My Mother-in-Law Helped Herself to the Delicacies in My Fridge, Packing Them in Her Bag Before Heading Home

Author Emily TaylorReading 13 minViews 2

Diary Entry

Last night, something happened that I can’t seem to shake off. It was supposed to be a lovely celebration. Ben had his thirty-fifth birthday, and I wanted everything to be just right. After putting in extra hours at work and earning a decent bonus, I thought, Why not treat ourselves? Just this once. I made sure to buy all the good stuff: proper British cold meats, a wedge of fine cheddar, a nice bottle of red, some Scottish smoked salmonthings you wouldnt see on our table every week. The kitchen was alive with smells of fresh bread, roasting meats, and toasted spices.

Ben, true to form, grew anxious about the prices while unpacking, staring at a pack of roast beef as though the price sticker might summon a second mortgage. Are you sure we need all these nibbles, Alice? he fretted, turning the packet over in his hand, This costs as much as a plane ticket!

I stacked peppers and cheese onto the counter, feeling proud of my haul. Its your birthday, and the lads are coming round. Plus, your mums driving down from Manchester. Do you want to serve boiled potatoes and sardines on toast? I said, trying to keep my tone light. Let me set a table Im not ashamed of. I got a good bonus this month.

Ben grumbled something about being perfectly happy with spuds, but he put the roast back in the fridgeout of sight, at least. You know Mum will have a go at us about wasting money, he warned.

Yes, and if we got cheap stuff shed call us paupers for feeding her rubbish. You cant win! I replied, trying to hold back my irritation. I hunted down this ham all over London. Its the same sort we had in Spain five years ago. Remember?

He actually smiled for a moment, the tension fading as he reminisced. I do. That was good. All right, youve convinced me. Lets just peel the price stickers off so she doesnt faint.

I adore cookingwhen I have the kitchen to myself. But today, Bens mum, Margaret, was due early to help, sweetheart. Her help usually consisted of parking herself on the comfiest chair, barking instructions, and criticising everything from how I sliced onions to my choice of curtains.

She arrived dead on two, Ben running to let her in. I took a deep breath and fixed a polite smile.

Well, if it isnt the birthday boy! Margaret thundered, planting kisses on Bens cheeks. You look thin! Are you living off shop-bought pies?

Mum, Alice cooks just fine, Ben protested, peeling his mums heavy coat off her.

Dont argue with your mum. I can seeyoure wasting away! She swept into the kitchen, her massive shopping bag in tow.

Hello, Margaret. Lovely to see you. The kettles just boiled.

Later, love, she waved off, thumping her bag on a stool. Brought a few treats. You youngsters always have a barren fridge!

She produced enormous jars of homemade pickles, a wrinkly sack of apples from her garden, and a clutch of chocolates that looked older than Ben. Here, proper pickled cucumbers! No chemicals. And apples with vitamins. Cut away the bad, simmer whats left. Waste not!

Thank you, I managed, trying not to stare at the cloudy vinegar. Well try them!

Then came the ritual: she popped open the fridge, her so-called inspection. Blimey! she gasped, eyeing the delicacies. Red caviar? Two jars? Have you won the lottery or robbed a bank?

Got a bonus at work, Mum, Ben muttered, sneaking a bit of cheese.

A bonus, sure. Instead of helping your old mum with her crumbling fence, youre eating caviar. Well, its your choice. I dont need much. She slammed the fridge shut and camped herself in her usual spot, blocking the sink.

Show me what youve made, Alice, she demanded. Ill just have a sitmy legs are killing me. Had high blood pressure this morning, but I couldnt miss Bens birthday. Dedication, eh?

Three hours of her commentary followed. I darted between stove and countertopshe picked apart everything.

Too much mayo, thatll clog your arteries.
This bread? You know Tesco sells a loaf for less than a quid.
That meat needs a proper bashyoull serve it like shoe leather.

I switched off, letting my mind drift, dodging her stream of wisdom. Survival mode.

