Mrs. Whitfield, the motherinlaw snapped, stop calling me Mrs. Whitfield everything. It sounds like were at a council meeting, not at a family dinner. She pressed her lips together, crumbs of the birthday cake still clinging, and deliberately pushed her tea cup aside.
A heavy silence settled over the table. The guestsAndrews aunt from Yorkshire, his cousin with an irritable toddler, and the neighbour whod been invited for the sake of appearancesstood frozen, waiting for the next move. Andrew, Kates husband, immediately buried his face in his plate of coronet potatoes, pretending to be fascinated by the ingredients. He always did that when a storm was about to break: he buried his head in the sand and left the women to sort out their oldfashioned quarrels.
Kate slowly set down her fork, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and met her motherinlaws gaze. Mrs. Whitfield sat at the head of the table, upright as a post, in her finest silk dress, radiating an expectation of obedience.
Mrs. Whitfield, I address you by name and surname out of respect, Kate said calmly, keeping her voice even. Its polite and fits our relationship.
What relationship? the older woman huffed. Were one family now! I gave you my son, my blood. Im a second mother to you. And you call me you, as if I were a stranger. Thats not how we do things. Look at Vicky, my sisterinlaws daughtershe called her motherinlaw Mum at the wedding and theyve been inseparable ever since. You keep your distance, and that arrogance will ruin you.
My mother is only one, Kate replied firmly. Her name is Vera Andrews. I cant have another mother, biologically or morally. You are my husbands mother. I respect you, I value you, but I wont call you Mum. Im sorry if that hurts you, but I cannot be twofaced.
Mrs. Whitfield clutched her chest theatrically, rolled her eyes, and scanned the guests for support.
You heard that? Twofaced! Am I the one being twofaced? I bake pies for her, give advice, and she snubs me! Andrew, say something! You cant insult your own mother in your own home!
Andrew swallowed, flushed, and managed to sputter out:
Kate, honestly it would please my mum. Its just a word. Its tradition.
Kate stared at her husband for a long, lingering moment. In that look lay fatigue from his mothers endless demands, disappointment at his spinelessness, and a warning that she would not yield this time.
For me it isnt just a word, Andrew. Mum is a sacred concept. Its the woman who carried me, birthed me, kept watch through sleepless nights when I was ill, and loves me unconditionally. Mrs. Whitfield is a wonderful lady, but she isnt my mother. Lets drop this and not ruin the celebration. Who wants more cake?
The dinner was ruined. The guests slipped away quickly, feeling the tension thick in the air. Mrs. Whitfield, seeing them out, whispered loudly to the neighbour, These modern daughters have no sense of gratitude.
Later, Kate washed dishes in the kitchen, scrubbing furiously. She was thirty, a successful architect, an independent woman, yet in her motherinlaws presence she sometimes felt like a guilty schoolgirl. Mrs. Whitfield was a master of passive aggressionnever shouting outright, but delivering concern so sharp it made Kate want to howl.
The next day Kate hoped the incident was behind them, but she knew her motherinlaw too well. It was only the beginning of the siege.
On Saturday morning, as Kate and Andrew tried to catch up on sleep after a grueling work week, a persistent knock rattled the door, the finger never leaving the button.
Standing on the doorstep was Mrs. Whitfield, pushing a massive wheeled trolley.
Still sleeping? she asked cheerfully, rolling into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. Ive just been to the market, bought fresh cottage cheese. Thought Id swing by, make some scones for the kids. I know youre busy, Kate, always working, building your career, barely feeding Andrew.
Kate, still in pajamas, hair a mess, took a deep breath.
Good morning, Mrs. Whitfield. Were not hungry and we had plans for the morning.
What plans could beat a hot breakfast from mum? the older woman crowed, already bustling in the kitchen, pots clanging. Andrew! Get up, son! Mums here!
During breakfast, while devouring the delicious sconesno one could deny they were superbAndrew beamed, and Mrs. Whitfield launched a second round of speeches.
Look, Kate, this is how I care for you. I got up at six, went to the market, hauled this bag. My back hurts, my legs ache, yet Im here. Would any stranger do that? Only a mum would. So why is it so hard for you to call me Mum? Your tongues gone dry?
Kate set her fork down.
Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs. Whitfield, but care isnt bought with scones, and the title Mum isnt earned by delivering cottage cheese.
