Get up early and make mum some soup, Peter said, tapping his foot. Let the one who gave birth to her do the cooking.
Emma sank into her favourite armchair, a mug of herbal tea steaming beside her, eyes glued to the flickering TV. It was Friday, nine oclock, and the credits of the latest crime drama rolled past, but she barely registered them. Her mind was already on Saturday the dreaded ritual of the motherinlaws visit.
Five long years of marriage had turned every weekend into a relentless survival test. Each Saturday felt like a curse that couldnt be lifted.
It had started innocently enough. Margaret, Peters mother, dropped in once a month for a chat, a cuppa, to see how the children were doing. Peter would always say with genuine concern, Mums alone and elderly. Her husband died ten years ago. Lets give her a little attention, keep her company.
Emma always agreed. After all, it was Peters family. Respecting elders was the right thing to do.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the dynamics shifted.
The first sign was the constant nitpicking about the house. After Margarets first visit, she politely called Peters son into the hallway.
Tommy, love, does anyone clean the floors here? she asked.
Emma does, Mum, he replied, puzzled.
Its odd, Margaret said, because there are still streaks on the linoleum and dust on the skirting boards.
From that day on, before every arrival, Emma turned into a compulsive cleaner. She scrubbed the floors for hours, twice over first with a concentrated cleaner, then drying them spotless. She dusted every surface: furniture, bookshelves, radiators, skirting boards. She polished the bathroom until it shone like glass.
Mum has always expected immaculate cleanliness, Peter explained patiently, watching his wife crawl around with a rag. She grew up in a house that looked like a museum.
Do you think Im a slob? Emma asked, her back aching.
No, love. Just a bit more relaxed at home, Peter replied.
Relaxed. A generous word for a woman who put in tenhour days at the bank, dealing with anxious clients, endless reports and demanding managers.
Emma endured it stoically. Marriage was, after all, a series of compromises.
A year later Margaret started turning up more often first every two weeks, then every Saturday without fail.
She gets lonely in her empty flat, Peter would say with a sigh. Its good she has a place to rest her soul.
Rest. A pleasant word in this context.
Because the only person who actually rested in their home was Margaret. Emma felt like a horse pulling a cart.
The demand for spotless tidiness soon grew into a schedule of entertainment. Margaret no longer contented herself with tea and biscuits in front of the telly. She wanted outings, shopping trips.
Tommy, dear, shall we pop out and look for a new blouse? she would ask every Saturday. My wardrobe is getting tired.
Of course, Mum! Right away, Emma, get ready, Peter would call.
Emma would trudge through cramped shopping centres, lugging endless racks of clothes, waiting patiently behind fitting rooms.
Margaret was a demanding shopper she would try on five or six outfits just to buy one, or sometimes walk away emptyhanded, sighing in disappointment.
Quality isnt what it used to be, shed complain. Back in the day they stitched better.
Shall we try another store? Emma suggested, exhausted.
Lets! Theyll have better stuff there. And the endless queues at tills and fitting rooms began again.
Peter never joined these exhausting shopping marathons. He always had more important male pursuits a football match on TV, a catchup in the garage, washing his car, or a fishing trip.
Women find these things more interesting, hed philosophise. Id just be in the way with my advice.
After a demanding week at the bank, Emma arrived home late, utterly spent. Shed just finished a quarterly report for the head office, survived an emergency meeting with senior managers, and dealt with a furious client. Her head throbbed, her legs barely supported her weary body.
Peter lounged on the sofa, sipping tea, eyes glued to the latest episode of a crime series, nibbling on shortbread.
How was work? he asked without looking away from the screen.
Exhausted, Emma admitted, collapsing into her chair.
Right, get some rest. By the way, Mums arriving tomorrow morning, Peter added.
I know, Emma replied curtly.
Listen, love, get up early tomorrow and make Mum some soup. Shell be coming back from the cottage exhausted and hungry. It has to be a proper farmraised chicken you know Mums stomach is delicate now. She needs a real, hearty broth, not supermarket nonsense.
Emma blinked.
Farmraised chicken?
Exactly. Theres a good farmers stall at Borough Market. Aunt Lucy keeps live birds there. Make sure its warmthawed; Mum says frozen chicken is nothing but rubbish.
What time should I be out?
At half past five. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight, and Mum usually arrives by nine.
Why dont you go yourself?
