**Diary Entry 12th June**
Bloody hell, I never thought cooking breakfast could cause such a fuss.
Mum-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, finally visited us after eight yearsfirst time since Oliver and I tied the knot. She lives in a tiny village near York, stubborn as an old mule, always claiming the farm kept her too busy to travel. But this time, she insisted, “I need to see how youre getting on. A family, a mortgageIve a right to check everythings proper.”
Truth be told, I was glad she came. Not so much as a phone call in all these yearsmaybe now we could mend things. We prepared the spare room, cooked her favourite meals, even laid out a warm dressing gown and slippers. Between work and chores, it wasnt easy, but she deserved the effort.
The first few days passed quietly. No drama. Then came Saturday morning. I slept in, knackered after a brutal week at the office. Oliver, bless him, got up earlyalways thoughtful, always doing little things to make life sweeter. That morning, he decided to surprise us with breakfast.
Half-asleep, I heard the sizzle of bacon, the hum of the kettle, the buttery scent of toast. Smiling, I thought, *Thats my bloke. My Ollie.* But the peace shattered when Margaret stormed into the kitchen.
Her voice cut through the door like a blade:
“Good Lord, Oliver! What in heavens name are you doing? An apron? At the stove?”
“Just making breakfast, Mum. Youve had a long trip, and Emilys still asleeplet her rest. Besides, I dont mind cooking”
“Take that off at once! A man in the kitchendisgraceful! Is this how I raised you? Your father never so much as boiled an egg, and here you are, flipping pancakes like some maid! And Emilylazing in bed? Thats *her* job! Youre utterly henpecked, its pitiful!”
I stayed under the duvet, fists clenched, torn between laughing and marching in. Her words made my skin crawl. I was furious for Oliver, hurt for myself, terrified this visit would leave scars.
I walked in just as she was working herself into a proper state. Oliver stood there, spatula in hand, the eggs burning quietly. Margaret trembled, muttering about “modern nonsense” and “a man ought to be a man.”
I brewed her a calming teawithout it, she mightve had a full-blown fit. Sitting beside her, I tried explaining gently:
“Things are different here, Margaret. Were partners. I cook, I clean, I work. But Oliver helps too. He *likes* cooking. He cares for us. Is that so wrong?”
She barely listened, face pinched with disapproval. When she left days laterno hug, no proper goodbyeI knew shed never accept our way of life.
Later, Oliver admitted shed rung his dad, wailing, “Our boys become his wifes doormatup at dawn like some scullery maid!” And I thought: *What a sad way to raise a manto make him think kindness is weakness. That love is shame.*
Im not angry. Just sorry. For her, who saw the kitchen as a prison. For him, who had to fight just to be a good husband. And for me, because Id hoped, foolishly, we mightve grown close.
But one things certain: my Oliver isnt “weak.” Hes a man who loves. And if that offends anyone? Wellsod em.