And what does it take then? the older woman squeezed her eyes. Did they take you in the maternity ward? I took Andrew in. Were family now. I want warmth, a proper family feel. Youre as cold as a fish. Yesterday I called Vera Andrews, your actual mother, to complain.
Kate bristled.
You called my mother? Why?
To tell her how you behave. I thought shed influence you. She told me, Kate is an adult, she decides for herself. Thats parenting, right? Spoiling?
Ill ask you politely not to bother my mother with your complaints, Kate said, icy. She has hypertension; she cant be stressed.
And I have no pressure? My heart doesnt ache? Im here for you, wholeheartedly! Im trying!
Andrew intervened hastily.
Mum, please, dont start. Kate is grateful, really. She just needs time to adjust.
Three years already! snapped Mrs. Whitfield. Fine, if you dont want it sweet, Ill keep coming, helping, until you understand who wishes you well.
From that day on, the visits became regular. Shed pop in motherlike to check whether her sons shirts were clean, rearrange pots in the cupboards because its more convenient, critique the curtains, the wall colour, even the brand of laundry powder, always adding, A mum never gives bad advice.
Kate endured. She was courteous but drew boundaries wherever she could. She refused to hand over a spare key (though Mrs. Whitfield begged for one in case of fire), she kept finances to herself, but the tension only grew.
The climax arrived a month later, in November. Kate fell gravely ill with a vicious flu: temperature soaring to thirtynine, every muscle aching, crushing weakness. Andrew, cursed by timing, was on a business trip in Manchester and wouldnt return until Friday.
Kate lay in bed, drifting in feverish dreams. She wanted to call her own mother, but Vera Andrews was in hospital with a hypertensive crisis, and Kate didnt want to alarm her, pretending it was just a cold.
Wednesday afternoon, a key turned in the lock. Andrew had left a spare for his mother to water the plants if his trip ran long. Kate had completely forgotten about it.
The hallway echoed with the clatter of bags and Mrs. Whitfields booming voice:
Anyone alive in there? Andrew called, said youve gone completely off the rails. Im here to rescue.
Kate managed to lift her head.
Mrs. Whitfield dont come in Im contagious
The motherinlaw stormed into the bedroom still wearing her coat, eyeing the room with a critical stare. On the nightstand lay a mountain of halfdrunk tea mugs, medicine packets, crumpled tissues. The air was stale.
What a scene! Even a woodcutter could hang a hat here, she declared. And youre sick? Do it with some dignity, Kate.
She flung open the window, letting a blast of icy November air slam into Kates flushed face.
Close it, please Im shivering, Kate whispered, pulling the blanket tighter.
Ventilation is necessary, germs must go. Ive brought broth. Get up, go to the kitchen. Staying here is a pigsty.
I cant stand, Kate croaked.
Dont make excuses. Movement is life. I didnt haul all the way from the market for nothing.
Mrs. Whitfield rattled pots in the kitchen. Kate, wobbling, shuffled to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, hoping for at least a cup of tea.
Instead, the older woman dumped the contents of her bags onto the counter and began a meticulous fridge inspection.
Good heavens, a mouse! Sausages past date, yoghurts moulded What have you been feeding Andrew before he left? Poor lad, hell get an ulcer.
Mrs. Whitfield, Im illjust water, please?
Water? Pull it yourself, youre still on your feet. Look at your stovegrease on the handles. While youre sick, Ill do a deep clean, otherwise its shameful in front of guests.
She hurled pans, shifted chairs, wiped cupboards with a harsh chemical. The smell of bleach mingled with Kates fever, making her nauseous.
Please, no cleaning I need peace Go away
Finally! Im a mother, Im here to help, not to be shunned. I havent even checked my own blood pressure yet, and Im already scrubbing. You should be grateful.
Thanks, Kate whispered, but I need medication I cant fetch. Did you get what Andrew asked for?
Oh dear, the list I forgot. But I bought beetroot! Ill make borscht. Its the best remedy. You peel the veg, Ill simmer the broth. Well get it done faster.
Kate gave a feverblurred stare.
You want me, with a temperature of thirtynine, to peel beetroot?
Exactly. Work builds character, even when youre ill. When I was sick I tended the garden and survived. Youre all soft.
At that moment Kates coat pocket rang. It was her mother, Vera Andrews.
Kate, love, how are you? I sound terrible, but Ive just left the ward. Im on my way up the stairs.
Five minutes later Vera burst in, pale but determined.
Mum Kate sobbed, relief flooding her.
Vera ignored Mrs. Whitfield, rushed to her daughter, feeling her forehead, gasping.