By six, the house was brimming. Bens mates filled the flat with laughter and aftershave. The table groanedroasted pork, aubergine bites, caviar tarts, that special ham and cheddar, salads, everything.

When the first toast rang out, Margaret jumped in. Ben, love, she began, dabbing imaginary tears, I remember when you were born. I suffered terribly, two days in labour Mates nodded politely; I took the chance to grab some salad.

And you grew up, married, wellIt is what it is, her gaze slid over me, So long as youre happy, son. Food isnt the main thing. Alices outdone herself, bought up half of Waitrose. Id have gone simpler, but its all for show these days.

She wolfed down the most expensive bits with gusto. The smoked eel vanished, her fork diving for more as she muttered, Bit salty, and so oily! We had better fish back in the day. She kept dismissing the caviar (looks fake, show me the tub later!) but ate it like popcorn.

I smiled and refilled glasses, catching Bens red cheeks. Hed never contradicted his mum in public. Nor in private, really.

The evening moved on, the lads praising my cooking, especially the fish and roast, reminiscing and joking. Margaret chimed in about pension woes and ungrateful children, lost in the partys hum.

Towards ten, the crowd thinned. Alice, youre a gem! Bens mate Steve grinned, That eel was magic. Cheers!

With the last guest out, silence descended, the spell only broken by Margaret clattering dishes.

Ill help tidy upyoull be at it all night otherwise, she declared. Ben, take the rubbish out. Alice, get the leftovers into containers.

I was exhausted, my head thumping. Margaret, dont worry, Ill do it. Lets call a cab for you?

What, waste money on a taxi? she bristled. Theres still buses. You need my help, sweetheart, you look half dead! Take a painkiller.

I did feel rough, so I slipped off to take a tablet and splash cold water on my face. As I moved quietly back, something made me stop at the kitchen doorsoft slippers silent. There, with her back to me, Margaret was at the open fridge, her shopping bag on the stool.

She worked methodically: swept the plate of cold meatsexpensive ham, roast pork, salamiinto a plastic bag and stashed it deep in her holdall. Then she took out my tub of salmon, the one Id set aside for breakfast, and slipped it in as well. Half our homemade cake went next, mashed into foil. The last wedge of cheddar followed, then the jar of olives, andheart sinkingthe nearly full bottle of cognac Bens office gifted him, unopened.

I froze, stricken. Was this really happening? Should I shout, cause a scene, call her a thief? My throat locked up; I couldnt call my husbands mum a petty pilferer, however clear it was.

Just then, Ben returned, stomping the cold off. You ready, Mum? I wont bother taking my coat off.

Margaret jumped and slammed the bag shut. Seeing me, she flinched but recovered. Oh Alice, youre back! Just tidying up, darling. Bens here? Good. Im ready.

She hefted the bag, much heavier now, puffing with exertion.

Mum, let me helpyou got bricks in there? Ben joked.

Dont touch! she hissed, clutching the bag close. Just empty jars, and my things. You leave it!

Ben blinked, confused. Mum, you brought one jar. Its still on the sill, full.

Other jars! Margarets cheeks flushed. Dont fuss! Im knackered, just want to go home!

I stepped forward, headache replaced by icy calm. Margaret, I said, softly but firmly, Please put the bag on the table.

She goggled at me, What gives you the right? Are you searching me now? Ben, your wifes accusing me of theft!

Ben looked utterly lost, flicking his gaze between us. Alicewhats going on? Mums only

Ben, I interrupted, fixing my eyes on Margaret. Our breakfast, lunch, and dinner are in that bag. The salmon I bought for three hundred pounds. Your favourite ham. The cognac. The cake.

Margaret shrieked, stepping back, Youre crazy! Im a retired teacher, a decent woman! I wouldnt touch a crumb! Choke on your own food, why dont you!

She tried to flee, but the bag snagged on the table corner. The handles snapped, sending it flyingmeats, fish, cake, tumbling out. Cognac clanked but didnt break, cheddar toppled after, chocolates scattering.

