A Morning Surprise from Mother-in-Law
“Good morning, dear!” boomed my father-in-law, Albert Whitmore, with a broad grin as he swung the door open. Behind him stood my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, wearing an innocent expression that belied the mischief she’d just wrought. She gave a faint smile and glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where her so-called “surprise” awaited. Unaware of what lay in store, I nodded politely—only to nearly groan aloud five minutes later. Margaret had a knack for surprises, though seldom the kind I welcomed. Now, as I sat staring, torn between laughter and despair, I couldn’t help but concede: these antics of hers were becoming a family tradition.
My husband, Thomas, and I had lived under the same roof as his parents for half a year. When we married, they insisted we move in—their house was spacious, after all, and “family ought to stick together.” I agreed despite my quiet yearning for a place of our own. Albert was easygoing, tinkering in the shed or watching football, never meddling. Margaret, however, was another matter. She wasn’t unkind, no, but she had a gift for inserting herself where she wasn’t invited, all under the guise of “looking after us.” And her surprises? They always came with a catch.
That morning, I rose early to fix breakfast. Thomas had already left for work, and I’d planned a simple omelette and coffee to start the day. But the moment I stepped into the kitchen, I froze. On the table sat an enormous pot, lid firmly in place, beside a note: “For you and Thomas, enjoy your lunch, dear!” Lifting the lid, I nearly gasped—inside was stew, but not the sort anyone would recognise. It was an experiment gone awry, crammed with cabbage, reeking of odd spices, and topped with enough parsley to garnish a banquet. I liked stew, but this looked like Margaret had raided the garden and the nearest grocer’s spice rack.
I turned to find her hovering in the doorway. “Well, Eleanor, what do you think of my little surprise?” she asked, beaming as though she’d presented a Michelin-starred dish. I forced a smile. “Thank you, Margaret. It’s… certainly unique.” Undeterred, she prattled on, “I stayed up half the night preparing it—you and Thomas need proper meals. You’re always on that diet of yours, but a man requires hearty food!” Hearty food? Thomas devoured my omelettes without complaint. Arguing with Margaret, though, was like shouting into a gale.
I tried diplomacy. “Margaret, we appreciate it, but Thomas and I usually prefer lighter meals. Perhaps you needn’t go to such trouble?” She tutted. “Nonsense, dear! You’ll learn to manage a proper kitchen in time.” Learn? I’d been cooking since I was fifteen, and my salads vanished faster than her “signature” shepherd’s pie at every gathering. Yet Margaret seemed convinced we’d starve without her meddling.
This wasn’t her first “surprise.” The week before, she’d hauled three jars of pickled onions from the cellar and commandeered our fridge, displacing my yoghurts. “For winter, Eleanor!” she’d declared. Winter? We lived in the same house! A month prior, she’d “helped” tidy our wardrobe, rearranging my clothes because “it made more sense.” I’d spent hours hunting for my favourite cardigan. Thomas just laughed. “You won’t change her, love. Best humour her.” Humour her? Easy for him—he was at work while I navigated her chaos.
The irony was, Margaret genuinely believed she was helping. She wasn’t the sort to spitefully meddle; she truly thought her stew would save us from malnutrition and her advice would mould me into a “proper homemaker.” But I didn’t want her version of homemaking! I loved making pasta, experimenting with exotic spices—not simmering vats of stew for days. And I wanted my kitchen to be mine, not an annex of Margaret’s culinary museum.
I’d broached the subject with Thomas, but he, ever the diplomat, shrugged. “Eleanor, Mum means well. Have a spoonful, praise her, and she’ll be chuffed.” A spoonful? I’d spent the night gulping water after that salt-laden disaster! I proposed a compromise: Margaret could cook, but only if she asked first. Thomas promised to talk to her, but I held no illusions. She was already plotting her next “surprise”—something about a cabbage pie. I braced myself for another pot-bound ordeal.
Sometimes I dreamed of our own flat, where no one would rearrange my spices or surprise me with unrequested feasts. But then I’d remind myself: Margaret, for all her quirks, wasn’t malicious. She was from another era, where a mother-in-law ruled the kitchen with an iron ladle. Perhaps I ought to relax and treat her antics as part of the family charm. Yet as I eyed that monstrous pot, one thought persisted: if she called my omelette “not proper food” one more time, I’d start rolling sushi right under her nose. Let her try stuffing parsley into that.
