**A Terrifying Discovery in Mother-in-Laws Pot**
I woke at dawn and, as usual, shuffled into the kitchen of our home in the outskirts of Bristol. To my surprise, my daughter-in-law was already bustling by the stove.
“Good morning,” Anastasia smiled, stirring something in the pot.
“Morning,” I grumbled, wrinkling my nose. “What on earth are you making?”
“Leek and potato soup,” she replied without looking up. “Oliver adores it.”
“Leek and potato?” I sniffed suspiciously. “Does it usually smell like *that*?”
“How *should* it smell?” Anastasia shrugged, covered the pot, and slipped out of the kitchen.
I didnt waste a second. I marched to the stove, lifted the lid, and peered inside. What I saw made me recoil in horror.
“What *is* this concoction?” I muttered, stepping back as if it were poison.
Anastasia returned with bowls and, noticing my reaction, said calmly, “Leek and potato soup, Margaret. The vegetables are from our gardenfreshly picked. Cooking with homegrown ingredients feels like a celebration.”
“A *celebration*?” I scoffed, crossing my arms. “That gardens nothing but a chore! Digging in the dirt when you could just pop to the shops? Ill never understand you.”
“I enjoy it,” she said softly, ladling the soup. The scent of leeks, potatoes, and thyme filled the kitchen. “The earth gives back when you work with it.”
“Gives back?” I rolled my eyes. “A hobby for those with too much time. Proper people” I cut myself off as Anastasia kept smiling, unfazed. “And whyve you made so much?”
“For us,” she replied. “Itll last days. Oliver always has seconds.”
I stepped back dramatically, as if the smell alone made me ill.
“I wont touch that!” I declared. “The stench turns my stomach! What on earth have you put in it?”
Anastasia sighed, avoiding my glare. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Oliver entering the kitchen, watching silently.
I couldnt fathom what had happened to my son. Just two years ago, Oliver was a promising young tech professional in London. Wed visit galleries, discuss new restaurants, dream of his career. Now? This countryside life, this garden, this plain *Anastasia*! Even her name made me bristle.
Oliver had always been a catchtall, clever, charming. How many well-bred girls had sighed over him! Why had he chosen this country girl and this tiny, remote cottage? Id hoped hed grow bored and return to the city. But months passed, and he sank deeper into this “rural idyll.”
I had to act. Anastasias invitation was my chance. My plan: remind my son who he *really* was before it was too late.
Oliver wrapped an arm around his wife and turned to me.
“Mum, try the soup. Anastasia makes it perfectly!”
“Oliver, you *know* your father and I never ate such peasant food,” I retorted. “I remember you turning up your nose at leek soup as a boy. Called it ‘old folks slop.'”
Anastasia smiled despite herself, picturing a young Oliver pushing his bowl away. But now he was a man, and his tastes had changed.
“Mum, times change,” he laughed. “Anastasias soup is a masterpiece. Try ityoull see.”
“A *masterpiece*?” I spluttered. “Oliver, you call a pot of potatoes a *masterpiece*? Real masterpieces are in theatres, in museumsnot this *slop*!”
