“Call my cooking slop one more time, and youll be eating on the street!” Emily snapped at her mother-in-law.
She glanced at the clockhalf six. Simon would be home from work in half an hour, and Margaret was already sitting in the living room, flipping through a magazine and occasionally shooting disapproving looks toward the kitchen. The autumn twilight settled over London, and the flat grew chilly.
Emily turned on the hob and set a frying pan down. Tonight, she was making chicken cutlets with buckwheat and a fresh saladnothing fancy, but hearty and tasty. In five years of marriage, shed learned to cook quickly and well, though after her shifts at the salon, she rarely had time for culinary masterpieces.
“At it again with the frying, I see,” came Margarets voice from the living room. “The whole place reeks.”
Emily silently flipped the cutlets. Margaret had moved in six months ago after selling her one-bed flat on the outskirtsofficially to help with the mortgage, though she hadnt contributed a penny, spending the money on a spa retreat and new furniture for her room instead.
The key turned in the lock, and Simon walked in. He worked as an engineer at a factory, always coming home tired but in good spirits.
“Evening, love,” Simon said, kissing Emilys cheek. “Smells brilliant in here.”
“Dinners nearly ready,” Emily smiled. “Go wash up, Ill set the table.”
Simon headed to the bathroom while Margaret appeared in the kitchen. A large woman with a blunt bob and a habit of speaking her mind, she had no filter when it came to others feelings.
“Simon needs proper meals, not this rubbish,” Margaret said, shaking her head at the frying pan. “Works hard all day, and you feed him scraps.”
Emily arranged the plates, cutlery, and breadeverything as usual. Six months of this had taught her to let the comments slide.
“Mum, come off it,” Simon said, sitting at the table. “Emilys a great cook.”
“You only say that because you dont know what real cooking is,” Margaret scoffed, taking her seat. “My mother-in-law, God rest her, could feed ten with one pot of stew. And this”
Emily served the cutlets with buckwheat. Simon took a bite.
“Lovely, thanks.”
Margaret scrutinised her portion, cut a tiny piece, chewed, and grimaced.
“What slop is this?”
The words hung in the air. Emily froze, the salad bowl in her hands, staring at her mother-in-law. Her brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. Margaret kept chewing, oblivious.
Simon set his fork down, glancing between his wife and mother. The flat was so quiet the ticking of the wall clock echoed.
Slowly, Emily placed the salad on the table. She stood, collected her plate and Simonsuntouchedand carried them to the sink. Then she returned for the bread.
“Em, whatre you doing?” Simon asked. “I havent eaten.”
“Youll eat tomorrow. Kitchens closed.”
Margaret raised her brows and smirked. “Oh, dont be childish. Throwing a tantrum over a word.”
Emily turned to her. Her voice was calm, edged with steel.
“Call my cooking slop one more time, and youll be eating on the street.”
“Oh, stop it,” Margaret waved her off. “Youre too sensitive.”
Emily didnt reply. She washed up in silence, dried her hands, and went to the bedroom. Simon sat at the empty table while Margaret sipped tea, muttering about spoiled youngsters.
In the bedroom, Emily sat on the bed, staring out the window. Streetlights glowed through the drizzling rain. Five years ago, marrying Simon, shed pictured a different life. Back then, Margaret had seemed just a sharp-tongued but harmless mother-in-law. Simon had been attentive, caringshed assumed things would smooth out.
But six months under the same roof had revealed Margarets true colours. Criticism was daily: Emily couldnt cook, clean, dress, or work right. Simon tried to mediate but always sided with his mother when push came to shove.
“Em,” Simon peeked in. “Dont take it to heart. You know how she isblunt. But she means well.”
“Means well?” Emily turned to him. “Your mother hasnt said one kind word in six months. Not one thanks. Just insults.”
“She calls it like she sees it. Not everyone appreciates that.”
“Calling my food slop is calling it?”
Simon sat beside her. “Look, maybe try making something she likes? Traditional dishesroasts, stews”
Emily studied him. He genuinely didnt see the problem. To him, his mother was infallible; his wife, the one who had to adjust.
“I cook what I know and what we like. If its not good enough, she can cook herself.”
“Mums getting on, its hard for her”
“Simon,” Emily stood. “Your mothers fifty-eight. Shes healthy, active, and fully capable. She just prefers sitting in her chair and criticising me.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How should I talk? Six months of her jabs, and Im supposed to smile?”
Simon stood, heading for the door. “Ill talk to her. Ask her to tone it down.”
When he left, Emily lay back, eyes closed. Muffled voices drifted from the living roomSimon pleading, Margaret indignant. Ten minutes later, silence fell.
Simon returned grimly. “Had a chat. Shell watch her words.”
“And you believe that?”
“Give her a chance. Maybe shell change.”
But Emily knew better. Margaret was the sort who thought her way was the only way, and criticism was “care.” No talk would fix that.
That night, Emily lay awake, weighing options. She could endure, hope Margaret moved out. Or confront it through Simon. Or
By morning, shed decided. She left early for the salon, plotting her move.
That evening, she returned resolved. Simon and Margaret sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea.
“Hi,” Emily walked past them to the bedroom, changed, and came back.
“Em, whats for dinner?” Simon asked.
“What dinner?”
“The usual one. Im starving.”
Emily opened the fridge, grabbed yogurt, and sat. “Plenty in there. Cook what you like.”
Simon blinked. “What about you?”
“I ate at the café near work. Tasty, too. Andbest partno one called it slop.”
Margaret choked on her tea. “Dont be ridiculous! Youre the wifedinners your job.”
“My job is my job. Ill cook for people who appreciate it.”
“Emily, dont be daft,” Simon stood. “Wives cook for their husbands.”
“Good husbands dont let their mothers insult their wives.”
Emily finished her yogurt and went to shower. Simon stayed, listening to Margaret rant about “modern women.”
An hour later, he brought a sandwich to the bedroom. “Made this myself. Mum had sandwiches too.”
“Brilliant. So youre not helpless.”
“Em, lets talk. Whats going on?”
“Whats going on is Im done tolerating disrespect. Your mother can live here, but she wont dictate how I cook or speak.”
“Shes not dictating. Just sharing her opinion.”
“Calling my food slop is an opinion?”
Simon sat on the bed. “Fine, shes blunt. But you could ignore her.”
“I cant. 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.”
Simon paced. “Em, be reasonable. Shes alone”
“Simon,” Emily met his eyes. “Ill be reasonable. Tomorrow, Im seeing a solicitor about evicting ungrateful relatives. Until then, your mother cooks for herself.”
He opened his mouth, but Emily turned away. Conversation over.
The next morning, Emily got ready, dropped two-year-old Oliver at nursery, and walked past the kitchen without stopping. Margaret sat scowling while Simon 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 threw her hands up. “This is absurd! I shouldnt have to cook!”
Emily paused at the door. “And I shouldnt have to tolerate insults. You get what you give.”
She left. At the salon, her coworkers noticed the shift.
“You seem different today,” the manicurist, Lucy, said. “More confident.”
“Just drew a line,” Emily replied.
Meanwhile, at home, chaos unfolded. Margaret stomped around the kitchen, opening cupboards.
“Wheres the porridge? Wheres the
