“If you ever call my cooking slop again, youll be eating out on the street!” said Emily to her mother-in-law.
Emily glanced at the clockhalf past six. James would be home from work in half an hour, and Margaret already sat in the living room, flipping through a magazine and occasionally shooting displeased looks toward the kitchen. Autumn twilight settled over London, and the flat was growing chilly.
Emily turned on the hob and set down the frying pan. Tonight, she was making chicken cutlets with roasted vegetables and a fresh saladnothing extravagant, but hearty and tasty. In five years of marriage, shed learned to cook quickly and well, especially since working at the salon left little time for culinary masterpieces.
“Smells like youre frying again,” Margaret called from the living room. “The whole place reeks.”
Emily silently flipped the cutlets. Margaret had moved in six months ago after selling her one-bedroom flat in Croydon. Officially, it was to help with the mortgageexcept she hadnt contributed a penny, spending the money on a spa retreat and new furniture for her room instead.
The lock clicked, and James walked in, his jacket damp from the drizzle. He worked as an engineer, always coming home tired but cheerful.
“Evening, love,” he said, kissing Emilys cheek. “Something smells good.”
“Dinners nearly ready,” Emily smiled. “Go wash upIll set the table.”
James disappeared into the bathroom while Margaret swept into the kitchen. She was a tall woman with a sharp bob and a habit of speaking her mind, regardless of whose feelings were hurt.
“James needs proper meals, not this nonsense,” Margaret sniffed, eyeing the frying pan. “He works hard, and youre feeding him scraps.”
Emily set the plates on the tablenapkins, cutlery, bread. Everything as usual. In six months of living together, shed heard enough of these comments to let them slide.
“Mum, come on,” James said, sitting down. “Emilys a brilliant cook.”
“Thats what you think because you dont know what a real homemakers cooking should be,” Margaret retorted, taking her seat. “My mother-in-law, God rest her, could feed ten with one pot of stew. But this”
Emily served the cutlets. James took a bite.
“Lovely, thanks.”
Margaret scrutinized her portion, cut a tiny piece, chewed, and grimaced.
“What slop are you serving?”
The words hung in the air. Emily froze, the salad bowl in her hands, staring at her mother-in-law. Her brows furrowed, eyes narrowing. Margaret kept chewing, oblivious to Emilys reaction.
James set down his fork, looking between his wife and mother. The flat was so quiet the ticking of the wall clock echoed.
Emily slowly placed the salad bowl on the table. She stood, collected her plate and Jamessuntouchedand carried them to the sink. Then she returned for the salad and bread.
“Em, what are you doing?” James said. “I havent finished.”
“Youll eat tomorrow,” Emily said, clearing the table. “Kitchens closed.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Oh, dont be childish! Throwing a tantrum over one word.”
Emily turned to her. Her voice was calm, but steel lay beneath it.
“If you ever call my cooking slop again, youll be eating on the street.”
“Oh, stop it,” Margaret waved her off. “Youre so sensitive.”
Emily didnt reply. She washed the dishes, dried her hands, and walked to the bedroom. James sat at the empty table while Margaret sipped her tea, muttering about spoiled modern girls.
In the bedroom, Emily sat on the bed and stared out the window. Street lamps glowed through the drizzle. Five years ago, marrying James, shed imagined a different life. Back then, Margaret had seemed just a bit sharp-tonguednot cruel. James had been attentive, caring. Shed thought time would smooth things over.
But six months under one roof had revealed Margarets true colours. Criticism was dailyEmilys cooking, cleaning, clothes, job. James tried to mediate, but he always sided with his mother when push came to shove.
“Em,” James peeked in. “Dont take it to heart. You know how Mum isblunt. But she means well.”
“Means well?” Emily turned to him. “Your mother hasnt said one kind word in six months. Not one thank you. Just complaints and insults.”
“She speaks her mind. Not everyone appreciates that.”
“Calling my food slop isnt speaking her mindits disrespect.”
James sat beside her. “Look, maybe try cooking her favourites? She likes roasts, shepherds pie”
Emily studied him. He genuinely didnt see the problem. To him, his mother was infallible, and his wife should adapt.
“I cook what I know we like. If your mother wont eat it, she can cook for herself.”
“Mums getting on”
“James,” Emily stood. “Your mother is fifty-eight. Shes healthy, active, and perfectly capable of cooking. She just prefers to sit and criticise.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How should I talk? Ive put up with her digs for half a year, trying to please her, and all I get is insults.”
James headed for the door. “Ill talk to her. Ask her to tone it down.”
When he left, Emily lay down and closed her eyes. Muffled voices drifted from the living roomJames pleading, Margaret indignant. Ten minutes later, silence fell.
James returned grim-faced. “She promised to watch her words.”
“And you believe that?”
“Give her a chance. Maybe shell change.”
But Emily didnt believe it. Margaret was the type who thought her opinion was law and criticism was “helpful.” No conversation would change that.
That night, Emily lay awake, weighing her options. She could endure, hoping Margaret would leave. She could compromise, negotiate through James. Or she could do something else.
By morning, shed made her choice. She rose at six, dressed quietly, and left for work. All day at the salon, she planned her next move, consulting colleagues and researching online.
That evening, she returned with resolve. James and Margaret sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea with biscuits.
“Hi,” Emily walked past them to the bedroom, changed, then returned.
“Em, whats for dinner?” James asked.
“Dinner?”
“Yeah the usual. Im hungry.”
Emily opened the fridge, grabbed a yoghurt, and sat down. “Plenty of food in there. Cook what you like.”
James blinked. “What about you?”
“I ate at the café near work. Delicious, by the wayand no one called it slop.”
Margaret choked on her tea. “Ridiculous! Youre the wifeits your job to cook!”
“My job is to work and earn. Ill cook for people who appreciate it.”
“Em, dont be daft,” James stood. “Proper wives cook for their husbands.”
“Proper husbands dont let their mothers insult their wives.”
Emily finished her yoghurt and went to shower. James stayed with Margaret, who launched into a rant about “modern womens nonsense.”
An hour later, James came to bed with a sandwich. “Made my own. Mum had sandwiches too.”
“Brilliant. So youre not helpless after all.”
“Em, lets talk. Whats going on?”
“Whats going on is I wont tolerate disrespect. Your mother can live here, but she wont dictate how I cook or speak.”
“Shes not dictating. Just voicing her opinion.”
“Calling my food slop is an opinion?”
James sat on the bed. “Fine, Mums blunt. But cant you ignore it?”
“No. And I wont. Either she learns respect, or she finds another place to live.”
“Wheres she supposed to go? She sold her flat.”
“Not my problem. I wont be insulted in my own home.”
James paced. “Em, be reasonable. Mums alone”
“James,” Emily met his eyes. “Ill be reasonable. Tomorrow, Im seeing a solicitor about evicting ungrateful relatives. Until then, your mother cooks for herself.”
He started to argue, but Emily turned away. The conversation was over.
The next morning, Emily got ready as usual, dropped two-year-old Oliver at nursery, and walked past the kitchen without stopping. Margaret sat scowling at the table while James rummaged in the fridge.
“Em, what about breakfast?” he asked.
“The café does lovely croissants,” Emily picked up her bag. “Have a good day.”
Margaret slapped the table. “This is outrageous! I shouldnt have to cook!”
Emily paused at the door. “And I shouldnt have to tolerate insults. We reap what we sow.”
The door shut behind her. At the salon, her co-workers
