Its not good for you to have sweets, my sisterinlaw said, scooping the birthday cake off the kitchen table. Were taking it away.
Id baked a threetier strawberry cake for my 35th birthday, hoping for a quiet family gathering in our flat on CamdenHighSt.
Claire stormed into the kitchen without even knocking. Imogen, are you using my saucepan again? she snapped. I told you not to touch my things!
Its not your saucepan, I said, whisking the frosting and trying not to turn around. Its the one my motherinlaw gave us when we moved in.
Thats a lie! Id recognise it anywhere. Mum gave me an identical one!
Then we both have the same model. Yours is at your place.
Claire reached for the pot, grabbed the handle, and demanded, Give it back now!
Stop, Claire! Im stirring the frosting; if I stop, itll split!
I dont care! Youre always borrowing other peoples stuff and then pretending its yours!
I took a deep breath, turned the stove off, and stepped away from the pot. Take it. The frostings ruined anyway.
Claire lifted the pot triumphantly, examined the base, and frowned. Theres a scratch here that isnt where mine is Fine, maybe yours too. Next time, ask before you take my things! She turned and slammed the kitchen door.
I stood alone, staring at the ruined frosting, feeling tears well up. Tomorrow was my birthday. Id wanted to bake a cake, invite the family, keep it lowkey and homely. Now the frosting was ruined, and so was my mood.
James came home from work that evening and found me at the kitchen counter, whipping up a fresh batch of frosting.
Love, are you still at it? he kissed the top of my head. Its getting late.
Claire ruined the frosting, so I had to start again.
Did your sister turn up? he asked, frowning. Imogen, tell her to give us a headsup before she shows up!
I tried. She never listens.
Ill speak to her.
No, thatll only make it worse. Shell think Im turning you against her.
James sighed, sat down at the table, and asked, Are we still inviting everyone tomorrow? Or should we just have a quiet night for two?
Ive already told everyone. Mums coming, your mum, Claire with Igor
Exactly. Claire will probably make a scene again.
Its my birthday, not theirs.
James fell silent, but I saw doubt flicker in his eyes. He was right Claire always found something to complain about.
Id met James at the accounts office; hed come in to drop off some paperwork, wed chatted, and hed invited me to the cinema. Six months later we married. Hes kind, diligent, and hardworking. My motherinlaw, Margaret, had welcomed me warmly and even gave us a fine china service for the wedding.
Claire, Jamess older sister by three years, was a different story. Married to Igor, childless, she worked as a deputy headteacher and kept to a strict, authoritarian style. From our first meeting shed sized me up, saying, Well, James, the choice is yours. Just make sure the lady of the house is up to par. Since then shed been a constant presence dropping by unannounced, riffling through cupboards, dusting shelves, and offering unsolicited advice on everything from cooking to dressing. At first I put up with it; later I snapped back, which only fed her resentment. Shed bemoan it to her mother, whod call James, whod beg me to be more tolerant.
Shes older, more experienced, just trying to help, James would argue.
Shes trying to control! Id retort.
Hes just being dramatic. Claires just lively.
Id call her lively, but I kept my mouth shut.
The cake turned out gorgeous three layers of sponge, strawberry and whipped cream, topped with fresh berries. I placed it in the fridge and went to bed feeling satisfied.
The next morning, my motherinlaw called.
Happy birthday, dear! Health and happiness to you!
Thanks, Margaret.
We were thinking maybe you shouldnt bake a cake youve put on a bit of weight, you know, not that you need any more calories.
I clenched the phone.
Ive already baked it.
Oh dear, then we wont be eating it. Claire said shed bring some fruit instead.
This is my birthday, Margaret. I want the cake.
Eat it if you like, love. Were just looking out for you, she said before hanging up.
James put his arms around me. Dont mind her, love. Mums just worried. Youve gained a couple of pounds lately, havent you?
Two pounds! Thats none of their business!
You know Mum, she always fusses. Lets not let this ruin your birthday.
I stayed silent, the weight of their expectations pressing down. I was expected to smile, to endure, to be grateful for their care.