The kitchen was silent but for Margarets ragged breathing.

Ben stared at the mess, then at his eel-smeared shoes, then his mother. His face shifted: disbelief, comprehension, then shame.

Mum? he croaked. Whats all this?

Margaret drew herself up, going on the offensive. So what? I took some! You have more than you need! I survive on a pittance! I only ever see that ham on the telly! Dont I deserve a decent meal, having raised you?

I kept silent, looking to Ben. Usually hed mumble, Never mind, Mum, take what you like, just to avoid a row.

But Ben bent down, calmly putting the eel back on the table, then the cognac.

Its not about the food, Mum, he said quietly. If youd asked, wed have packed you treats. We always do. But you didnt. You waited until we werent looking, and you took it. Like a rat.

Margaret clutched her chest theatrically. How dare you! My heart! Youll be the death of me!

Save it, Margaret, I replied coldly. Your medications in your left pocketI saw it when you arrived.

She stopped, caught out.

Ben, I said, Please clear that up into a bag.

Why? he asked.

Let her take it all. The fish was on the floor, the cakes ruined, we wouldnt eat it. Its her parting gift on your birthday. And I dont want to see her here for at least a month.

Margaret gasped like a landed fish.

Ben wordlessly bagged up everythingfish, cheese, the battered cake. But he set the cognac on the table. Im keeping the cognac. I need a drink.

He handed Margaret the bag. Take it, Mum. And go. Ive called you a taxi; it’ll be outside in two minutes.

Youre throwing me out? Your own mother? Over food?

Over lies, Mum. And disrespect. To my home and my wife.

She snatched the bag, eyes brimming angrily. You wont see me again! Stuff your fancy ham! she spat, storming out. The door slammed so hard the plaster cracked.

I slumped onto the chair, hands over my face, shaking.

Ben fetched two glasses, poured cognac, and sat. Drink, he said, You need it.

He took my hand, looking suddenly older. Im sorry, Alice.

No needyou didnt know.

I shouldve seen it sooner. Shouldnt have let her walk all over you. Always told myselfshes just quirky, she means well. But nowI feel like I was the one stealing that damned ham.

I sipped the cognac, the fire dulling my nerves. Truth is, I said, almost laughing, I bought extra salami and cheddarat the bottom of the fridgeto send with her. She just didnt get that far.

Ben burst out a shaky laugh. Seriously?

I nodded. I knew shed harp on about money. Just wanted to give her something. Properly.

No point, Ben drained his glass. You cant deal with her properly. Tomorrow Im changing the locks. She begged for a key just in case months ago. No chancenext time were missing the telly cause Veronica from downstairs has got a bigger screen than I have.

I stared at Ben, surprised and proud in equal measure. For the first time in our seven years together, he talked about his mother without excusing her. Last nights deli-bag stunt was the tipping point for even laid-back Ben.

What about food? I said, surveying the empty table. She cleared us out.

Ben grinned, opening the fridge. She missed one caviar jar. And weve got eggs and milk. Luxury omelette tomorrow.

I laughed, tension easing. And dont forget the rotten apples, I added. We could make a compote!

No way, Ben made a face. Those apples are going out with the pickles. Enough of her charity.

We sat in the kitchen long after, finishing the cognac and talking, finally, about things wed kept quiet for yearsboundaries, respect, how loving your parents doesnt mean letting them cross the line. Deep down, our home was ours.

This morning, I woke to the smell of coffeeBen already busy. Morning, he kissed my hair, Got much of that bonus left?

A bit. Why?

Fancy disappearing for the weekend? Maybe Bath or Oxford, just the two of us. Phones off, the works.

What about your mum? Shell ring the whole family to complain.

Let her. Thats her choice. Ours is omelette with caviar today. Breakfasts readycome eat.

I looked at the steaming omelette, glistening with caviar pearls, and felt it was the best meal of my lifenot because it was pricey, but because it was guilt-free.

