Dear Mother-in-law, you’re invited to our divorce!
When Oliver swung open the door to his flat in Manchester, Margaret gasped and clutched her handbag tighter.
“Are you alone?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Yeah…?” Oliver frowned.
“Where’s Charlotte? Has she already left? Is it over?” Her words tumbled out in a rush.
“Mum, what are you on about?” He scratched his head, baffled.
“So, I’m too late.” Margaret sighed, 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?” He was starting to feel uneasy now.
“You mean to tell me everything’s fine?” She shot him a look so sharp it could’ve sliced glass.
“Should something not be?” Oliver was completely lost.
“Son, explain this nonsense to me right now!” She dug into her bag, whipped out a card with a wilting rose on it, and thrust it at him. “Found it in my letterbox this morning. An invitation to your divorce!”
Oliver took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *Dear Mother-in-law, you’re invited to our divorce! Love, your daughter-in-law Charlotte.* He froze.
“You really think this is real?” he choked out.
“Oh, so I wrote it myself, did I?” She threw her hands up, voice wobbling between fury and hurt.
“No, but—Charlotte? Really?”
“Who’s Charlotte?”
“Your daughter-in-law?”
“Oliver, stop messing about! What’s happened? You’ve not even been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, relax, everything’s fine. She’s at work… probably. Morning was normal. This is probably a joke. Over the soup, I reckon.”
“A joke? Over *soup*?” She looked at him like he’d lost the plot entirely.
“Yeah, the soup,” Oliver mumbled, rubbing his neck. “She made it for the first time yesterday. I said it wasn’t… y’know, great. Not like yours.”
“And then?” She narrowed her eyes.
“She got cross, threatened to chuck it. Then swore she wouldn’t cook again till I ate every bite. So I joked, ‘Fine, I’ll file for divorce if you stop cooking.’ Just banter…”
“*Banter*? You told her you’d divorce her as a *joke*?” She shot up from the sofa, eyes blazing.
“I explained afterward, but she was already proper cross…”
“God help me, you’re just like your father.” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this soup? Bring it here.”
“Why?” He trailed after her, confused.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s not good—”
“‘Not good,’ my foot! Kitchen, now!”
She yanked the pot onto the hob, flicked on the gas.
“Get over here!” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Mum, come on—” He tried to protest but wilted under her glare.
“And fetch the spare keys!”
“What for?” He blinked.
“Just do it!”
Oliver trudged back with the keys, and she promptly stuffed them into her coat pocket.
“Sit!” She ladled soup into two bowls.
She took the first spoonful, eyes locked on him until he reluctantly followed.
“You call this ‘not good’?” She arched a brow, scraping her bowl clean. “Perfectly decent!”
“Well, yours is better…” He poked at his portion.
“I’ve had thirty years of practice! Your wife’s just learning! Eat up before it goes cold!”
Five minutes of silence, broken only by the clink of spoons. When Oliver finished, he held out his hand.
“Okay, I’m done. Keys, please?”
“Not a chance,” she said smugly. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
She pointed to a shelf. “*Great British Dishes for the Family*. Your dad and I are coming Sunday. And *you*, my lad, will cook three recipes from that book.”
“*Me*?” He nearly choked. “I’ve got a wife!”
“Oh no, no. She can chop the onions. The rest is on you. Meanwhile, I’ll praise her soup. And *you*—threatening divorce! Fancy that! Talk to me after twenty years of marriage like your dad and me!”
“Right…” he muttered, staring at his shoes.
“No arguments! Slack off, and your father will have your hide. You know how he loves a good meal.”
Margaret stood, fixing him with one last stern look. But inside, her thoughts churned—how to shield this young marriage from silly mistakes? How to make him see that love isn’t just jokes, but patience, too—even if the soup’s a bit too salty?