My goodness, youre burning up! Lets get you to bed, call an ambulance if we have to.
She deftly helped Kate lie down, fetched a cool damp cloth, and from her bag produced the prescribed tablets, a thermos of cranberry juice, and a tin of chicken broth.
Mrs. Whitfield lingered in the doorway, lips pressed together.
Im helping too, you know. I started the cleaning, was going to make borscht. And you, Vera, just came in with germs after the hospital.
Vera turned, voice calm yet steelstrong.
Mrs. Whitfield, look at Kate. She needs quiet, rest, fluidsnot a kitchen overhaul. Why force her to stand?
I was trying to do what a mother wouldcheer her up! She looks like a boiled beet.
Kate, now a little steadier after the fever reducer, sat up on her elbows. Anger that had been simmering for weeks finally found its outlet.
Mrs. Whitfield, come here, please.
The older woman raised an eyebrow, then approached.
Listen to me. For six months youve demanded I call you Mum. Youve played the victim, manipulated everyone, and today youve shown why Ill never call you that.
Why? she demanded, huffing. I came, brought food
Because Mum isnt groceries or a tidy house, Kate interrupted. Look at my real mothershe trudged out of the hospital just to give me water and a blanket. She never asked me to scrub beetroot while I was delirious. She doesnt criticize my grimy stove when Im dying of fever. She simply loves, quietly, without conditions.
Vera squeezed Kates hand, her grip warm.
You came here not to help, but to assert your place, to play housekeeper, to poke me with your heroic motherly act. You forced me to rise, knowing I was sick, because you cared more about your borscht than my wellbeing. A real mum protects, she feels her childs pain as her own. Youre just a motherinlaw, a relative by marriage. Today you proved theres a chasm between those roles.
A heavy silence fell. Mrs. Whitfields face flushed, then turned pallid. Her usual confidence cracked.
I I only wanted to cheer you up my method was a a wedge
Leave, Mrs. Whitfield, Kate said, weary but firm. Take your beetroot and go. Leave the keys on the hall table. Do not come back without an invitation. I respect you as Andrews mother, but in my home and heart the place of Mum belongs to the woman who just tended to me in the hallway with a damp towel. Thats all.
Mrs. Whitfield stared at Vera, who was gently patting Kates forehead, oblivious to the older womans presence. In that simple act of pure, unpretentious love, the older woman felt a sting of shame, perhaps even jealousy. She understood she had lost.
She slipped out into the hallway, the clink of the keys echoing on the table, and shut the front door behind her.
Vera sighed, readjusted the pillow.
Shh, love, you must rest. Ill stay here, she whispered.
Kate drifted to sleep, dreaming of a small child being cradled by a mother across a wide, windswept field.
Andrew returned on Friday. The house smelled of chicken broth and medicine. Kate was still weak but improving. Vera went home after ensuring Andrew was back on duty.
That evening, over tea, Andrew asked cautiously,
Mum called she cried. She said Id thrown her out, called her a stranger. What happened?
Kate met his eyes, no longer angry, only calm.
I didnt throw her out, Andrew. I just set things straight. When I was truly ill, your mum wanted me to scrub beetroot. My mum brought the medicine. Thats the difference. Shell still visit, but only by invitation, and Ill keep calling her Mrs. Whitfield.
Andrew lingered, cup in hand, then embraced Kate.
Im sorry. I should have protected you. You have a mother. Mrs. Whitfield can be a grandmother to our future children, if she ever stops demanding I be called Mum.
Kate laughed, the tension finally lifting.
Months later, relations with Mrs. Whitfield were cool but civil. She came only when asked, with a cake, sat politely and chatted about the weather and the garden.
At another family gathering, the aunt from Yorkshire teased,
Oh, Kate, why do you still call your motherinlaw by name and surname? Not family enough?
Mrs. Whitfield straightened, looked at Kate, then at the aunt, and said firmly,
I dont claim that title. Kate has a wonderful mum, Vera Andrews. I am Mrs. Whitfield. We each have our role, and theres no point mixing them up. Respect is what matters, right, Katherine?
Kate smiled warmly.
Exactly, Mrs. Whitfield. Absolutely right.
And in that moment, calling her motherinlaw by name and surname carried a hint of peace, because honesty is the foundation of any relationship. The word Mum is too precious to be tossed around for propriety; it belongs only to a love that is selfsacrificing, not to a grocery bag or a desire to control someones life.