Margaret called two days later. Ben glanced at the screen, sighed, and put the phone face-down.

Not answering? I asked.

No. Let her stew over her haul. Maybe well talk in a month. Far more important things todayIm taking my wife to the cinema.

I smiled, getting ready. The fridge was sparse, but I felt lighter than I had in ages. Honestly, that sense of peace was worth more than any delicacy in the world.

Winter had blanketed Andrew’s garden in a soft layer of snow, but his loyal German Shepherd, Duke, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up inside the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly insisted on sleeping outside, right in the cold snow. Andrew watched from the window, a tightness in his chest—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, when Andrew went out, Duke would look at him with tension in his eyes. And whenever Andrew moved towards the kennel, Duke positioned himself between Andrew and the entrance, growling quietly and gazing up with pleading eyes, as if saying: “Please, don’t go in there.” This uncharacteristic behaviour after years of friendship left Andrew deeply unsettled—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew hatched a small plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting piece of steak. While the dog, locked safely inside, barked furiously at the window, Andrew approached the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that chilled him to the bone… …Inside, bundled in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes barely opened, and its little body shivered against the cold. Somehow, Duke had found it and, rather than chasing it off or leaving it alone, had taken it under his protection. Duke slept outside to avoid frightening the kitten and guarded the entrance as if there was a treasure within. Andrew held his breath. He reached in gently and gathered the frail creature to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran to his side and pressed close to his shoulder—not growling this time, but carefully, ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with such care finally regained its true purpose—as a little home for saved souls.

