**A Morning Surprise from My Mother-in-Law**
“Good morning, love!” My father-in-law, John Wilson, beamed as he swung the door open. Behind him stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, with an innocent smile that hid mischief too well. She gave me a knowing glance toward the kitchen, where her latest “surprise” awaited. Still oblivious, I nodded—only to groan five minutes later. Margaret has a knack for surprises, though not always the kind I appreciate. Now, I’m left wondering whether to laugh or bury my face in my hands. These little shocks from her are becoming a tradition.
My husband, James, and I have lived with his parents for six months now. When we married, they insisted we move in—their house is spacious, after all, and “family should stick together.” I agreed, though secretly, I longed for our own flat. John is easygoing, either tinkering in the garage or watching football, never meddling. But Margaret? That’s another story. She isn’t cruel, just endlessly “helpful”—stepping in where she’s not asked and calling it “care.” And her surprises? Always with a catch.
That morning, I woke early to make breakfast. James had already left for work, and I planned a simple omelette and coffee. But the kitchen stopped me cold. A massive pot sat on the table, lid clamped shut, beside a note: *”For you and James, darling—enjoy!”* Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped. Inside was stew—but not ordinary. Overloaded with cabbage, smelling oddly pungent, and drowning in what seemed like a forest of parsley. I love stew, but this looked like Margaret had raided the garden and every spice rack in town.
She appeared just as I turned. “Well, Emily, what do you think?” she asked, pride dripping from every word as if it were a Michelin-starred dish. I forced a smile. “Thank you, Margaret. Very… creative.” She waved me off. “I stayed up late making it. You’re always on that diet of yours, but a man needs proper food!” *Proper food?* James happily eats my cooking, and no one’s complained yet. Arguing with Margaret, though, is like shouting into a hurricane.
I tried hinting we could manage. “Margaret, thank you, but James and I usually keep meals light. You needn’t go to so much trouble.” She tutted. “Oh, Emily, it’s no bother! You’re young—you’ll learn.” *Learn?* I’ve cooked since I was fifteen, and my roast dinners vanish faster than her “signature” shepherd’s pie! Yet she acts like we’d starve without her stew.
This isn’t her first “gift.” Last week, she hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar, displacing my yogurts in the fridge. *”For winter!”* she declared. *Winter?* We live together—why would I need three jars? A month ago, she “helped” tidy our room, rearranging my wardrobe because *”it’s neater this way.”* I spent hours hunting my favorite jumper. James just laughs: *”Mum’s set in her ways, Em—humor her.”* Easy for him—he’s at work while I navigate her surprises.
The oddest part? Margaret genuinely believes she’s helping. She’s not the villainous mother-in-law—just convinced her stew saves us from malnutrition and her advice will make me a “proper homemaker.” But I don’t *want* to be her version of one. I love experimenting with Thai curries, not boiling vats of stew. I want my kitchen to be *mine*, not an annex of Margaret’s culinary museum.
James suggested compromise: *”Just try a bite, praise her, and she’ll ease up.”* A *bite?* That stew was saltier than the North Sea! I proposed she ask before cooking, but I doubt he’ll sway her. She’s already hinting at a “weekend surprise”—something about a cabbage pie. I’m mentally bracing for another pot.
Sometimes, I dream of a flat where no one rearranges my spices or cooks unasked. But then I remember—Margaret isn’t malicious. She’s just from an era where mother-in-laws ruled the stove. Maybe I should relax and treat her surprises as family quirks? Yet, staring at that pot, I think: if she calls my omelette “rabbit food” again, I’ll make sushi right in front of her. Let her try to drown *that* in parsley.
