A Morning Surprise from Mother-in-Law
“Good morning, dear!” said my father-in-law, William Edwards, with a broad smile as he opened the door. Behind him stood my mother-in-law, Margaret Edwards, wearing an expression so innocent you’d think she hadn’t a care in the world. She gave a faint smile and cast a meaningful glance toward the kitchen, where, as it turned out, she had left her little “surprise.” Unaware of what awaited me, I nodded in response, but within minutes, I nearly groaned aloud. That woman had a knack for surprises—just not always the kind I appreciated. And now I sat there, torn between laughter and despair, for such antics from Margaret had become something of a tradition.
My husband, Thomas, and I had been living under the same roof as his parents for half a year. When we married, they insisted we move in—”plenty of space,” they said, “and family should stick together.” I agreed, though deep down, I longed for a place of my own. William was kindly and easygoing—always tinkering in the shed or watching football, never meddling in my affairs. But Margaret? That was another matter entirely. She wasn’t cruel, no, but she had a talent for inserting herself where she wasn’t needed and calling it “looking after us.” And her “surprises” always came with a catch.
That morning, I rose early to make breakfast. Thomas had already left for work, and I intended to whip up some scrambled eggs, brew coffee, and ease into the day. But stepping into the kitchen, I froze. There, on the table, sat an enormous pot, lid firmly in place, beside a note: “Dear Elizabeth, this is for your lunch—enjoy!” Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped. Inside was a stew, but not like any I’d seen before—piled high with cabbage, reeking of odd spices, and what seemed like an entire bunch of parsley. I liked stew well enough, but this looked as though Margaret had swept through the garden, tossed in every vegetable she could find, and topped it off with seasoning from the corner shop.
I turned to find her standing in the doorway. “Well, Elizabeth, what do you think of my surprise?” she asked, beaming as though she’d presented a Michelin-starred dish. I forced a smile. “Thank you, Margaret, it’s… certainly unique.” She tutted. “I stayed up half the night cooking, so you and Thomas wouldn’t go hungry. You’re always on about your healthy meals, but a man needs proper food!” Proper food? Thomas devoured my scrambled eggs without complaint. But arguing with Margaret was like shouting into the wind.
I tried hinting that we could manage on our own. “Margaret,” I said, “thank you, but Thomas and I usually keep things light. Perhaps you needn’t go to so much trouble?” She waved a hand. “Oh, Elizabeth, it’s no trouble at all! You’re still learning how to keep a home.” Learning? I’d been cooking since I was fifteen, and my roast potatoes vanished faster than her “famous” shepherd’s pie at every family gathering! Yet Margaret seemed convinced we’d starve without her stew.
This wasn’t her first “surprise.” The week before, she’d hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar and crammed them into our fridge, displacing my yogurts. “For later, dear!” she’d declared. Later? We lived in the same house—why would I need three jars of pickled onions? And last month, she’d “helped” tidy our wardrobe, rearranging all my clothes because “it made more sense.” I’d spent hours hunting for my favourite jumper. Thomas just chuckled. “Mum’s set in her ways, love. Best humour her.” Humour her? Easy for him—he was at work all day while I navigated her surprises.
The irony was, Margaret truly believed she was doing us a favour. She wasn’t the sort of mother-in-law who schemed to make life difficult—no, she genuinely thought her stew would save us from starvation and her advice would mold me into a “proper wife.” But I didn’t want to be a wife by her standards! I loved making risotto, experimenting with Thai spices, not simmering vats of stew for days. And I wanted my kitchen to be mine, not an extension of Margaret’s culinary domain.
I’d tried discussing it with Thomas, but as usual, he played peacemaker. “Liz,” he said, “Mum means well. Have a spoonful, praise her, and she’ll be happy.” A spoonful? I’d spent half the night gulping water—that stew was saltier than the North Sea! I suggested a compromise: if Margaret wanted to cook, she could at least ask if we needed anything. Thomas promised to talk to her, but I doubted it would change much. She was already plotting her next surprise—something about a meat pie for Sunday. I braced myself for another potful.
Sometimes I dreamed of my own flat, where no one would poke spoons into my salads or boil stew without asking. But then I reminded myself: Margaret, for all her quirks, meant no harm. She was from another time, when a mother-in-law was the family’s undisputed chef. Perhaps I ought to relax and accept her surprises as part of our odd little tapestry. Yet as I stared at that pot, I thought: if she called my scrambled eggs “not proper food” one more time, I’d start rolling sushi right in front of her. Let her try stuffing parsley into that.
