A Gift Laced with Criticism: How the Mother-in-Law Ruined a Birthday
Polly had spent the entire day bustling around the kitchen—today was her birthday, and everything had to be perfect. The salads, the appetisers, the main course. By evening, the guests began to arrive: her parents, her closest friends, and, of course, her mother-in-law, Margaret Leighton. The women happily pitched in, arranging the dishes on the table, setting out the food. The evening promised warmth, laughter, family. But that was before Margaret decided to speak.
“My dear daughter-in-law,” she began with a strained smile, “Happy birthday! And in honour of this special occasion, I’ve brought you…” She approached and handed Polly an envelope.
Polly opened it with a grin, but as she saw what was inside, her face fell. It was a voucher for culinary classes.
“I do hope you’ll finally learn to cook,” Margaret said, her voice dripping with ice. “So that next year, we won’t have to be embarrassed sitting at your table.”
The air turned heavy. Polly stood frozen.
“You’re serious? Even on my birthday, you couldn’t help yourself?”
“Calm down,” William cut in. “Sit. I’ll handle this.”
He led his mother into the kitchen. No one knew exactly what was said behind the closed door, but soon Margaret left—taking the voucher with her. An uncomfortable silence lingered over the table, though eventually, the guests relaxed. Toasts were raised—to health, to love, to patience.
By the time most had left, only Polly’s friends remained. The mood had dimmed.
“Pol, come on, do you really cook that badly?” Tanya asked.
“Honestly, I’m no masterchef, but it’s edible. Margaret just thinks if her son isn’t the one cooking, it’s automatically terrible.”
“Has she ever actually tasted your food?” Gemma frowned.
“Rarely. She usually decides it’ll be awful before even trying it.”
That’s when the plan took shape. Polly decided to prove that the issue wasn’t her cooking—it was bias.
She and William discussed it, prepared carefully. He cooked the meal himself; Polly passed it off as her own. Margaret was invited over. She arrived, sharp-eyed and ready to criticise—but was disarmed by the sight of the table. The soup tureen, the roast, the sides, the appetisers.
“Well,” she muttered. “Let’s hope those classes weren’t wasted.”
She took a bite. And, though reluctantly, she even complimented it.
“The classes helped. Still not up to William’s standard, of course, but at least the money wasn’t completely wasted.”
That’s when William pulled out his phone, pressed play, and set it in front of her.
On the screen, he stood at the stove—preparing the very dishes she’d just praised.
“Mum, I’m tired of you belittling Polly. Yesterday, you ate food I made. Which means you liked it. If you’re just looking for reasons to put her down, that ends now. No more comments about her cooking—ever.”
Margaret went pale.
“This is her doing! She’s manipulating you! I raised you better than this!”
“Mum, enough. You’re pushing me away.”
She stood, stiff-backed, and stormed out, the door slamming behind her.
Months passed. No calls, no messages. William didn’t reach out. But eventually, she cracked—realised she was losing her son. She apologised. Slowly, she and Polly found a truce. Of course, the occasional barb still slipped through—but far less often. Polly learned to let it roll off her. For the sake of peace.
In the end, even the hardest walls crumble when the truth can’t be ignored.
