Dear Mother-in-Law, I cordially invite you to our divorce!
When Oliver opened the door of his flat in Manchester, Margaret Lancaster stepped inside with a worried tremor in her voice:
“Are you alone?”
“Well… yes,” Oliver replied, surprised.
“And where’s Emily? Has she already left? Is it really over?” His mother’s voice shook with anxiety.
“Mum, what are you on about?” Oliver shrugged, utterly confused.
“So I’m too late.” Margaret sighed heavily, walking into the sitting room and perching on the edge of the sofa as if afraid to take up too much space. “I shouldn’t have waited.”
“Mum, what’s going on?” Oliver tensed, a knot of unease twisting in his chest.
“And you’re telling me everything’s fine?” She shot him a suspicious look, as though he were hiding some dreadful secret.
“Why—shouldn’t it be?” Oliver fumbled, lost.
“Oliver, explain this nonsense at once!” Margaret dug into her handbag, pulled out a card with a withered rose on the front, and thrust it at him. “I found it in my postbox this morning. An invitation to your divorce!”
Oliver took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *Dear Mother-in-Law, I cordially invite you to our divorce! Yours sincerely, Emily.* He froze, staring in disbelief.
“Mum, you seriously think this is real?” he asked, fighting back bewilderment.
“And what, you think I wrote it to myself?” She threw up her hands, her voice trembling with indignation.
“No, it’s just—Emily? Really?”
“Who’s *Emily*?”
“Your daughter-in-law?”
“Oliver, stop dodging! What’s happened? Have you two split already? You haven’t even been married a year! Where is she now?”
“Mum, calm down, everything’s fine. Emily’s at work… probably. This morning was normal. It must be some joke. Probably because of the soup…”
“A joke? Over *soup*?” Margaret stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You think soup justifies this?”
“Well, yeah, the soup,” Oliver scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “She made it for the first time yesterday. And I said… it wasn’t great. Not like yours.”
“And then?” His mother narrowed her eyes, sensing trouble.
“She got mad, threatened to pour it out. Then swore she wouldn’t cook again until I finished it all. So I joked, ‘I’ll file for divorce if you stop cooking.’ Just a bit of banter…”
“*Banter*? You joked about divorce?!” Margaret leapt up, eyes blazing.
“I explained it was just a laugh, but she was already cross…”
“Honestly, just like your father!” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this soup? Fetch it!”
“Why?” Oliver trailed after her, baffled.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s awful—”
“You’ll see ‘awful.’ To the kitchen, now!”
Margaret located the pot, slammed it onto the hob, and lit the flame.
“Come here!” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Mum, really—” Oliver hesitated, wilting under her glare.
“And—fetch your house keys!”
“What for?” He stalled, completely lost.
“Just do it!”
With a defeated sigh, he handed them over. His mother promptly pocketed them in her worn jacket.
“Sit down!” she ordered, ladling soup into two bowls.
She took the first spoonful, eyes locked on him. Reluctantly, Oliver followed suit.
“And you call this awful?” Margaret raised an eyebrow, scraping her bowl clean. “Perfectly decent!”
“Yours is still better,” he muttered, pushing bits around.
“I’ve had thirty years’ practice! Your wife is just learning! Now eat—properly!”
Silence fell, broken only by clinking spoons. When Oliver finished, he held out his hand.
“All done. Keys, please.”
“Not yet.” She smiled slyly. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
“That book on the shelf—*Family Favourites: A Culinary Guide*. Your father and I are coming for Sunday lunch. And *you*, my dear, will cook three dishes from it.”
“*Me*?” Oliver nearly choked. “But—I have a wife!”
“Oh no, no. Your wife can chop onions. The rest is *your* job. And I’ll praise her soup. But *you*—threatening divorce! If you want marriage like mine, you’ll put in twenty years first. Then we’ll talk!”
“Right…” he grumbled, staring at the floor.
“And no excuses! Slack off, and your father will have your hide. You know how he loves a good roast.”
Margaret stood, fixing him with one final, steely look—motherly resolve masking the storm inside. How could she shield this young marriage from foolish mistakes? How to make him see that love wasn’t just jokes, but patience—even when the soup was slightly over-salted?
