“Call my dinner rubbish one more time, and youll be eating on the street,” said Emily to her mother-in-law.
Emily glanced at the clockhalf past six. Daniel would be home from work in half an hour, and Margaret was already in the lounge, flipping through a magazine and occasionally shooting disapproving looks toward the kitchen. The autumn dusk settled over London, and the flat was growing chilly.
She turned on the hob and set a frying pan down. Tonights dinner was chicken cutlets with mashed potatoes and a fresh saladnothing extravagant, but hearty and tasty. Five years of marriage had taught Emily to cook quickly and well, especially after long shifts at the hair salon.
“Smells like youre frying something again,” came Margarets voice from the lounge. “The whole flat stinks.”
Emily silently flipped the cutlets. Margaret had moved in six months ago after selling her one-bedroom flat on the outskirts. Officially, it was to help with the mortgage, but in reality, she hadnt contributed a penny, instead spending the money on a spa retreat and new furniture for her room.
The key turned in the lock, and Daniel walked into the hallway. He worked as an engineer at a factory, always coming home tired but in good spirits.
“Evening, love,” Daniel kissed Emily on the cheek. “Hows it going? Smells nice.”
“Dinners almost ready,” Emily smiled at him. “Go wash up, Ill set the table.”
Daniel headed to the bathroom, while Margaret appeared in the kitchen. She was a tall woman with a sharp bob and a habit of saying exactly what she thought, no matter whose feelings got hurt.
“Daniel deserves proper meals, not this nonsense,” Margaret shook her head, eyeing the frying pan. “He works hard, and youre feeding him scraps.”
Emily set the plates on the tablecutlery, napkins, bread, everything as usual. Six months of living together had taught her to let such comments roll off her back.
“Mum, come on,” Daniel said as he sat down. “Emily cooks brilliantly.”
“You only say that because you dont know what a proper home-cooked meal should taste like,” Margaret scoffed, taking her seat. “My late mother-in-lawGod rest hercould feed ten people with one soup. But this…”
Emily served the cutlets with mash. Daniel took a bite.
“Lovely, thanks.”
Margaret inspected her portion, cut a tiny piece, chewed, and grimaced.
“What kind of slop is this?”
The words hung in the air. Emily froze, staring at her mother-in-law, her eyes narrowing. Margaret kept chewing, oblivious to the reaction.
Daniel put his fork down, glancing between his wife and mother. The flat was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking.
Slowly, Emily stood, gathered her plate and Danielsuntouchedand carried them to the sink. Then she took the salad bowl and bread.
“Emily, what are you doing?” Daniel tried to stop her. “I havent eaten yet.”
“Youll eat tomorrow,” Emily continued clearing the table. “Kitchens closed.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow and smirked. “What childish nonsense! Making a scene over one little comment.”
Emily turned to face her. Her voice was calm but steely.
“Call my dinner rubbish one more time, and youll be eating on the street.”
“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Margaret waved her off. “Youre too sensitive.”
Emily didnt reply. She finished washing up, dried her hands, and went to the bedroom. Daniel sat at the empty table while Margaret sipped her tea, muttering about spoiled youngsters.
In the bedroom, Emily sat on the bed and stared out the window. Streetlights flickered in the autumn drizzle. Five years ago, when shed married Daniel, shed imagined a completely different life. Back then, Margaret had seemed like a typical mother-in-lawa bit sharp, but not cruel. Daniel had been attentive, caring shed assumed things would smooth out with time.
But six months under the same roof had revealed Margarets true colours. The criticism was relentless. Emilys cooking was bad, her cleaning was wrong, her clothes were too bold, her job wasnt good enough. Daniel tried to mediate, but when push came to shove, he always sided with his mother.
“Emily,” Daniel peeked into the bedroom. “Dont take it to heart. You know how she isblunt. But she means well.”
