Mother-in-law Gave Me a Cookbook for My Birthdaywith a HintSo I Gave the Present Back
Did you chop this salad yourself or is it from those plastic tubs you keep poisoning my son with? Margaret Harding pursed her lips and prodded the canapé loaded with cream cheese and smoked salmon as if it were something faintly distasteful.
Rebecca drew a slow breath and smoothed the pleat of her dress. Thirty-five todaya milestone. The sort of day you want to feel like a queen, to soak up heartfelt wishes, and bask in celebration. Instead, she stood in her own sitting room, setting the table, feeling more like a schoolgirl facing up to a stern teacher.
Margaret, its from the restaurant deliverythe chef there is Italian, and the ingredients are first-rate, she replied, determined to keep her smile. You know Im at work until eight, and its physically impossible to stand at the cooker for hours a day just to feed fifteen people.
Work, of course… Margaret rolled her eyes heavenward, seeking validation from the framed photograph of her son on the mantelpiece. Back in our day, we worked too, minda full shift at the factory, in the fields, and still raised a family. But to let ones husband eat store-bought rubbish on a special occasion? Thats madness, dear. Poor David, just look at him, so wan and tired, circles under his eyes.
Her poor boy, all thirty-eight years and well-nourished sixteen stone of him, barrelled into the room at that moment, rubbing his hands together.
Mum, Becky! What a spread! Smells fantastic! Are those the aubergine rolls? My favourite!
Margaret shot him a glance weighted with maternal despair, but kept her lips pressed tight. Guests were due any minute. Rebecca darted to the kitchen, frustration coiling within her. This wasnt a new thingit had gone on throughout all five years of their marriage. Her mother-in-law waged a quiet war for her sons stomach. Every weekend, Tupperware filled with cottage pie or Victoria sponge would appear on their doorstep, always with a pinched comment: Heres some proper food, Rebeccas a career girl, she hardly has time, does she? Rebecca put up with it. She genuinely worked long hoursmanager of the logistics department at a large company, earning more than her husband, and held nothing back in considering paid cleaning and meal delivery part and parcel of their modern lives. In her view, it meant buying free timeto work out, read, or simply talk to her beloved husband.
But for Margaret, that was heresy. A woman who couldntor wouldntmake a pie from scratch was a defective specimen.
The doorbell rang, signalling the start of festivities. Laughter, perfume, flowers, and friends warmed the flat. Colleagues, family, her own parentsall brought toasts, happiness, cards brimming with crisp pounds, and spa vouchers. Gradually, Rebecca began to relax, ignoring the sour looks from the corner.
When dessert time arrived, Margaret, whose expression had suggested deep and noble suffering all evening, stood suddenly, rapping her fork on a wine glass for silence.
Dear guests, she intoned the way one might make a speech at the WI Our birthday girl turns thirty-fivea grand age for a woman. By now, a lady should have wisdom, patience, and above all else, know how to keep a proper home.
There was an artful pause as she rummaged in that capacious handbag propped at her feet.
Money washes away, Margaret continued, withdrawing a bulky parcel in sparkling wrapping It comes and goes. Beauty, too, fades. But skillcare for ones husbandkeeps a family together. I struggled to find a suitable gift, Rebecca, but in the end, I settled on something you truly lack. Knowledge.
She set the present on the table in front of her daughter-in-law with a thump. A hush descended, the guests exchanging glances. David coughed.
Rebecca unwrapped it, hands steady by force of will. It was a booka heavy, hardbound tome. The Great British Household & Cookery Encyclopaedia. Golden Collection. The cover featured a beaming apron-clad woman, proudly holding a steaming saucepan.
Not just a cookbook, mind Margarets voice dripped with poisonous sweetness. This is a family heirloom. Bought especially for you, but I took my time with it first. Left notes and tabs throughoutwhat David loves, how to make a proper shepherds pie, how to starch shirts so your husband looks respectable, not like a vagrant. Use it well, dear. Learn. Ones never too old to become a good wife.
