Are you some kind of pushover?! The mother-in-law was horrified to see her son making breakfast himself.
What on earth is this, a man in the kitchen?! She stood frozen in the doorway, staring in disbelief as her son scrambled eggs at the stove.
Eleanor Whitmore had come to visit for the first time in eight years. Since her son, Oliver, and I had tied the knot, she had never once stepped foot in our home. She lived in a small village near York and rarely ventured into the cityher age, health, and duties on the family farm kept her anchored there. But this time, she had insisted: I need to see how youre living. Youve got a family now, a mortgage Its only right I check in.
Truth be told, I was glad. All these years, not a single visit, not even a phone call to ask how we were. Id hoped this might finally break the ice. We welcomed her properlya freshly made guest room, home-cooked meals, a cosy dressing gown and slippers waiting for her. Oliver and I had done our best. Between work and household 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 allowed myself a lie-in, exhausted from a gruelling week at the office. Oliver, always thoughtful, had risen earlyhe loved doing little things to make life easier for me. That day, hed decided to surprise us both with breakfast.
Half-asleep, I could hear the sounds of the kitchenthe sizzle of the frying pan, the hum of the coffee machine, the buttery scent of toast. I smiled to myself, heart full. My husband. My kind, considerate Oliver. But the peace didnt last. The moment Eleanor walked into the kitchen, chaos erupted.
Her voice sliced through the door:
What on earth are you doing, Oliver? At the stove? Wearing an apron?!
Mum, Im just making breakfast. You must be tired from the trip, and Emilys 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 boiled an egg in his life, and here you are flipping omelettes like some scullery maid! And Emilywhy is she still in bed? Thats her job! Youre completely under her thumb, its pathetic to watch!
I stayed under the duvet, fists clenched, torn between laughter and the urge to step in. Her words sickened me. I felt ashamed for Oliver, hurt for myself, and afraid this visit might leave scars between us that would never heal.
I emerged just as she was working herself into a proper fury. Oliver still held the spatula, the omelette now blackening in the pan. Eleanor, meanwhile, trembled with outrage, muttering about moral decay, irresponsibility, and a man should be a man.
I quickly brewed a calming cup of teawithout it, we mightve had a full-blown coronary on our hands. Sitting beside her, I took her hand and tried to explain, gently:
Things are different 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 wrong?
But she wasnt listening. Her face was stony, her eyes full of judgment. She said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes: Youve turned my son into a spineless fool. And when she left a few days later, without so much as a hug, I knew she would never accept the way we lived.
Later, Oliver confessed shed phoned his father to complain: Our boys become his wifes doormatup at dawn slaving over a hot stove, the poor lamb. And I thought: how sad, to raise a man believing that 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 for the right to be a good husband. And for me, because Id so desperately hoped we might grow close.
But one thing I know: my husband isnt weak. Hes someone who loves. And if that doesnt sit well with everyone else well, thats their loss.
