Are you some kind of doormat?! The mother-in-law is horrified to see her son making breakfast himself.
What on earth is thisa man in the kitchen?! The mother-in-law was appalled to find her son preparing breakfast on his own.
Emily Whitmore had come to visit us for the first time in eight years. Since her son, Oliver, and I had tied the knot, shed never once stepped foot in our home. She lived in a small village near York, rarely venturing into the cityher age, health, and responsibilities on the farm kept her rooted. But this time, shed insisted: I need to see how youre living. Youve got a family, a mortgage I ought to check everythings alright.
Ill admit, I was pleased. All those years, not a single visit, not even a phone call to ask how we were. Id hoped we might finally break the ice. We welcomed her properlythe guest room ready, home-cooked meals, a cosy dressing gown and comfy slippers. Oliver and I did our best. Between work and chores, it wasnt easy, but she deserved to be looked after.
The first few days passed quietly. No drama. Then came that Saturday morning. I treated myself to a lie-in, exhausted from a gruelling week at work. Oliver, ever thoughtful, had woken up earlier, always finding little ways to make me smile. That day, hed decided to surprise us both with breakfast.
Half-asleep, I could hear the sounds from the kitchenthe sizzle of the frying pan, the hum of the coffee machine, the buttery scent of toast. I smiled to myself, heart light. My husband. My Oliver, so considerate. But that peaceful moment didnt last. Not once Emily burst into the kitchen.
Her voice cut through the door:
What on earth are you doing, son? At the stove? Wearing an apron?!
Mum, Im just making breakfast. You must still be tired from the journey. And Sophies still asleeplet her rest. Besides, I enjoy cooking, you know that
Take that off right now! A man in the kitchenwhat a disgrace! Is this how I raised you? Your father never washed a single dish in his life, and here you are flipping eggs like some housemaid! And Sophiewhy is she still in bed? Thats her job! Youre completely under her thumbits pathetic to watch!
I stayed under the duvet, fists clenched, torn between laughter and the urge to step in. Her words made my stomach turn. I felt ashamed for Oliver, hurt for myself, and terrified this visit might leave scars between us.
I walked out just as she was working herself into a proper rage. Oliver still held the spatula, the eggs quietly burning in the pan. Emily, meanwhile, trembled with fury, muttering about the downfall of morals, laziness, and how a man should be a man.
I quickly brewed some calming teawithout it, wed have had a full-blown meltdown on our hands. Sitting beside her, I took her hand and tried to explain, gently:
Things work differently in our home. Were partners. I cook, I clean, I work. But Oliver helps too. He cooks because he enjoys it. Because he cares for us. Is that really so terrible?
But she wasnt listening. Her face was set, her eyes full of judgement. She said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes: Youve turned my son into a weakling. And when she left a few days later, without even a hug, I knew shed never accept our way of life.
Later, Oliver admitted shed called his father to complain: Our boys become his wifes servant, poor ladup at dawn slaving over a hot stove. And I just thought: how sad to raise a man believing kindness is weakness. That love is something to be ashamed of.
Im not angry. Just sad. For her, who lived a life where the kitchen was a prison. For him, who had to fight just to be a good husband. And for me, because Id so badly wanted us to be close.
But one things certain: my husband isnt weak. Hes someone who loves. And if that doesnt sit well with everyone else tough luck for them.