An uncomfortable chuckle rippled among the guests. Rebeccas mother reddened and opened her mouth to retort, but Rebecca squeezed her hand under the table. Not the time. Not tonight. She wouldnt ruin her own birthday with a scandal.
Thank you, Margaret, she said evenly. Its certainly… a weighty gift. Ill be sure to study up.
She slid the book aside, offered everyone cake, and tried to pilot the evening towards laughter and light. But inside she burned with humiliationthis was no present. It was a slap in shiny wrapping.
After the guests trickled away and the dishwasher hummed, Rebecca sat on the sofa, the book heavy in her hands. David, whod dodged any mention of his mothers gift, dropped beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.
Beck, dont be cross with her. She means well, just old-fashioned. Went a bit far tonight, but who doesnt sometimes?
A bit far? Rebecca flipped the pages. Look.
Tabs everywhere. On the flyleaf, Margarets sprawling hand: For my dear daughter-in-law, in hope my son will stop living off cold sandwiches and recall the taste of decent food.
Page after page swarmed with comments.
On fish pie: Always make your own sauce! Store-boughts for the idle and the incapable.
Under cleaning tips: Dust under the bed is the mark of any true housekeeper. Frankly you could grow potatoes under yours.
With ironing: Trousers should have creases sharp enough to cut paper. Davids are simply embarrassing.
It wasnt a cookbook. It was a ledger of grievances, masked as motherly care. Margaret had given real time and venom to this enterprise. She had looked forward to this.
Mum…she just, yknow, worries about me, David muttered, shamefaced as he skimmed. His ears reddened. Beck, Ill stuff this away somewhere. Lets forget it.
No Rebecca snapped the covers shut with a clap like a judges gavel. You dont hide presents. You treat them as they deserve.
Over the next two days Rebecca was quiet; she neither argued nor raged, as David half-feared. She worked, ordered takeouts, leafed through the accursed book before bed, sometimes jotting notes herself.
Come Saturdaythe traditional family lunch with Davids parentsRebecca preened and dressed with unusual care.
Are we going to Mums? David asked, surprised, as she fixed her hair.
Of course. Would be rude not to visit after such a spectacular birthday. Besides, Ive a little something for your mother in return.
David tensed. Beck, dont start a war. Shes getting on…
Not starting a war, love. Ending one.
Margarets flat smelt as always of onions and furniture polish; spotless, everything stiffly neat. She opened the door in an apron and the air of someone certain her gift had made its mark, expecting repentance or eager questions.
Come in, come in, she cooed. Just popping in the cheese scones, Davids favourite. Hope youre hungry, what with all those takeaways…
Rebecca was pure charm: praised the scones, marvelled at the pie, asked after Margarets joints. The older woman blossomed, off guard for once.
When the last drop of tea was gone, Rebecca retrieved the book from her bag. Margaret smiled in satisfaction.
Whats this, dear? Need me to clarify something? The bit on breads a little tricky…
Margaret, Rebecca interrupted calmly, voice velvet but edged. Ive read your gift. Every page. Every note.
Margaret nodded smugly.
And I learned something vital. This is a treasure trove. The essence of your life, your beliefs, your world view.
Yes, quite! Margaret glowed.
Which is why, Rebecca continued, sliding the hefty book across the table, I dont feel its right for me to keep it.
Margarets smile froze.
What do you mean? Youre giving it back? Thats terribly rude, dear.
Please, if I may Rebecca held up a hand. This is not about manners; its about suitability. This book describes the perfect woman: up at five, kneading dough, viewing dust as personal defeat, living to serve her man. Thats you, Margaret. And you excel at it.
Rebecca paused, meeting Margarets eyes.
But Im not that woman. I make my living with my mind, not my hands. My working hour pays for a weeks groceries. If I spend three hours a day mashing potatoes, our household loses enough for a decent holiday. David and I have done the maths. It doesnt make sense for us.
David spluttered but said nothing, watching Rebecca with something like awe.
And most importantly Rebecca laid her palm on the cover I read your comments, about the hopeless, lazy, and shameful. I realised this book is soaked not with love, butlets call it dissatisfaction. Happy people dont scribble insults in the margins.
