she bided her time, waiting for what she saw as the inevitable, logical end.
Yet that end refused to come, and it was starting to grate.
She couldnt fathom what Marcus saw in this “plain little thing,” or how Sophie had snared him. He was handsome, always surrounded by far worthier, prettier girls. Worse, Margaret was a city woman through and through and had raised Marcus the same. Her mothers intuition told her he must already be sick of this rural nonsensejust one little push, and things would go back to normal.
After this bitter little fling, she was *sure* hed finally find a proper wife. One whod befriend her properly.
But she had to *hurry* before sly Sophie trapped him with a baby!
Margaret had a plan. She rang Sophie, insisting on visiting since she hadnt been invited to their housewarming.
Sophie reminded her shed called twiceMargaret had brushed her off, claiming busyness. Now, waving those excuses aside, she announced she *would* see her son.
Two days later, she stood in their bright, airy lounge, barely containing her outrage.
Her sonjust like her, just like his late father*hated* soup! In their family, only clearly identifiable dishes were acceptable.
How had Marcus let his wife take over so completely?
Was she a *witch*?
A shiver ran down Margarets spine. She dismissed the crude thought that Sophie was keeping him with bedroom tricks.
*Sophie* and *tricks*? Impossible!
Definitely *magic*.
Otherwise, why was her son eating this swill?
Margaret shot Sophie a venomous glare.
Playing the saint while *poisoning* her husband!
“Whats so unidentifiable?” Sophie said airily, ignoring the dramatics as she handed Margaret a bowl. “Its simplecabbage, onions, carrots, grated beetroot, my nans recipe. Forgot the potato this time, but Ill grab one next. Then some fresh herbs from the garden and a dollop of cream!”
“Eat your mush if you like!” snapped Margaret, arms flailing.
“You could do with it at your age. Fibres good for digestionkeeps things moving. Happy gut, happy life!”
Margaret reddened at the cheek but pressed on. “And why are you forcing Marcus to eat this?”
Sophie blinked. “He says he likes it.”
“Whats a man to do when theres *nothing else*?”
“Cook what he fancies? Order takeaway? Pop round a neighbours? Visit *his mother*?” Sophie listed, smiling.
At the last suggestion, Margaret flushed deeper.
“Dont be smart! The *polite* thing wouldve been to ask *me* what he likes.”
“Margaret, I *did* ask him. Hes a grown man. Says hes happy with anything.”
“Hes *lying*! Cant you tell? First, he didnt want to upset you. Now hes just enduring it!”
“Oh!” Sophie pulled a face, sighing. “The stews made nowwere not binning it. Hell manage. Youll back him up, wont you?”
“*What*?!” Margaret gaped.
“No? Shame. Im sure hed love your support.”
“You”
“Sophie! Were back!” Marcuss cheerful voice rang down the hall.
A fluffy white whirlwind of a dog barrelled into the room, yapping.
“*Agh!*” Margaret shrieked, cowering behind Sophie.
“Dont worry, its Daisy. She doesnt bitewell-trained,” Sophie soothed, raising a hand. The dog instantly sat, tail wagging. “Good girl!”
“Whys the neighbours dog in here?” Margaret hissed.
“*Our* dog. She lives indoors with us.”
“*Indoors*? Thats *filthy*!” Margaret gasped. “And Marcus *hates* dogs!”
“No, *Mum*, *you* hate dogs. Hi,” Marcus said, strolling in. “Perfect timinglunch is on.”
“Darling!” Margaret stood expectantlybut instead of kissing her cheek, Marcus gave her a stiff hug before planting one properly on Sophies lips.
“So, we eating?” He sniffed the air, grinning.
“Love to, but theres *nothing* here,” Margaret cut in.
“What dyou mean, nothing?”
“Shes made *pig slop*. And you never told me you kept swinemust stink worse than London traffic!”
Marcus frowned at his mum, then Sophie, then the laid table. His jaw tightened as he turned back, all earlier ease gone.
“Honestly, Id forgotten these *quirks*,” he muttered.
“*Quirks*? These are our *tastes*, our *principles*!” Margaret cried. “You never complained!”
“Me? As a kid, I feared your temper. As an adult, I didnt *bother*.”
“What nonsense!” Margaret shrieked, startling Daisy into another barking fit. “*Quiet!*” she snapped, shaking a fist. The dog growled.
“She has *preferences*,” Margaret sneered at Sophie. “But why let her walk all over you? Happy guzzling slops? Letting her turn your home into a *zoo*? Whos in charge here?”
“Me,” Marcus said quietly.
“Then *act* like it!” Margaret smirked triumphantly.
“Wheres your bag?”
“Still in the hall! And Ive not eaten since the train!”
“Great. Thank Sophie for inviting you.”
“*What*?!”
“Thank her for this *last* attempt. And apologise.”
“But she”
“*Mum.*”
“*Th-thank* you. *S-sorry*,” Margaret ground out.
Sophie nodded coolly.
“Lets go.”
“*Where*?”
“Somewhere that suits *your* tastes. *Your* rules.”
“But, Marcus, I”
“Yours and Dads tastesnot mine. My opinion never mattered. But he *did* say, Dont like ours? Make your own. So I did. Here, its *my* tastes. *My* rules. And the woman of the house is my *wife*. Not happy? Youve still got *your* place.”
“*Marcus!* Shes turned you against me!” Margaret wailed. “*Shes bewitched you!*”
Done, Marcus took her arm, guided her to the hall, grabbed her suitcase, opened the door, and walked her silently to the gate.
“Oh, and Sophie *was* on your side. She gets on with her familycouldnt believe how *we* were. There *was* a dish made just for you. But the stew? That was the test. You showed your true colours,” Marcus said, swinging the gate open. “Taxis waiting.”
“Howhow did you *get* a taxi?!”
“Told Sophie to keep it on standby. Good thing, too.”
“You*you*!”
“Me, Mum. Master of the house. Like you wanted.” He waved the driver over, dropped her bag, andMargaret spent the entire ride home muttering to herself about hexes and herbal remedies, already plotting her next move to “free” Marcus from Sophies clutches.
