**Diary Entry – 8th May, 2024**
Dearest mother-in-law, you are cordially invited to our divorce!
When my son swung open the door of his flat in Manchester, Margaret Thompson stepped inside, her voice laced with concern as she asked,
“Are you alone?”
“Well, yes…” James replied, confused.
“Where’s Emily? Has she left already? Is this the end?” Her voice trembled with worry.
“Mum, what are you on about?” James shrugged, baffled.
“So I’m too late…” Margaret sighed deeply, shuffling into the sitting room and perching on the edge of the sofa, as if afraid to take up space. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s happened?” James’ stomach twisted with unease.
“Are you saying everything’s fine?!” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, as if he were hiding some terrible secret.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He was utterly lost.
“James, explain this nonsense at once!” She rummaged through her handbag, pulled 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!”
James took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *Dearest mother-in-law, you are cordially invited to our divorce! Yours truly, Emily.* He froze.
“Mum, you seriously think this is real?”
“Are you suggesting I wrote it myself?” Her voice shook with fury.
“No, it’s just… *Emily*? Really?”
“Who’s Emily?”
“Your daughter-in-law?”
“James, stop dodging! Out with it! Have you two split? You’ve not even been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, calm down. She’s at work, probably. Everything was fine this morning. This must be some joke. Over stew, maybe…”
“A joke? Over stew?!” She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Well, yes,” he rubbed his neck awkwardly. “She cooked it for the first time last night. I said… it wasn’t quite like yours.”
“And then?” she pressed, sensing disaster.
“She got cross, nearly threw it out. Then swore she wouldn’t cook again until I ate it all. So I joked I’d divorce her if she stopped. Just a laugh, really…”
“A *laugh*?! You joked about divorce?!” She shot up, eyes blazing.
“I explained it was a joke, but by then, she was furious…”
“Good grief, just like your father!” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this stew? Bring it here!”
“Why?” he trailed after her, bewildered.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s awful…”
“I’ll show you ‘awful’! Into the kitchen, now!”
She hunted down the pot, slapped it on the hob, and turned on the flame.
“Come here!” Her tone brooked no refusal.
“But, Mum—” He faltered under her glare.
“And fetch your house keys!”
“What for?” He hesitated.
“Just do it!”
Defeated, he handed them over. She tucked them into her worn coat pocket.
“Sit down!” She ladled the stew into bowls.
She took the first spoonful, staring him down until he reluctantly followed.
“You call this awful?” she scoffed, finishing her portion. “Perfectly decent!”
“Yours is better…” he muttered, poking at his bowl.
“I’ve had thirty years’ practice! Your wife’s still learning! Eat up before it’s cold!”
Five minutes passed in silence, broken only by the clink of spoons. When James finished, he held out his hand.
“Mum, I’m done. Keys?”
“No.” She smirked. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
“That book on the shelf—*Classic Family Recipes*. Your father and I are coming for Sunday lunch. And *you*, my dear, will cook three dishes from it!”
“Me?!” He nearly choked. “I’ve got a wife!”
“Oh no, son. She can chop onions. The rest is on you. And I’ll praise *her* stew. Divorce indeed! Try lasting twenty years like your father and me—*then* you can complain!”
“Right…” he grumbled.
“No arguments! Slack off, and your father will have your hide. You know how he enjoys a good meal.”
She rose, fixing him with one last stern look. Inside, her mind raced—how to shield their young marriage from such foolishness? How to make him see love wasn’t just jokes, but patience too—even if the stew was a bit too salty?
