A Morning Surprise from Mother-in-Law
“Good morning, love!” said my father-in-law, John Wilson, grinning as he opened the door. Behind him walked my mother-in-law, Margaret, with an innocent look on her face, as if she hadn’t just caused chaos. She gave a slight smile and glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where she’d left her latest “surprise.” Still unsuspecting, I nodded, but five minutes later, I nearly groaned. This woman had a knack for surprises—just not always the kind I wanted. Now I sat there, torn between laughter and despair, because these little shocks from Margaret were becoming a tradition.
My husband, James, and I had been living with his parents for six months. When we got married, they insisted we move in—their house was spacious, there was room for everyone, and “family should stick together.” I agreed, though secretly, I’d dreamed of our own flat. John was easygoing, always tinkering in the garage or watching football, never meddling. But Margaret—that was another story. She wasn’t mean, no, but she had a talent for inserting herself where she wasn’t needed and calling it “care.” And her “surprises” always came with a catch.
That morning, I woke early to make breakfast. James had already left for work, and I planned to whip up some scrambled eggs, brew coffee, and start the day quietly. But when I walked into the kitchen, I froze. On the table sat an enormous pot, lid on, with a note beside it: “For you and James, enjoy!” Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped—inside was stew, but not just any stew. This one looked experimental, packed with cabbage, smelling odd, and topped with what seemed like a whole garden’s worth of parsley. I liked stew, but this looked like Margaret had thrown in everything from the allotment and raided the spice rack for good measure.
I turned to find her standing in the doorway. “Well, Emily, what do you think of my surprise?” she asked, beaming as if she’d presented a Michelin-starred dish. I forced a smile. “Thanks, Margaret, it’s… unique.” She nodded proudly. “I was up half the night making it—you two need proper food. You’re always on that diet of yours, but a man needs real meals!” Real meals? James happily devoured my scrambled eggs, and no one had complained yet. But arguing with Margaret was like shouting over a bulldozer.
I tried hinting we could manage on our own. “Margaret, thanks, but James and I usually keep things light. Maybe don’t trouble yourself?” She waved me off. “Oh, Emily, don’t thank me—I’m happy to help! You’ll learn to run a household yet.” Learn? I’d been cooking since I was fifteen, and my salads vanished faster than her “signature” shepherd’s pie at gatherings. But Margaret seemed convinced we’d starve without her stew.
This wasn’t her first “surprise.” Last week, she hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar and crammed them into our fridge, displacing my yogurts. “For winter!” she declared. Winter? We lived together—why did I need three jars of onions? A month ago, she “helped” tidy our room by rearranging my wardrobe because “it made more sense.” I spent two hours hunting for my favourite jumper. James just laughed. “Mum’s set in her ways, Em. Humour her.” Easy for him—he was at work while I dealt with her antics.
The funny thing was, Margaret genuinely believed she was helping. She wasn’t the type to sabotage—she truly thought her stew saved us from malnutrition and her advice would mold me into a “proper homemaker.” But I didn’t want to be a homemaker by her standards! I loved making pasta, 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 museum.
I’d tried talking to James, but he stayed neutral. “Em, Mum means well. Have a spoonful, praise her, and she’ll back off.” A spoonful? I spent half the night chugging water—that stew was saltier than the North Sea! I suggested a compromise: Margaret could cook, but she should ask first. James promised to talk to her, but I doubted it’d work. She was already plotting her next “surprise” for the weekend—something about cabbage pasties. I braced myself for another pot drama.
Sometimes I dreamed of our own place, where no one would poke spoons into my salads or boil stew unasked. But then I reminded myself: Margaret, quirks and all, wasn’t malicious. She was just from another time, when mother-in-laws ruled the family kitchen. Maybe I should relax and treat her surprises as part of the charm? But 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.