Margaret reddened. How dare you! I gave my life…
Indeed. You gave your life to household drudgery. I wish to live mine. With your son. To love him, not just his stomach. To talk, walk, travel, not spend it all tied to the cooker.
Rebecca pulled a white envelope from her handbag.
I return your book because we have a different philosophy at home. But I wont leave things unbalanced. You gave me a crash course in domestic servitude. I want to remind youyoure a woman, not just a cook.
She set it atop the book.
Its a voucher for a full course at the citys finest dance studioArgentine tango. Plus ten sessions with a massage therapist. I noticed youre stiff when youve been cooking so much.
Silence. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly. Margaret stared at the book, then at the envelope, then at Rebecca. As if her whole playbook had been destroyed. Now, to throw a fit would be to admit to pettiness; to refuse would be to show weakness.
Dancing? she managed eventually. At my age?
The very best, Rebecca smiled. Theres a group your age. Lovely folk. You might discover a world beyond dusting beds.
Rebecca stood.
Thank you for the sconesthey really were delicious. David, shall we? Weve a cinema booking.
David, whod been hunched as though expecting an explosion, straightened. He looked at his mother, then at Rebecca, then beamed.
Mum, thanks for lunch. The scones! Spot on. But Becks right. She doesnt need to cook. I love her as she is. And honestly, Mum…I actually like our takeaways. We try Thai one night, Georgian the nextmakes life interesting. Dont be upset.
He pecked his stunned mother on the cheek, took Rebeccas arm, and they left.
As they put on their coats, the kitchen stayed silent. Margaret sat before her Golden Cookbook and the envelope marked To Margaret Harding: For Dancing.
When they reached the car, David exhaled as if hed been holding his breath for hours.
Crikey, Beck! I thought youd let off a nuclear bomb, but you did her in…so gracefully. Economically unviablelove it.
Well, am I wrong? Rebecca buckled herself in, checking the rearview. I simply set boundaries. Your mum, David, shes not a bad personshes just trapped by old ideas. She reckons if shes not breaking her back in the kitchen, the days wasted. Wants me to suffer too, to justify her own struggle. I choose something different.
Think shell do the dancing? David smirked, starting the engine.
Who knows? She might bin the voucher. Or she might just try it. Either way, I doubt shell press that cookbook on me again, or give me lectures on dusting.
A week passed. Margaret phoned once, swift and stiff, no mention of the book.
A month later, on a Saturday as Rebecca and David lazily enjoyed a rare lie-in, Davids phone rang.
Hi Mum? he mumbled. No lunch today? Why? Oh, youre busy?
His eyebrows climbed as he switched to speakerphone.
…our showcase is in two weeks, daily rehearsal! Margarets voice sounded energetic, almost girlish. My tango partner, Peterthe retired officer? Hes very particular, good lead. So youll have to fend for yourselves today, order your…oh, what is it you like, that pizza. Love to you both, I must dash, new shoes arent broken in yet!
The call ended. David and Rebecca stared at each other, then burst out laughing.
It worked! Rebecca sank back into the pillows. Peter, retired military. Good luck to himhell be learning soon enough how to keep his shirts pressed to perfection!
But shes off our backs, David grinned, stretching out in bliss. Shall we get sushi, Beck?
Lets order the biggest platter.
Rebecca sprawled back, feeling an unfamiliar, buoyant sense of ease. It turns out, you dont win the war with your mother-in-law by fighting fire with fire, or by trying desperately to please. You simply hand her expectations back and, if youre lucky, offer her something that might make her own life richer. The venomous cookbook was history, replaced by freedom, a Saturday morning, and a husband who loved her for herself, not for her casserole. That, to my mind, is the best recipe for happinessone youll never find in any encyclopaedia.
So, the lesson for me? Sometimes the best way to handle heavy-handed hints is to gently, but firmly, return the hint to senderand in the process, offer a kindness they might never expect. Boundariesand plenty of good humourmake the best family ties.
