**Diary Entry – 16th March**
Dear Mum showed up at our flat in Manchester this morning looking like she’d seen a ghost. The moment I opened the door, she clutched her handbag tighter and asked, voice trembling:
“You’re alone?”
“Yeah…?” I frowned, baffled.
“Where’s Emily? Has she already left? Is it over?” Her eyes were wide, darting around the hallway like she expected my wife to materialise from the wallpaper.
“Mum, what are you on about?” I shrugged, but my chest tightened at her panic.
“So I’m too late…” She sighed heavily, shuffling into the living room and perching on the edge of the sofa like she didn’t dare take up space. “Should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Oliver!” She whipped round, glaring like I’d just nicked the last biscuit. “You’re telling me everything’s fine?!”
“Erm… yes? Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Right. Then explain *this* nonsense!” She rummaged in her bag and slapped a card into my hand—a faded watercolour of wilting roses. I skimmed the neat cursive: *Dear Mother-in-law, you’re cordially invited to our divorce! Love, your daughter-in-law, Emily.*
I choked. “You actually think this is real?”
“Oh, so I wrote it myself, did I?!” Her voice cracked, halfway between fury and heartbreak.
“No! But—*Emily*? Seriously?”
“Who else would it be?”
“Your *wife*.”
“Oliver James Whittaker, stop dodging! Have you two split? You’ve not even been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, relax! She’s at work—probably. Everything was normal this morning. It’s just a joke. Probably about the stew…”
“A *joke*? Over *stew*?!” She looked at me like I’d sprouted antlers.
“Yeah… She made it last night. I, uh, said it wasn’t great. Not like yours.”
“And?” She narrowed her eyes.
“She got cross. Threatened to bin it. Said she wouldn’t cook again till I ate it all. So I… joked I’d file for divorce if she quit cooking.”
“YOU *JOKED* ABOUT DIVORCE?!” She shot up, eyes blazing.
“I *explained* it was a joke! But she’d already stormed off—”
“Good Lord, you’re your father’s son.” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this stew? Fetch it.”
“Why? It’s awful—”
“We’re eating it. *Now*.”
“Mum, no—”
“Kitchen. *Move*.”
She found the pot, slammed it on the hob, and turned the burner on with a click.
“Keys.”
“What?”
“Give me your house keys.”
Bewildered, I handed them over. She pocketed them with a smirk.
“Sit.” She ladled stew into bowls and glared till I picked up my spoon. We ate in silence, her stare boring into me.
“*This* is what you called awful?” She wiped her mouth. “Perfectly decent!”
“Yours is better…” I poked at a rubbery carrot.
“I’ve had forty years’ practice! Your wife’s *learning*! Eat!”
When I’d scraped the bowl clean, I held out my hand. “Keys?”
“Not yet.” She grinned. “Homework first.”
“*What*?”
She pulled a book from the shelf—*Proper British Cooking for Blokes*—and dropped it in my lap. “Sunday. Your dad and I are coming for dinner. *You’re* cooking three dishes from this. No help from Emily—she can chop onions. And I’ll *praise* her stew.” Her smile vanished. “Divorce, my foot. Try staying married twenty years like we did, then talk!”
I groaned.
“And if you slack off,” she added sweetly, “your father’ll skin you alive. You know how he gets about soggy roast potatoes.”
With that, she swept out, leaving me staring at the book—and a lump in my throat.
**Lesson today:** Love isn’t just laughter. It’s choking down bad stew and saying *thank you*. Even when it’s salty. *Especially* then.