At five oclock the first guests arrived. My mother, Helen, came bearing a bouquet of carnations and a box of chocolates.
Sweetheart, happy birthday! she kissed me, hugging me tightly. How are you?
Fine, Mum, I replied, feeling a little relief.
You look a bit pale. Are you ill?
No, just tired. Ive been cooking a lot.
Can I help?
Its all set, thanks.
Soon after came Margaret and Claire with Igor. Margaret swept into the kitchen, eyeing the dishes.
Imogen, why so many salads? Well never finish them!
Dont nitpick, love, James said, placing a jug of compote on the table. Imogen put a lot of effort in.
Im not nitpicking, Im stating facts. This salads gone soggy. It shouldve been covered.
I covered the salad with cling film in silence. Claire sampled the vinaigrette.
Too much vinegar.
Claire, dont start, Igor said, putting a hand on her shoulder. Lets just enjoy the evening.
Claire replied, Im not starting, Im just being honest. Imogen, you shouldnt take offence; Im only trying to teach you to cook better.
I clenched my fists under the table. Id been learning to cook since I was fifteen, helping my mother, then on my own after I moved out. Now she wanted to teach me again.
We sat down, exchanged gifts. Helen gave me a beautiful wool shawl. Margaret presented a set of plush towels. Claire and Igor handed me a book on healthy eating.
Here, Imogen, read it. Its full of useful tips on calories and bad foods, Claire said, handing over the book.
Thanks, I muttered, sliding it aside.
Read it, really, its important for your health.
I will.
We ate the salads and the main dishes. I fetched the cake from the fridge, placing it on a serving tray with its candles already lit.
What a stunner, Helen cooed.
Make a wish, James smiled.
Just as I was about to blow out the candles, Claire strutted over, snatched the tray, and said, Weve decided sweets arent good for you. She carried the cake back to the kitchen.
I stood with my hands outstretched, unable to believe what was happening. The room fell silent.
Claire, what are you doing? James leapt up.
This is whats needed, Claire replied, returning without the cake. Imogens put on weight, she cant have sugar. We discussed it with Margaret and decided to cut out the junk.
Its her birthday! Its her cake!
Thats why were removing it. We love her, we care about her health.
I finally found my voice. Give the cake back.
No, dear, Margaret interjected. Were genuinely worried. Youve gained weight; you need to watch what you eat.
Ive put on two pounds!
Four, actually, Claire corrected. I saw your dress last time the seams were straining.
My dress is old!
Its not the dress, Imogen. Youre not normal. James, you need a wife who doesnt bulk you up.
James slammed his fist on the table. Enough! Stop this right now!
What are you stopping? Im telling the truth! Yesterday you complained I was looking worse!
I didnt mean that!
What? James turned red, unable to answer. I watched him discuss me with Claire, and the realization hit hard he truly thought I was getting fatter.
Its clear, I said quietly.
Dont dramatise, love, Margaret reached out. We only have the best intentions.
Youve ruined my birthday, I said, standing. Eat the cake yourselves or throw it away. I dont care.
I slipped out of the room, headed to the bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed, head in my hands. No tears fell, just a hollow emptiness.
From the hallway came voices James arguing, Claire objecting, Igor trying to calm them. The front door slammed shut. Silence.
A knock came at my door.
Imogen, open up, James called.
Go away.
Please, lets talk.
I have nothing to say to you.
Imogen, I never meant to hurt you. I didnt think Claire would act like that.
You discussed me with her, said I looked bad.
I didnt say you looked bad! I said you were tired, a bit down. Thats all.
And Claire decided Id put on weight.
She always interprets things her way!
I opened the door, looking at James.
James, Im exhausted. Exhausted by your familys constant meddling, their care, their control. I cant live like this any longer.
What are you saying?
Im saying you either set boundaries or Im leaving.
Jamess face went pale.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. I wont stay in a house where Im told what to eat, what to wear, how to look. This is my life, my birthday, my cake. No one has the right to take it from me.
Alright, Ill talk to Mum and Claire. Ill explain this cant happen again.
Youve explained a thousand times, and nothing changes.
