So, there was this one scorching hot July day when Margaret Elizabeth was up at the crack of dawn, washing windows, fluffing pillows, and nagging her daughter about how she and James really ought to visit the countryside—the garlic was ready to be picked. Emma tried to wriggle out of it—work, errands, the kids—but her mum was as persistent as ever.
“Summer’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll still be cooped up in that city!” she huffed over the phone. “The blackberries’ll go to waste, the potatoes’ll sprout, and you’ll still be glued to your phones!”
In the end, they agreed—weekend trip, help with the garden, and, as usual, a nice evening together.
James wasn’t exactly thrilled. The last visit had ended… awkwardly. He’d just asked for a bit of sausage to go with his risotto, and his mother-in-law outright refused. Like, snatched it back. He nearly choked on his drink in shock.
Saturday morning, they set off early. They got the job done quick—pulled the garlic, sorted it, packed it away. Time to relax, right? Dinner, good company. James showered, wandered into the kitchen. Emma and her mum were setting the table. The smell of risotto was intoxicating. To tide himself over, he opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage, and—
“Put that back!” Margaret Elizabeth barked like a drill sergeant.
The sausage was back in the fridge before he could blink. James froze, baffled.
“Mum, what’s the big deal?” Emma asked, just as confused.
“Sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not now—you’ll spoil your appetite for the risotto!” she snapped.
James sat down, took a bite… no meat in it. Politely asked for just a bit of sausage. Denied again.
“Why are you all obsessed with it?” Margaret Elizabeth tutted. “You’ve already had half the pack! Do you know how much that costs? That’s supposed to last the week!”
James pushed his plate away. Appetite: gone. He got up, walked outside. Emma followed later. Found him on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s go home. I can’t stay here. Feels like she’s watching my every move, like I’m stealing from her. God forbid I spread an extra bit of butter—she’d probably snatch the knife from me.”
“There’s not even a shop here,” Emma sighed. “Just the mobile grocer on Fridays.”
“Should’ve brought proper food, not just cherries and plums,” James muttered. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll come back for you later. A man can’t live on air.”
“We’ll leave together,” Emma said firmly.
And they did. Emma fibbed to her mum, saying James got called into work urgently. Margaret Elizabeth glared as they drove off.
Nearly a year passed. They didn’t visit. But she came to them—no problem. And the weirdest part? She’d raid their fridge like it was her own. Took whatever she pleased, no questions asked. Even James joked, “Look at her go—apparently, *this* sausage is up for grabs.”
Then spring rolled around, and the calls started again: “When are you coming? The garden won’t tend itself.”
James hesitated, but Emma had a plan: “We’ll bring our own food. That way, Mum won’t be counting every bite.”
James agreed—on one condition: they’d stop at the supermarket first. So there they were, back on the cottage doorstep, bags in hand.
“What’ve you got this time? More plums?” Margaret Elizabeth pursed her lips—until she peeked inside and saw cheese, meat, sausage. She stalled.
“Just so you don’t have to weigh my portions,” James smirked.
She scoffed but stayed quiet. Later, in the kitchen, she whispered to Emma, “It’d be nice if you always brought supplies. Easier for me, less stress for you.”
Emma nodded, equal parts amused and exasperated. But hey—James was willing to come back now. Even if it meant hauling groceries. No more lectures, no more drama. And as it turned out, that was its own kind of happy ending.