“Means well?” Emily turned to him. “Daniel, your mother hasnt said one kind word in six months. Not one compliment, not one thank you. Just complaints and insults.”
“She speaks her mind. Not everyone appreciates honesty.”
“Calling my food rubbish is honesty?”
Daniel sat beside her. “Look, maybe try cooking something different? Mum likes traditional dishesroast dinners, shepherds pie…”
Emily studied him. He genuinely didnt see the problem. To him, his mother was infallible, and Emily was expected to conform.
“I cook what I know and what we like. If your mother doesnt approve, she can cook for herself.”
“Mums getting on, its hard for her…”
“Daniel,” Emily stood. “Your mother is fifty-eight. Shes healthy, active, and perfectly capable of cooking. But shed rather sit in her chair and criticise me.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How should I talk? Ive put up with her digs for six months, tried to please her, and all I get in return is insults.”
Daniel stood and headed for the door. “Ill talk to her. Ask her to tone it down.”
When he left, Emily lay back and closed her eyes. Muffled voices drifted from the loungeDaniel explaining, Margaret protesting. Ten minutes later, silence fell.
Daniel returned, grim-faced. “Had a word. Shell try to be more careful with her words.”
“And you believe that?”
“Give her a chance. Maybe shell change.”
But Emily wasnt holding her breath. Margaret was the type who believed her opinion was the only right one, and criticism was her way of “caring.” No conversation would change that.
That night, Emily lay awake, weighing her options. She could keep enduring, hoping Margaret would move out eventually. She could compromise, negotiate through Daniel. Or she could do something different.
By morning, her decision was made. She got up at six, dressed quietly, and left for work. All day at the salon, she thought about her plan, researching quietly between clients.
That evening, she walked into the flat with new resolve. Daniel and Margaret were at the kitchen table, drinking tea with biscuits.
“Hi,” Emily breezed past them to the bedroom, changed, then returned to the kitchen.
“Em, whats for dinner?” Daniel asked.
“What dinner?”
“The usual. Im hungry.”
Emily opened the fridge, grabbed a yoghurt, and sat down. “Plenty of food in there. Cook whatever you like.”
Daniel blinked. “What about you?”
“I ate at the café near work. Tasty, by the way. Andbest partno one called it rubbish.”
Margaret choked on her tea. “What nonsense! Youre the wife, its your job to cook!”
“My job is to work and earn money. Ill only cook for people who appreciate it.”
“Emily, dont be daft,” Daniel stood. “Proper wives cook for their husbands.”
“Proper husbands dont let their mothers insult their wives.”
Emily finished her yoghurt and went to shower. Daniel stayed with Margaret, who ranted about modern women getting ideas above their station.
An hour later, he came to the bedroom with a sandwich. “Made my own. Mum had sandwiches too.”
“Brilliant. So you *can* use your hands.”
“Em, lets talk properly. Whats going on?”
“Whats going on is I wont tolerate disrespect anymore. Your mother can live here, but she doesnt get to dictate how I cook or what I say.”
“Shes not dictating. Just sharing her opinion.”
“Calling my food rubbish is an opinion?”
Daniel sat on the bed. “Alright, fine, shes blunt. But you could ignore her.”
“I *wont*. Either she learns to respect me as the woman of this house, or she finds somewhere else to live.”
“Wheres she supposed to go? She sold her flat.”
“Not my problem. I wont be insulted in my own home.”
Daniel paced. “Em, be reasonable. Mums on her own, shes got nowhere else…”
“Daniel,” Emily met his eyes. “I *am* being reasonable. Tomorrow, Im seeing a solicitor to find out how to evict ungrateful relatives. Until then, your mother cooks for herself.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but Emily turned away. The conversation was over.
The next morning, Emily got up as usual, dropped two-year-old Oliver at nursery, and breezed past the kitchen without stopping. Margaret sat at the table, scowling, while Daniel rummaged in the fridge.
“Em, what about breakfast?” he asked