Yesterday — Where are you putting that salad bowl? You’re blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, will you? Ollie’s coming soon, and you know he likes plenty of space to wave his hands about when he talks. Victor fussed around with the crystal dishes on the table, nearly knocking over the forks. Gail sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since morning; her legs ached like she’d run a marathon, her lower back throbbed in its familiar spot. But there was no time to complain. Tonight the “star guest” was coming — her husband’s younger brother, Ollie. “Vic, take it easy,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. Did you buy wholemeal bread? Ollie moaned last time that we only had white, and you know, he’s ‘watching his figure.’” “Got it, got it, rye, with caraway, just like he likes,” Victor darted to the bread bin. “Gail, is the roast done? You know he’s a foodie — eats out all the time, won’t be impressed with a meatloaf.” Gail pursed her lips. She knew, of course. Ollie — forty, single, calls himself a ‘free spirit’ but mostly gets by on odd jobs and handouts from his elderly mum — considered himself a world-class gourmet. Each visit became an ordeal for Gail, an exam she was doomed to fail. “I made honey-mustard roast pork,” she said crisply. “Fresh meat, straight from the market, seven hundred quid a kilo. If that isn’t good enough, I wash my hands of the whole business.” “Must you always start like that?” her husband winced. “He hasn’t visited in six months. He wants a proper family dinner. Just do your best, all right? He’s having a rough patch — trying to find himself, you know.” “Finding money, not himself,” Gail thought, but said nothing. Victor worshipped his younger brother, saw him as an unappreciated genius and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven sharp. Gail hurriedly shed her apron, fixed her hair, and plastered on her best hostess smile. Victor already had the door open, beaming like a polished brass kettle. “Ollie! Mate! Finally!” Ollie stood on the threshold, dressed to impress: trendy coat left open, a casual scarf flung over one shoulder, designer stubble that was presumably meant to be rugged. He spread his arms for Victor’s hug but only patted his brother’s back in return. Gail scanned his hands, searching for anything — a bag, cake box, even the smallest bunch of flowers. Nothing. After half a year away, to a table groaning with food, he’d arrived as empty-handed as ever. Not even a chocolate bar for the kids (thankfully at their Nan’s tonight). “Hey Gail,” he nodded, strolling through the hallway, not taking his shoes off right away, instead eyeing the décor. “Wallpaper’s new? Bit institutional, isn’t it? Well, as long as you guys like it.” “Hello, Ollie,” she replied, controlled. “Wash your hands, new slippers over there.” “Didn’t bring mine, and don’t fancy catching athlete’s foot from borrowed ones,” he waved her away. “I’ll keep my socks on. Floor’s clean, I hope?” Gail felt her irritation bubbling. She’d mopped twice in anticipation of his visit. “Spotless, Ollie. Come through, dinner’s ready.” They settled in the dining room. The table was festive: white linen, fancy napkins, three salads, a platter of meats and cheeses, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. In the centre: the steaming roast. Ollie sprawled leisurely against his chair, surveying the spread. Victor was busy uncorking a bottle of Cognac — five-year aged, pricey, bought specially for tonight. “To family!” Victor proclaimed, pouring out glasses. Ollie lifted his, held it to the light, sniffed it, then frowned. “Armenian? Pity. I’m more of a French brandy man — more subtle bouquet. This one’s got too much spirit. Still, beggars can’t be choosers…” He threw it back in one go and reached for the cold cuts. Gail noticed he snapped up the priciest piece of cured ham. “Help yourself, Ollie,” she said, nudging over the salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” He speared a prawn, held it up like a jeweller examining a diamond. “Were these frozen?” he asked knowingly. “Well of course, we’re hardly on the coast!” Gail said, surprised. “Bought the best at the supermarket.” “Rubbery,” Ollie declared, dropping it back into the salad. “Boiled too long. Should be two minutes, tops. And the avocado — not ripe. Crunchy.” Victor, halfway through spooning some salad, paused mid-air. “Come off it, Ollie, it’s delicious! I tried it earlier.” “Vic, mate, taste is an education,” said his brother, patronising. “If you eat substitutes all your life, you’ll never understand real cuisine. Last week I was at a restaurant opening, had scallop ceviche — now that’s texture. And this… at least the mayo’s homemade?” Gail felt her cheeks flame. The mayonnaise was shop-bought. She hadn’t had time to whisk her own. “Store brand,” she replied curtly. “Hmm,” Ollie sighed, as if she’d revealed a dire diagnosis. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison. Never mind — let’s try your roast. I hope that survived?” Gail silently served him a generous helping, topped with sauce and roasted potatoes. The aroma was mouth-watering. But Ollie was a “connoisseur.” He chewed a piece, gazing theatrically at the ceiling. The two hosts waited, Victor hopeful, Gail simmering. “Dry,” Ollie pronounced finally. “And the sauce — honey overpowers it. Far too sweet. Meat should taste like meat, Gail, not pudding. Plus, marinade’s too short, fibres are tough. Should marinade in kiwi or sparkling water for at least a day.” “I left it overnight — spices and mustard,” she said softly. “People usually love it.” “Well, ‘people’ is a loose term. Maybe your work friends like it — they’ve never had anything finer. I’m being objective here. You could eat it in a pinch, but it’s hardly a treat.” He pushed his plate aside, nearly untouched, and grabbed the mushrooms. “At least these are homemade? Or from a tin?” “Homemade,” Gail said coldly. “Picked and preserved ourselves.” Ollie chewed, winced. “Way too much vinegar. Will burn your stomach out. And too salty. Gail, you must be in love, salting like that!” He laughed at his own joke. “Vic, watch your blood pressure with this diet!” Victor laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension. “They’re fine, brother! Great with vodka. Pour another round, eh?” They drank. Ollie flushed, loosened his scarf, but kept his coat on — a signal he wasn’t planning to stay, gracing them with his presence as a favour. “Couldn’t find proper caviar then?” he poked a sandwich. “This one’s all skin and bones. On offer down the supermarket?” “Ollie, it’s keta caviar, six grand a kilo,” Gail snapped. Her voice shook. “Bought it specially for you. We never eat it ourselves, it’s a treat.” “Scrimping on food is never smart,” Ollie noted philosophically, popping the “bad” caviar into his mouth. “You are what you eat. I’d rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. You lot fill the fridge with junk from the bargain aisle, then wonder why you’re tired, why you look grey.” Gail looked at Victor, who sat eyes-down, chewing his roast, pretending nothing was wrong. His silence stung more than Ollie’s words. Playing ostrich, letting his “dear brother” trample Gail. “Vic,” she asked, “do you find the meat dry?” He coughed. “N-no, Gail, it’s great. Really lovely. Ollie, he knows his stuff, sharper taste than mine…” “Ah, sharper taste,” Gail set down her fork with a metallic clank, loud as a gunshot. “So mine’s blunt and clumsy. My hands are useless, my food is poison?” “Gail, don’t start with the drama,” Ollie grimaced. “I’m giving constructive feedback. So you can grow, develop yourself. You should thank me. Vic just eats anything and praises it, you get lazy. A woman must strive for perfection.” “Thank you?” Gail repeated. “You expect me to say thank you?” She rose. The chair scraped across the floor. “Gail, where are you going?” Victor asked, alarmed. “We haven’t had dessert…” “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, oddly calm. “Ollie likes sweets.” She went to the kitchen. On the counter stood her ‘Victoria Sponge’, baked last night till the small hours — twelve fine layers, homemade custard, vanilla… She stared at her masterpiece, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of bottled-up resentment finally overflowed. How many times had this man visited, eaten, borrowed money, and never returned a penny? How many times had he slammed her cooking, her décor, her clothes, even her children? And Victor always silent. Always defending, “He’s creative, sensitive.” As if Gail was made of iron. She left the cake alone. She picked up a tray and returned to the dining room. “Is that dessert?” Ollie perked up. “Not a supermarket Swiss roll, I hope?” Gail started calmly clearing plates. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” salad. Then the cold cuts. “Oi, what’re you doing?” Ollie protested as she took his sandwich plate. “I haven’t finished!” “Why eat it?” Gail asked, looking him dead in the eye. “It’s all inedible, according to you. Dry meat, toxic mayo, rubbery prawns, cheap caviar. I can’t let our precious guest poison himself. Wouldn’t wish it on an enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Gail! Stop it! What’s this performance? Put it back!” “No, Vic, the real circus is when a man comes to dinner empty-handed, sits at a table costing a chunk of your salary, and trashes the hostess.” “I was only honest!” Ollie barked, face blotchy. “Freedom of speech, innit!” “Freedom,” Gail nodded, stacking more plates. “Which means I decide who eats in my home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor food? I respect your choice. Go hungry.” She carried the heap back to the kitchen. Silence hung. “You’ve lost it!” Victor hissed, barging in behind her. “You’re humiliating me in front of my brother! Put the food back! Apologise!” Gail set the tray on the counter and turned to him. Her eyes were dry now, only ice-cold resolve remained. “Humiliating? And