So what do you want me to do?
Choose. Either me, or them.
James stood, helpless, unsure what to say. I closed the door, lay back on the bed, weary of the endless battle, of having to prove I had a right to be myself.
I remembered the first year of marriage when Claire had come over and started teaching me how to iron Jamess shirts. Id been ironing since I was fifteen, learning from my mother, knowing every trick. Claire took the iron, showed her own method, and I kept quiet. Then she taught me to make borscht, then to set the table, then to pick curtains. I always stayed silent because James asked me not to argue, because Margaret got upset, because it was easier.
But now something broke. The cake was the last straw. Id poured my heart into it, hoping to bring joy to myself and the family, and Claire walked off with it as if she owned my life.
I got up and went back to the kitchen. James sat at the table, my mother still there.
My dear, Helen wrapped her arms around me. Forgive them, they didnt mean to hurt you.
They ruined my birthday.
I know. But James loves you. Bear with him.
Ive endured five years. Enough.
I opened the fridge. The cake was still on a shelf, untouched. Claire had taken it out but not thrown it away. She must have been planning to bring it home.
Mum, come with me, I said, pulling the cake out.
To where?
To your place. Lets have it just the two of us.
Imogen, but James
Let him sit and think.
Helen hesitated, then nodded.
We packed the cake, slipped on our coats, and left the flat. James watched us go, but didnt follow. At my mothers modest kitchen we sliced the cake, poured tea, and savoured each bite.
Its delicious, Helen said, smiling.
Thanks.
Are you really thinking of leaving? she asked.
Im not sure, Mum. Im just tired of fighting.
I get it. James is a good man, but his family theyre a bit particular.
Thats exactly it.
Itll be up to you. Either you change, or you walk away.
I nodded, knowing she was right.
Later that night I returned home. James was on the sofa, staring out the window.
Imogen, Im sorry, he said as I entered. I was wrong. I shouldnt have talked about you with Claire. I should have stopped her.
Yes?
I spoke to both of them. I told them it wont happen again. I said youre my wife and they must respect you.
And what did they say?
They were offended. They think Im betraying them for you.
Youd have to pick a side, then.
I wont side against you. Youre my family now.
I looked into his eyes, seeing a seriousness I hadnt seen before. For the first time in five years I felt a flicker of hope.
Okay. Lets see how it goes.
A week passed. Claire called daily, demanding an apology from James and the return of things. He refused. Margaret wept on the phone, complaining about an ungrateful son. James held his ground.
Then, unexpectedly, Claire turned up at the door, unannounced as usual. This time James met her at the entrance.
Claire, if youre here to cause a scene, leave.
Im here to talk.
With Imogen?
Yes.
James glanced at me; I gave him a nod. We all sat at the kitchen table.
Imogen, Im sorry, Claire began, hands clasped. I was wrong to take your cake. I shouldnt have tried to control you. Ive always thought I knew what was best, but that doesnt give me the right to dictate your life.
I understand, I said quietly. I dont mind advice if its friendly, but you keep barging in, ordering me around. It hurts.
I get that. Ill try to change.
She stood, said, Ill go now. Ill really try to be different.
James hugged me. See? It worked.
Ill see, I replied, cautious.
In the weeks that followed Claire actually did call before visiting, asked permission, and only offered help when asked. Margaret softened, praised me more, and one day even asked for my cake recipe.
You know, Imogen, I tried that cake once when Claire brought it over, she admitted. It was wonderful. Teach me how to make it?
So I taught her, and we baked together at Margarets house, a strange but pleasant experience. It felt as if something broken had been mended, albeit differently.
The following year on my birthday I baked another cake, invited everyone Helen, Margaret, Claire with Igor. The cake sat on the table, candles flickering. I blew them out, made a wish, and this time no one interfered with my celebration.
Later, as we ate and chatted, Claire said, Imogen, you really are talented. Baking cakes like that is an art.
I smiled, because it was more than a compliment. It was an acknowledgment of my right to be myself, to do what I love, without having to apologise or hide.
And that felt worth more than any present.
