Did you actually chop this salad yourself, or is it more of those grim little boxes you use to poison my son? Margaret Stone pursed her lips, picking at a canape with smoked salmon and cream cheese as if it might bite her first.
Evelyn drew a long breath, smoothing her new silk dress. Thirty-five today. A proper milestone. A day she wanted to bask in birthday wishes, to feel like the Queen herself. Instead, she stood in her own living room arranging party platters, feeling more like a schoolgirl called up without her homework.
Margaret, it came from that Italian placesuperb reviews. The chefs actual Italian. Only the best ingredients, Evelyn replied, keeping her smile steady. You know my work hours. Im at the office till eight. Theres no way I could cook for fifteen on top of that.
Mm, always about work, Margaret rolled her eyes and appealed to her sons childhood photo above the mantel, as if she might find comfort there. In my day, we worked too. At the factory, in the fields, raised families. But a husband eating shop food at his own wife’s birthday! Well, I never Some things just aren’t done. My poor Luke skin and bone, that one. Just look at his eyes, all ringed round.
Lukeher “poor boy” of thirty-eight, cheeks still rosy and a waistline attempting to escape his shirtambled in, rubbing his hands together.
Cor, Mum! Evie! This looks cracking. Whats that smell? Evelyn, are those those aubergine roll-ups? Cant get enough of them!
Margaret merely shot him a glance weighted with historic maternal tragedy, then fell silent. The guests would arrive any minute. Evelyn escaped to fetch the mains, the steel spring of irritation in her chest wound tight. Itd been this way since they got married five years ago: her mother-in-law conducting guerrilla warfare on Lukes stomach. Every Sunday brought fresh Tupperware with shepherds pie and steak puddings, always with pointed comments”Have something real for a change”, “Our Evelyns such a career woman, no time for a proper meal”. Evelyn put up with it. Her jobhead of logistics at a bustling firmpaid more than Lukes, which meant they could afford a cleaner and meal deliveries. That bought time: for yoga, reading, or just being with Luke.
But in Margarets world, a woman who didnt roll pastry from scratch was simply not a proper woman.
A chime at the door announced the first arrivals. Soon, the whole flat was gathered in warmth and cheer: friends, colleagues, Evelyns parents. The air was full of toasts, laughter, generous envelopes of pounds, and spa vouchers. For a moment, Evelyn even relaxed, determined to ignore her mother-in-laws thunderstorm expressions.
But after dessert, Margaret, whod perched all night with a martyred air, rapped a fork against her crystal glass for silence.
Dearest friends, she intoned, in a voice reserved for church choir or funerals, I, too, would like to say a word to our birthday girl. Thirty-five: a serious milestone. In this day, a woman must possess patience, wisdom, and, of course, keep a true home.
She paused, rummaged with statue-like gravity through her vast handbag, then continued.
Moneys like water fleeting. Beauty fades. But skilldevotion, making ones house a homethose are everlasting. I deliberated long and hard, Evelyn, about your present. In the end, I chose what you truly lack: knowledge.
With a solemn thump, she set a weighty object, wrapped in glittery paper, in front of her daughter-in-law. A hush settled across the table. Luke coughed into his napkin.
Evelyn, hands steady, unwrapped the gift. A book. It sprawled heavy and gold-embossed across the cover: “The Great Home and Cookery Encyclopaedia: Timeless English Recipes”. Upon it, a beaming woman in frilly apron held a steaming pot aloft.
Not just any book, Margaret said, sugar and venom gleaming in her tone, a family heirloom. I bought it for you, Evelyn, and went over it myself. Marked things up. Tips, notes on what Luke likes, the proper way to make stew, to starch shirts so your husband looks presentable and not as though hes slept in a hedge. Use it, dear. Its never too late to be a good wife.
A nervous trill of laughter. Evelyns mother flashed red, opening her mouth to object, but Evelyn squeezed her hand under the table. Not now. She wouldnt start a scene on her birthday.
Thank you, Margaret. Arather substantial gift. Ill be sure to have a good read.
She placed it by the vase and quickly steered the conversation to the cake. The rest of the evening blurred in a fog: Evelyn smiling, passing tea, cracking jokes, but burning with humiliation. Not a gift at all, but a slap in shiny paper.
When the last guests had gone and the dishwasher began its mechanical hum, Evelyn sat heavily with the book. Luke, whod been avoiding the issue, slid beside her and draped an arm around her.
Oh Evie, dont take it to heart. You know what shes likeold school. She meant well, even if she went a bit overboard.
Overboard? Evelyn flipped it open. Look at this, Luke.
Sticky notes stuck out in every direction. On the inside cover, Margaret had scrawled: For my darling daughter-in-law, in hopes my son might remember what a proper meal tastes like.
Every page came alive with red marker notes: Always mince your own beef. Ready-made is for the lazy or incompetent. Dust under the bed is a womans shame. You could plant potatoes under yours. Shirt collars must slice paper. Luke deserves better.
It wasnt a cookbook. It was a war diary. A chart of insults masquerading as motherly concern. There was calculation here, weeks of spite.
Mumworries about me, Luke muttered, ears red. Shall I stick this up in the loft and well forget it?
No, Evelyn snapped the book shut, the noise sharp as thunder. It deserves better than that. Gifts should be treated as they deserve.
The days that followed, Evelyn kept oddly quiet. She didnt berate Luke; she worked, ordered meals, and sometimes leafed through the poisonous tome, making notes.