Id love to, but youre better at this. And soup is still a womans job, right? Ill finally get a proper nap.
Emma drifted to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and pondered the unfairness. He was planning to sleep in his legal day off, while she would have to rise before dawn, drive across the city for a chicken, then stand at the stove for hours.
Set an alarm? Peter called from the lounge.
What alarm? Emma asked, confused.
Just so you dont oversleep. Mums due at nine, and soup takes time.
Emma peeked out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth.
Will you set an alarm for yourself?
I dont need one. Im not cooking tomorrow.
She said it flatly, though the truth was he wouldnt be cooking at all.
She didnt set an alarm on her phone.
At seventen in the morning, a persistent knock roused Emma. Outside, a light drizzle drummed against the window.
Who could that be? she mumbled, fumbling for her robe.
Its Margaret! a cheerful voice called.
Emmas heart sank. The motherinlaw, early as ever.
She opened the door to find Margaret standing there, two large shopping bags in hand, wearing a light coat, bright and energetic.
Good morning, dear! Smelling any soup yet, or am I too early?
Emma swallowed the lump in her throat. Soup the word she had only heard that night.
Theres no soup, she rasped.
Oh dear! Margaret gasped. Peter said youd be up early
Peters still asleep, Emma whispered.
Margaret breezed inside, shrugged off her coat, and set it on a hook.
No worries, love! Well pop to the market straight away, grab that fresh chicken. Peter said it had to be farmfresh, not the chemical stuff from the shop.
Emma stood in her robe, watching this buoyant woman, feeling the heat rise inside her.
Im not going.
What do you mean? No chicken?
No, I wont go for the chicken.
And the soup?
The soup should be made by the one who ordered it.
But Peter works all week! He needs his rest!
I need my work too. And my rest.
Margaret perched at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a long discussion.
Emma, you understand? The doctor said she needs a hot breakfast because of her stomach, she said, eyes pleading.
I understand. I just dont see why its my problem.
Exactly five minutes later, Peter stumbled into the bedroom, still in his crumpled shirt, hair a mess.
Mum! Shes here? he asked, blinking.
Yes, Peter! Wheres the soup? Emma says she wont fetch the chicken.
Peter stared at Emma, bewildered.
You told me yesterday to get up early and make mum soup, he said.
Emma turned slowly, dried her hands on a kitchen towel, and looked him straight in the eye.
Let the one who gave birth to her make the soup.
Silence fell. Margaret froze. Peter opened his mouth, then shut it.
What did you just say? he whispered.
Exactly what Ive been thinking for a long time, Emma replied.
Emma! Margaret exclaimed. How can you speak like that to me?
Its simple, really, Emma said. Just the words.
But Im your motherinlaw!
And what? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? Peter interjected. Mums family!
Your family. Your mother. You feed her then.
I dont know how, Emma said.
Learn. The internets full of recipes.
But youre a woman! Peter stammered.
And you? An alien?
Emmas voice softened. I get it, youre tired. But family duties
Whose duties? Emma snapped. Mine? Where are yours?
Im an old lady
A lady who zips to the cottage, shops, expects entertainment. Not exactly old.
How dare you! Margaret snapped.
Its easy. Five years of putting up with this, Im fed up.
Emma walked to the stove, turned on a burner, and placed a tiny pot on it.
What are you doing? Peter asked.
Making my own breakfast. Porridge.
And us?
Adults handle themselves.
Emma, thats wrong! Margaret protested.
Whats wrong? That I dont want to be a free housekeeper?
But Im your sons mother!
So do your own motherly duties. Feed your son.
Im not cooking in someone elses kitchen!
Peter sat at the table, looking helpless.
Mum, how about a café?
Cafés are expensive and bad for the stomach, Margaret groaned. Then make something at home.
No, I wont!
I cant cook! Peter exploded. Emma, you should look after the family!
My family, yes. Not yours, aunties.
My mum isnt an auntie!
To me she is. I never grew up with her, never chose her.
Margarets eyes welled up.
How cruel!
Cruel is using someone as a free servant for five years, Emma retorted.
Where are you going?
To my own business. Youre adults, sort it out.
She slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of exhaustion.
The kitchen was left with two grownups, now forced to decide whether to boil a simple soup or just a bowl of porridge.
And as the kettle whistled, Emma realized that love and respect only flourish when each persons boundaries are honoured, and the burden of care is shared, not shouldered alone.