when you sat nodding while he insulted me — wasn’t that humiliating? Are you a man or a doormat? He scoffed our caviar in five minutes and said it was rubbish. And you — have you ever bought me caviar just to spoil me? No. We save the best for guests. And our guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! Flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years cooking and cleaning for you. Last night I stayed up half the night sweating over dinner. For what? To be told I’m useless? If you don’t shut up this instant, I’ll crown you with the Victoria Sponge. Don’t tempt me, Vic.” He recoiled. He’d never seen her like this before. Gail was always soft, giving, “the good sport.” Now she was ferocious, ready to tear down everything in her path. Ollie peeked in, looking less cocky, more confused and wounded. “Well this is a first…” he drawled. “Never seen such hospitality. Came here with my heart open, and all I get is scolded about bread?” “With your heart open?” Gail scoffed. “Show me where. Empty-handed, again. In all these years, have you ever brought us anything? A box of tea, even? You come to mooch and to criticise.” “I… I’m broke! Just a rough patch!” “Your ‘rough patch’ has lasted twenty years. New coat, pricey scarf, restaurant launches… but a fiver from your brother, never paid back, that’s tradition.” “Gail, stop!” Victor shouted. “Don’t count other people’s money!” “It isn’t other people’s money — it’s ours! Our family’s budget, wasted feeding this… gourmet!” Ollie clasped his chest theatrically. “That’s enough. I won’t spend another minute here. Vic, I didn’t think you’d wind up with such a shrew. I’ll never set foot in this house again.” He stormed out to the hallway. Victor dashed after him. “Ollie, mate, wait up! Ignore her, she’s hormonal or knackered from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Ollie’s voice was tragic as he pulled on shoes over his socks. “This insult — there’s no going back. Don’t ring me unless she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood in the foyer, staring at the closed door as if heaven itself had been barred to him. Then he turned slowly and trudged to the kitchen, where Gail was calmly boxing up the roast. “Happy now?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve spared us a freeloader,” she replied, not turning. “Sit down, eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you as well?” Victor slumped at the table, cradling his head. “How could you? He’s still a guest…” “A guest behaves like a guest, not a health inspector. Listen carefully: I will never, ever again cook for him. If you want to see him — go to his place. Or to a restaurant, on your own dime. My time and money aren’t wasted on him anymore.” “You’ve become so harsh,” he muttered. “I’ve become fair. Now eat. Or shall I clear away?” Victor eyed the roast. His stomach grumbled loudly. He was starving, and the aroma — despite the row — was irresistible. He hesitantly took up his fork, sliced off a piece, tasted. It was perfectly tender, melting in the mouth. The sauce had a subtle sweetness, mustard a spicy kick. Magnificent. “So?” Gail asked, catching his blissful expression. “It’s delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Gail.” “That’s good. Your brother is just a bitter failure who feels big by putting others down. Can’t you see?” Victor chewed, lost in thought. For the first time, it crossed his mind that Gail might be right. He remembered Ollie arriving empty-handed, his condescending tone, how awkward Victor felt during the barrage of criticism. “The cake?” he ventured. “Shall we have cake?” Gail smiled — for the first time all evening, genuinely. “Let’s. I’ll make some tea. With thyme, just as you like.” She fetched the ‘Victoria Sponge’, glorious and imposing. Sliced it generously. They sat in the kitchen together, drinking tea, eating cake, and the tension gradually ebbed away. “You know,” Victor said, finishing his second helping, “he didn’t give Mum a present for her birthday last month. Said the best gift was ‘himself.’” “There you go,” Gail nodded. “You’re waking up.” Victor’s phone buzzed. A message from Ollie: *“Could’ve packed me some sarnies — left absolutely starving tbh. Send us a fifty for emotional distress, yeah?”* Victor read it aloud. Pause. Gail raised an eyebrow. “So, what’ll you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their warm kitchen, the heavenly cake. Then at his phone. He typed: *“Treat yourself at a restaurant — you’re the connoisseur. We’re skint.”* And hit block. “What did you say?” Gail asked. “Said we’re off to bed.” She pretended to believe him, though she’d glimpsed the screen. She walked over and hugged him from behind. “Well done, Vic. Took a while, but you got there.” That evening, they learned something crucial about each other: sometimes, saving a marriage means kicking people out — even if they’re family. And the roast really was exquisite, whatever the “experts” with empty wallets claimed.

Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman. You could call me a wallflower—plain looking, nowhere near a good figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be; I believe all men are basically the same—just animals out for a full belly and the sofa. Not that anyone ever asked me out or proposed anyway. My elderly parents live in Norwich. I’m an only child—no sisters, no brothers. There are distant cousins, but I don’t speak to them, nor do I want to. I’ve been working and living in London for 15 years now. I’m at an office job, the usual work-to-home routine. I live in a typical high-rise in a residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical, don’t love anyone. Don’t like children. For Christmas, I went to Norwich to visit my parents. Once a year, I go home. This year was the same—I came back and decided to clean the fridge. Threw out all the old frozen dinners—ready meals, fish fingers, stuff I bought but didn’t like. Bagged it all up and went to chuck it away. Took the lift down, and there’s a boy, about seven. I’ve seen him with his mother and a baby, thought to myself, “She’s got a handful!” He stares at my box. We exit; I head for the bins, he follows. A timid voice: “Can I have that?” I tell him, “It’s old!” But then I think if he wants it, let him have it—it’s not rotten. As I walk away, I glance back; he’s carefully taking the bag, clutching it to his chest. “Where’s your mum?” I ask. “She’s sick, and my baby sister too. Mum can’t get up.” I turn and head home. Go into my flat, start making dinner. I sit and think. The boy won’t leave my mind. I’m not the caring type, never felt obliged to help. But something pushes me; I grab whatever food I have: ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions—snatch a hunk of meat from the freezer. Realise in the lift I don’t even know which floor they’re on. Head up, floor by floor, and after two floors, the boy opens the door. At first, he’s unsure, then lets me in. The flat is sparse but spotless. His mum’s curled on the bed next to the baby, a basin of water and flannels on the table—clearly fighting a fever. The girl is asleep, breathing raspy. “Got medicine?” I ask the boy. He shows me some ancient, expired tablets, useless. I check the mum’s forehead—burning. She wakes and stares at me, confused. Sits up: “Where’s Anton?” I say I’m a neighbour. Ask about their symptoms, call an ambulance. While we wait, I make her tea and a sandwich. She eats in silence—starving, clearly. How was she breastfeeding? The paramedics arrive, check them over, prescribe a heap of medicines and injections for the little one. I dash to the pharmacy, buy everything, then hit the shop for milk and baby food. On a whim, I buy a garish yellow monkey toy—I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name is Ann, 26 years old. From the fringes of Manchester. Her mum and grandma were Londoners, but her mum married a man from Manchester and moved there, worked in a factory; he was a technician. When Ann was born, her father was electrocuted at work. Her mum, jobless, left with a baby, started drinking heavily, lost it in three years. Neighbours somehow tracked down Ann’s grandma in London, who took her in. When she was 15, gran told her the lot—even that her mum died of TB. Grandma wasn’t chatty, was stingy, and chain-smoked. At 16, Ann worked at a corner shop—packing, then cashiering. A year later, gran died. Ann was on her own. At 18, she dated a guy who promised marriage; after she got pregnant, he vanished. She worked until she could barely stand, saved every penny; she knew there was no one to help. After the baby, she started leaving him home while she cleaned stairwells. The baby girl came about when the shop owner she’d returned to work for after her son grew up started raping her, threatening to fire her and ruin her prospects if she told. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her 200 quid and told her never to return. That night, she told me all this, thanked me for everything, insisted she’d work it off with cleaning or cooking. I stopped her thanks and left. Didn’t sleep a wink that night. Thought about my own life, why I am how I am—never caring for my parents, never calling, loving no one. Hoarding my savings with no one to spend it on. And here’s someone else’s fate—nothing to eat, no money for medicine. Morning comes; Anton appears, hands me a plate of pancakes, and scurries away. I stand at my doorway holding the warm plate, feeling the heat thaw something inside me. Suddenly, I want to laugh, cry, and eat all at once. Near our block, there’s a small shopping centre where a lady runs a children’s boutique. She couldn’t pin down the sizes I needed, so she even agreed to come with me to their place! Was it wanting to make a sale, or was she moved by my care? Who knows. In an hour, there were four huge bags of clothes for the boy and girl. I bought duvets and pillows, bedding, food, even vitamins. I wanted to buy everything. For once, I felt needed. Ten days have passed. They call me Auntie Rita now. Ann’s a dab hand at crafts—my flat is cosier. I’ve started calling my parents, texting ‘HELP’ donations for sick kids. I can’t fathom how I ever lived before. Every day after work, I rush home. I know someone’s waiting for me. And this spring, we’re off to Norwich together. We’ve already bought the train tickets.