**A Mother-in-Law Turned Friend**
*”What on earth do you think you’re doing?!”* Margaret’s voice trembled with outrage. *”My son was perfectly fine before he met you!”*
*”And now he isn’t?”* Emily stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes damp with tears, gripping a tea towel. *”Would you mind explaining what the problem is?”*
*”The problem is, Jonathan has lost two stone! Look at what you’ve done to him!”*
Jonathan sat at the table, staring at his half-eaten shepherd’s pie, wishing the ground would swallow him. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded teenager.
*”Mum, please—”* he muttered without looking up.
*”No, I won’t stop!”* Margaret whirled toward him. *”Just look at yourself—cheeks hollow, bags under your eyes! All because she isn’t feeding you properly!”*
*”How can you say that?”* Emily burst out. *”I cook every day! I made that pie from scratch!”*
*”Pie!”* Margaret scoffed. *”Scraps in gravy. Where’s the meat? The proper veg? A man needs hearty meals!”*
Emily’s chest tightened. It had been six months since she married Jonathan, and every visit from his mother turned into a row—her cooking was wrong, his shirts weren’t pressed right, the flat wasn’t tidy enough.
*”Margaret, I’m doing my best,”* she said quietly. *”But I have work, and my studies—”*
*”Work!”* Margaret threw her hands up. *”What does that matter? A woman’s place is at home, looking after her husband! Instead, you’re off doing who-knows-what while my boy starves!”*
Jonathan finally lifted his head. *”Mum, I’m not starving. And I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”*
*”The gym?”* Margaret looked at him as if he’d said something shocking. *”Why on earth would you need a gym? You’re fit as a fiddle!”*
Emily couldn’t take it anymore and walked out. In the bedroom, she sank onto the bed and let the tears fall. She was exhausted from the constant criticism. No matter what she did, Margaret always found fault.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Jonathan first introduced her to his mother, Margaret had seemed warm—serving tea, asking about her family, even complimenting her. But the moment they mentioned marriage, everything changed.
*”Emily, love, where are you?”* Jonathan peeked in. *”Mum’s gone.”*
*”Thank heavens,”* she sniffed.
He sat beside her and pulled her close. *”Ignore her. She’s just set in her ways.”*
*”Set in what? Having you live with her until you were thirty-two?”*
He sighed. This topic was sore for both of them. *”Em, she’s been alone most of her life. Dad passed when I was fifteen. She did everything for me.”*
*”I get that. But I’m your wife now. Can’t we find some middle ground?”*
*”We will. It just takes time.”*
Time. Emily had heard that word a hundred times. How much longer before Margaret accepted her as family?
The next day, Emily decided to act. After work, she bought groceries and made a proper three-course meal—beef stew with Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, and treacle tart for pudding. She set the table with their best china.
When Jonathan came home, he gaped. *”Blimey, what’s the occasion?”*
*”No occasion. Just wanted to spoil my husband.”*
*”This smells just like Mum’s cooking!”*
They dined by candlelight. Jonathan lavished praise on every bite, and Emily felt it was worth it. Maybe if she tried harder, Margaret would soften.
Yet the next day, fresh complaints arrived. *”Jonathan, you went to bed late last night!”* Margaret accused the moment she stepped in. *”Your eyes are bloodshot!”*
*”I went to bed at half-eleven, Mum.”*
*”Half-eleven! Up at seven! That’s not enough sleep!”*
Emily realised then—it wasn’t about food or bedtime. It was about *her*. She’d “stolen” Margaret’s only son.
So, she tried a new approach.
*”Margaret,”* she said during the next visit, *”would you teach me how to make that beef stew Jonathan loves? The one from his childhood?”*
Margaret eyed her suspiciously. *”Why?”*
*”I want to make him happy. You know his tastes best.”*
Margaret hesitated, weighing if this was a trick. *”…Fine. But it won’t be as good as mine.”*
*”Let’s try.”*
And they did. Margaret dictated the recipe while Emily took notes. They went to the market together.
*”See? You want this cut of beef—not too fatty, not too lean,”* Margaret instructed, pointing. *”And fresh carrots, none of that pre-cut nonsense.”*
Back home, they cooked side by side.
*”Chop the onions bigger,”* Margaret corrected. *”And don’t cry, or the stew will be bitter.”*
*”How do I *not* cry?”*
*”Rinse the knife in cold water. And breathe through your mouth.”*
As they cooked, the atmosphere warmed. Margaret shared stories of Jonathan’s childhood, and Emily listened intently.
*”When he was five, he’d eat three bowls of this stew in one go,”* Margaret laughed. *”I thought he’d burst!”*
*”He doesn’t eat much now. Must be his age.”*
*”Nonsense. He’s just stressed at work—difficult clients, tight deadlines.”*
Emily blinked. Jonathan rarely shared work details. Yet his mother knew everything.
*”He tells you all that?”*
*”Course. We’ve always talked. School, friends, girls he fancied.”* Margaret’s voice turned wistful. *”Now I suppose he tells *you*.”*
*”Not really,”* Emily admitted. *”He’s not much of a talker.”*
Margaret stared. *”Jonathan? Not a talker? He used to chatter my ear off for hours!”*
Emily realised how little she and Jonathan still knew each other. Six months of marriage was nothing.
The stew was a triumph. Jonathan couldn’t believe Emily had made it.
*”It’s just like Mum’s!”* he marvelled. *”How’d you manage it?”*
*”Margaret taught me,”* Emily said, and his mother beamed.
*”Oh, I only gave a few tips.”*
From then on, cooking lessons became regular. They started with Jonathan’s favourites, then branched out.
*”This was my mum’s recipe,”* Emily said, showing Margaret how to make scones. *”God rest her.”*
*”Gone too soon?”*
*”Fifty-eight. Cancer.”*
Margaret sighed. She had her own woes—high blood pressure, a dodgy heart.
*”I just worry something will happen to Jonathan,”* she confessed one day. *”He’s all I have.”*
*”Nothing will,”* Emily assured. *”We take care of him.”*
*”We,”* Margaret repeated, and for the first time in months, she smiled at her daughter-in-law.
Gradually, the frost between them thawed. Margaret stopped nitpicking, and Emily saw her in a new light.
Margaret had been a primary school teacher, devoted to children yet only having Jonathan.
*”All those years raising other people’s kids,”* she mused, flipping through old class photos. *”Only one of my own.”*
*”But what a good one you raised,”* Emily said.
*”Good, yes. Spoilt him rotten, though. Shielded him too much.”*
Emily also discovered Margaret knitted beautifully. Spotting Emily struggling to fix a unravelling scarf, she offered help.
*”Let me show you. Winter’s not over yet.”*
They spent evenings knitting, drinking tea, chatting about everything—work, neighbours, summer holiday plans.
*”Do you have a garden?”* Emily asked.
*”A cottage in the Cotswolds. Small but cosy. Jonathan grew up there, really. Spent every weekend.”*
*”And now?”*
*”Too much for me alone now.”*
*”Maybe we could help? Jonathan’s mentioned missing it.”*
Margaret brightened. *”Really? He said that?”*
*”Of course. Talks about helping you in the veg patch.”*
So, they all went. Jonathan, giddy as a boy, showed Emily his favourite spots.
*”Built a den here,”* he said, pointing to an old oak. *”And had bonfires here when Mum allowed.”*
Margaret watched them, smiling. For the firstAs the years passed, the three of them—Emily, Jonathan, and Margaret—became inseparable, proving that love and understanding could turn even the most strained relationships into unbreakable bonds.
