The dream unfolded in a haze of golden kitchen light, the hum of the refrigerator blending with the ticking of the grandfather clock.
“Call my cooking slop one more time,” Emily said, voice like chilled steel, “and you’ll be eating on the pavement.”
She glanced at the clockhalf six. Daniel would be back from work soon, and Margaret Whitmore already sat in the parlour, flipping through a magazine, her lips pursed. Dusk settled over London, painting the flat in cool blue shadows.
Emily turned on the hob, set a frying pan to heat. Tonight: chicken cutlets with roasted veg and a crisp garden salad. Nothing fancy, but hearty. Five years of marriage had taught her efficiencyno time for culinary artistry after her shifts at the salon.
“That frying stench again,” came Margaret’s voice, sharp as a knife. “The whole flat reeks.”
Emily flipped the cutlets in silence. Margaret had moved in six months ago after selling her one-bed in Croydon. Officially, to help with the mortgage. Unofficially, shed spent the money on a spa retreat and new furnishings for her room.
The front door clicked. Daniel stepped in, tie loosened, the scent of rain clinging to his coat. “Evening, love,” he said, kissing Emilys cheek. “Smells brilliant.”
“Dinners nearly ready,” she replied. “Wash up, Ill set the table.”
As Daniel disappeared, Margaret materialised in the kitchen, a stout woman with a blunt bob and a tongue like sandpaper.
“Daniel needs proper meals, not this rubbish,” she sniffed, eyeing the pan. “Works his fingers to the bone, and you feed him scraps.”
Emily arranged the plates. Napkins, cutlery, bread. Routine. Six months of this had taught her to let the words slide off like water.
“Mum, come off it,” Daniel said, settling at the table. “Emilys cookings top-notch.”
“You think that because you dont know what a real homemaker looks like,” Margaret retorted, sitting primly. “My mother-in-lawGod rest hercould feed ten with one stew. But this”
Emily served the cutlets. Daniel took a bite. “Lovely. Cheers.”
Margaret dissected her portion, nibbled a corner, and grimaced. “What slop is this?”
The air turned to ice. Emily froze, salad bowl in hand, gaze locked on her mother-in-law. Margaret chewed obliviously. Daniels fork clinked against his plate. The clocks ticking grew deafening.
Slowly, Emily set the bowl down. She collected her plate, then Danielsuntouchedand carried them to the sink. Then the salad. The bread.
“Em, whatre you doing?” Daniel asked. “Ive not finished.”
“Youll eat tomorrow,” she said, clearing the table. “Kitchens closed.”
Margaret scoffed. “What childish nonsense! Throwing a tantrum over one word.”
Emily turned. Her voice was calm, edged with iron. “Call my cooking slop again, and youll be fed on the pavement.”
“Oh, dont be daft,” Margaret waved her off. “Youre too sensitive.”
Emily said nothing. Washed the dishes. Dried her hands. Walked to the bedroom. Daniel sat stranded at the empty table while Margaret sipped her tea, muttering about spoiled millennials.
In the bedroom, Emily stared out at the streetlamps, autumn rain drizzling down the pane. Five years ago, marrying Daniel, shed pictured a different life. Margaret had seemed stern but harmless. Daniel, attentive. Shed assumed time would smooth things over.
Six months under one roof had revealed the truth. The criticism was relentless. Her cooking, her cleaning, her clothes, her job. Daniel tried to mediate but always sided with his mother when push came to shove.
“Em,” he murmured, peeking in. “Dont take it to heart. Shes just blunt. Means well.”
“Means well?” Emily turned. “Your mother hasnt said one kind word in six months. Not one thank you. Just nitpicking.”
“She calls it like she sees it. Not everyone appreciates honesty.”
“Calling my food slop is honesty?”
Daniel sat beside her. “Look, maybe try cooking her favourites. Roasts, shepherds pie”
Emily studied him. He genuinely didnt see the problem. To him, his mother was infallible; his wife, the one who should adapt.
“I cook what I know and what we like. If your mother disapproves, she can cook for herself.”
“But shes getting on”
“Daniel,” Emily stood. “Your mothers fifty-eight. Shes healthy. Capable. She just prefers to sit and critique.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How should I talk? Six months of her jabs, and all you do is make excuses.”
Daniel left, muttering about talking sense into Margaret. From the parlour, low voices rosehis pleading, her indignant squawks. Ten minutes later, silence.
He returned grim-faced. “Shell watch her tongue.”
“And you believe that?”
“Give her a chance.”
But Emily knew better. Margaret was the sort who mistook cruelty for candour. No conversation would change that.
That night, sleep eluded her. The options played in loops: endure, compromise, or
By dawn, the decision was made. She dressed quietly, slipped out. At the salon, she researched tenants rights between clients.
That evening, she returned to Daniel and Margaret at the kitchen table, tea going cold.
“Evening,” she said, breezing past.
“Em, whats for dinner?” Daniel asked.
“Dinner?”
“Yes. Im starving.”
Emily opened the fridge, grabbed yoghurt. “Plenty in there. Help yourselves.”
Daniel blinked. “Arent you cooking?”
“Ate at the café. Lovely, actually. Andbonusno one called it slop.”
Margaret choked on her tea. “Ridiculous! A wife cooks for her family!”
“My jobs to work and pay bills. Ill cook for those who appreciate it.”
“Em, dont be daft,” Daniel stood. “Proper wives cook.”
“Proper husbands dont let their mothers insult their wives.”
She left. An hour later, Daniel appeared with a sandwich. “Made my own. Mum had one too.”
“Brilliant. So youve got functioning hands.”
“Em, seriously. Whats this about?”
“Its about respect. Your mother lives here, but she doesnt dictate my kitchen.”
“Shes not dictating. Just voicing opinions.”
“Calling my food slop is an opinion?”
Daniel sighed. “Fine, shes harsh. But cant you ignore it?”
“No. And I wont. She learns respect, or she finds another roof.”
“Wheres she to go? Sold her flat.”
“Not my problem. I wont be insulted in my own home.”
The standoff held. Emily cooked only for herself and little Oliver. Margaret huffed, Daniel floundered. Ready meals piled in the fridge.
A week in, Margaret attempted soup. Burnt it. “Unnatural!” she wailed. “A daughter-in-laws duty”
“A daughter-in-laws duty,” Emily corrected, feeding Oliver mashed carrots, “is to those who treat her kindly.”
Margaret spluttered. “I said one thing!”
“You called my cooking slop. Thats not one thing. Its contempt.”
Daniel begged. Margaret sulked. Emily held firm.
By months end, a new rhythm emerged: Margaret grudgingly microwaved frozen meals. Daniel mastered toast. Emily, for the first time in months, breathed easy.
“Happy now?” she asked one evening as Daniel chewed a sad supermarket pie.
“About what?”
“Defending Mum. Now you both fend for yourselves.”
He sighed. “Cant we move on? Shes learnt her lesson.”
“The lesson,” Emily said softly, “is that respect is earned, not owed.”
In the kitchen, Margaret stirred lumpy porridge, the weight of that truth settling heavy. Words had consequences. And some tables, once overturned, couldnt be righted without apology.