Saturday arrived, day of the customary Margaret visit. Normally, Evelyn would invent any reason not to go. But she dressed carefully, doing her hair with extra care.
Were going? Luke was surprised.
Naturally. One mustnt snub after suchgenerosity. Ive got a gift for her, too. Time to reciprocate.
Eviedont declare war, please. Shes not getting any younger…
Not war, darling. Truce.
They arrived by midday, as the flat, scented with fried onions and beeswax polish, gleamed in Margarets signature, spotless style. Not a mote out of place. Their host, resplendent in apron, beamed in expectation, sensing repentance.
Sit down, do! Ive just pulled the cabbage rolls out, just like my Luke always loved. Hope youre hungry! Wont get much of a meal elsewhere, I suppose.
The lunch went smoothly. Evelyn praised everything, asked after Margarets arthritis, complimented the houseplants. Margaret bloomed.
After tea was poured, Evelyn reached into her bag and produced the infamous book. Margaret brightened.
Questions already? Dont hesitate, deartheres a tricky bit on suet pastry I can explain
Margaret, Evelyn cut in, her voice soft but ringing, I have read your gift. Every word, every note. And Ive learned something very crucial. This bookits a treasure chest. The essence of your lifetime, your philosophy.
Quite! Margaret glowed.
Which is exactly why, Evelyn set the volume in front of her, I cant keep it.
Margarets face slid from triumph to offence.
Are you returning it? Thats rude, Evelyn!
Hear me out. This book is your idea of the ideal woman. Up before dawn, baking and scrubbing, living for her husband. Thats you, Margaretand youre wonderful at it. Truly.
She paused, gazing steadily.
But its not me. My work pays what a weeks food shopping costs, in an hour. If I spent three hours a night making pies, wed lose enough for a nice holiday each year. Luke and I crunched the numbers. It doesnt add up.
Luke nearly choked, but said nothing, eyes wide.
And most important, Evelyn ran a hand along the spine, your margin notes: lazy, shameful, useless. They arent loving, Margaret. They speak of someone deeplyunsatisfied. Happy people dont jot insults in birthday books.
Margaret turned scarlet.
How dare you! I gave up my life…
Yes. You made life all about keeping house. I want to live. With your sontalk, travel, laugh. Not just stand with my back at the oven.
Evelyn slipped an envelope from her purse.
Im returning your book, because it belongs with you, in the home where its creed flourishes. But Id feel wrong leaving you with nothing in return. Youve given me a manual for becoming a maid. I want to give you something for youas a woman.
She placed the envelope on the book.
A years membership to the citys best dance studioArgentine tango. And ten sessions with a top physiotherapist. I thought your back might need some care, after all the cooking.
A silence like velvet dragged across the room. Even the grandfather clock seemed to pause. Margaret stared at the book, the envelope, at Evelyn. She opened her mouth, shut it.
Dancing? At my age?
The best kind. Age groups perfect, very refined. You might find theres more to life than checking for dust under someone elses bed.
Evelyn rose.
Thank you for the lunch. Genuinely lovely. Luke, are we off? Well miss the matinee.
Luke, silent and small until now, stood. He looked from his mother to his wife, then grinned.
Mumlunch was top notch. But Evies right. I love her for what she is, not whats for pudding. Truth is, I like trying new thingstakeaway curries, Greek, sushi. Its fun. Dont worry so much.
He gave Margarets stunned cheek a quick peck, then took Evelyns arm and they headed for the door.
Once in the hallway, there was still no sound from the kitchen. Margaret sat, holding her “Golden Encyclopaedia” and the envelope of dance lessons.
When they were finally outside in the wind, Luke exhaled so hard he nearly deflated.
Well, you handled that like a diplomat! Economically unsoundcan I pinch that line? Genius!
But isnt it true? Evelyn checked her lipstick in the mirror. I set new boundaries, thats all. Your mums not bad. She just believes you havent lived if youre not worn-out by dinner time. She wants me to suffer to justify her own years of suffering. Id rather not.
Think shell actually go to those dance classes? Luke smirked, starting the car.
No clue. She might chuck it straight out. But she wont hand me another book, thats for sure. And perhaps shell stop with the dust lectures.
A week passed. Margaret phoned only once, abrupt and matter-of-fact. No mention of the book.
But another month and it was Saturday again. Evelyn and Luke lay in, breaking habit, when Lukes phone buzzed.
Yes, Mum? Not coming? Why? Ohthats Ok, never mind!
He grinned, switched to speaker.
weve the showcase concert in a fortnight, rehearsals all week! My partner, Peter, retired Air Force, never lets you restbrilliant chap. So sorry, kids, no pies this time. Orderpizza, I suppose. Sorry, must dashstill breaking in my shoes!
The line clicked off. Luke and Evelyn stared at each otherthen burst out laughing.
Well, that did the trick, Evelyn grinned, falling back into the pillows. Peter! Retired Air Force! Heaven help himshell correct his posture and starch his shirts in no time.
At least shes off our backs, Luke grinned. Sushi tonight?
Biggest combo box you can find.
Evelyn gazed up at the ceiling, light as air. Defeating the mother-in-law wasn’t about fighting fire with fire. You simply hand back someone elses expectationsand offer them something new. The poisonous cookery book was history. The present was this: freedom, a Saturday morning, a husband who loved her for herself, not her Yorkshire pudding. The one recipe for happiness theyll never print in any book.
