*”Are you some sort of submissive man?!”* My mother-in-law stood aghast at the sight of her son making breakfast himself. *”What on earth is thisa man in the kitchen?!”* Florence Ashworth was horrified to find her son frying eggs at the stove.
She had come to visit us for the first time in eight years. Since her son, Edward, and I had tied the knot, she had never once stepped foot in our home. She lived in a quiet hamlet near York, seldom venturing into the cityage, health, and the demands of the farm kept her rooted. But this time, she had insisted: *”I want to see how you live. After all, youve a family now, a mortgage to pay I ought to make sure things are proper.”*
Truth be told, I was glad of it. In all those years, not a single visit, not even a phone call to ask after us. Id hoped we might finally bridge the distance. We welcomed her as best we couldthe spare room made up, hearty meals prepared, a warm dressing gown and slippers laid out. Edward and I did our utmost, though between work and chores, it wasnt easy. Still, she deserved every comfort.
The first few days passed smoothly enough, without incident. Then came that Saturday morning. Id allowed myself a lie-in, worn out from a long weeks labour. Edward, ever thoughtful, had risen earlyalways one for little kindnesses to brighten my day. That morning, hed decided to surprise us both with breakfast.
Half-asleep, I heard the sounds from the kitchenthe sizzle of the pan, the hum of the kettle, the rich scent of buttered toast. I smiled to myself, heart light. My husband. My Edward, so considerate. But the peace didnt last long. Florence soon made her entrance.
Her voice cut through the door like a blade:
*”What in heavens name are you doing, boy? At the stove? Wearing an apron?!”*
*”Mother, Im just fixing breakfast. You must be tired from the journey. And Beatrice is still asleeplet her rest. Besides, I enjoy cooking, you know that”*
*”Take that thing off at once! A man in the kitchenwhat a disgrace! Is this how I raised you? Your father never so much as washed a dish in his life, and here you are flipping eggs like some scullery maid! And Beatricewhy isnt she up? Thats her duty! Youre utterly under her thumbits pitiful to see!”*
I stayed beneath the quilt, fists clenched, torn between laughter and the urge to march in. Her words sickened me. I ached for Edward, stung for myself, and feared this visit might leave wounds too deep to mend.
I emerged just as she was working herself into a proper fit. Edward still held the spatula, the eggs blackening quietly in the pan. Florence, meanwhile, trembled with outrage, muttering about moral decay, fecklessness, and *”a man ought to be a man.”*
I brewed a pot of soothing teawithout it, we mightve witnessed an apoplexy on the spot. Sitting beside her, I took her hand and tried to explain, gently:
*”In our home, things are different. Were partners. I cook, I clean, I work. But Edward helps too. He cooks because he enjoys it. Because he cares for us. Is that so terrible?”*
But she wouldnt hear it. Her face was stone, her eyes full of judgement. She said nothing, yet her expression spoke plainly: *”Youve turned my son soft.”* And when she left a few days laterwithout so much as a farewell embraceI knew she would never accept our way of life.
Later, Edward confessed shed written to his father in distress: *”Our boys become his wifes servant, poor ladup at dawn slaving over a hot stove, not even allowed his rest.”* And I thought: how sad, to raise a man believing kindness is weakness. To make love seem a shame.
Im not angry. Only sorry. For her, who lived a life where the kitchen was a prison. For him, who had to fight for the right to be a good husband. And for myself, because Id so hoped we might grow close.
Still, I know this much: my husband is no *”weakling.”* Hes a man who loves. And if that doesnt sit well with some well, thats their loss.
