Dear Mother-in-law, I cordially invite you to our divorce proceedings!
When Daniel swung open the door to his flat in Manchester, Margaret Blackwell stepped inside with unease thick in her voice:
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah…?” Daniel replied, puzzled.
“Where’s Emily? Has she left already? Is it truly over?” Margaret’s voice trembled with worry.
“Mum, what are you on about?” Daniel shrugged, not following.
“So I’m too late…” Margaret sighed heavily, moving stiffly into the sitting room before perching on the edge of the sofa, as if afraid to take up space. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s going on?” Daniel tensed, a knot forming in his chest.
“You mean to tell me everything’s fine?!” She shot him a sharp look, as if he were hiding some dreadful secret.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He frowned, lost.
“Daniel, explain this nonsense at once!” Margaret rummaged in her handbag, pulled out a card featuring a wilted rose, and thrust it at him. “I found this in my postbox this morning. An invitation to your divorce!”
Daniel took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *”Dear Mother-in-law, I invite you to our divorce! Love, your daughter-in-law, Emily.”* He froze, stunned.
“Mum, you honestly believe this is real?”
“You think I wrote this myself?!” She threw up her hands, voice shaking with indignation.
“No! It’s just—Emily? Really?”
“Who else would it be?”
“I mean, my wife—”
“Enough dodging! Out with it! Are you really splitting up? You’ve barely been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, calm down. Emily’s at work. Probably. Everything was normal this morning. This must be a joke. Over the soup, I reckon…”
“A joke? Over *soup*?!” She stared at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Well, yeah. She tried making it for the first time yesterday. I said… it wasn’t great. Not like yours.”
“And then what?” Margaret narrowed her eyes.
“She got furious, threatened to bin it. Said she wouldn’t cook another meal unless I finished it. So I joked, ‘Guess I’ll file for divorce if you quit cooking.’ Just banter…”
“*Banter*?! You threatened *divorce* as a *joke*?!” She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing.
“I explained afterward, but the row had already blown up…”
“Just like your father!” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this soup? Fetch it!”
“Why?”
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s awful—”
“I’ll show you *awful*! Kitchen, now!”
Margaret stormed in, found the pot, and slammed it onto the hob.
“Come here!” Her voice left no room for defiance.
“Mum, come on—”
“Keys!”
“What?”
“Your flat keys—hand them over!”
Baffled, Daniel obeyed. She pocketed them at once.
“Sit!” she ordered, ladling soup into bowls.
She ate first, watching him like a hawk. Reluctantly, he followed.
“And *this* you call awful?” She arched a brow, scraping her bowl clean. “Perfectly decent!”
“Still not as good as yours…”
“Thirty years of practice versus a beginner! Eat up before it’s cold!”
Silence hung heavy, broken only by the clink of spoons. When Daniel finished, he held out his hand.
“Keys, Mum.”
“Not yet,” she said slyly. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
She pointed to a shelf. “*Family Favourites: A Culinary Guide*. Your father and I are coming Sunday. You’ll cook *three* dishes from that book—yourself!”
“*Me*?!” Daniel choked. “I’ve got a wife!”
“No, no. She can chop onions. *You’ll* do the rest. And I’ll compliment *her* soup. As for you—*divorce*, indeed! If you want to joke about marriage, wait twenty years like your father and me!”
Daniel groaned.
“No arguments! Slack off, and your father will have your hide. You know how he enjoys a good meal…”
Margaret stood, fixing him with one last stern glare—motherly resolve burning behind it. Inside, her mind raced: *How do I stop them from making the same mistakes? How do I teach him love isn’t just laughter, but patience—even when the soup’s too salty?*
