Get up early and make mum some soup, Peter insisted, his voice flat. Let the one who gave birth to her do the cooking.
Ethel was perched in her favourite armchair, a mug of homemade fruit juice in hand, eyes glued to the glowing screen. It was Friday, nine oclock, and the closing credits of the latest drama flickered across the television, but her mind was elsewhere tomorrows Saturday and the dreaded arrival of her motherinlaw.
Five long years of marriage had turned those weekends into a relentless survival test, repeating every Saturday like a curse that could not be lifted.
It had started innocently enough. Mabel Morgan, Peters mother, used to drop by once a month for a chat, a cup of tea, a quick catchup about the grandchildren. Peter would always say, with genuine care in his tone,
Mas alone now, shes getting on. Peters been gone ten years. Lets give her a bit of company, keep her spirits up.
Ethel always agreed. After all, it was family, and respect for the older generation was expected.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tone changed.
The first complaints were about the house. After Mabels very first visit, she politely called Peters son into the hallway.
Petey, dear, does anyone actually mop the floors?
Ethel, surprised, answered, Of course I do, Mum.
Mabel glanced at the linoleum and said, Thats odd. Why are there streaks on the floor? And theres dust on the skirting boards.
From that day on, every time Mabel came over, Ethel turned into a cleaning fanatic. She scrubbed the floors for hours, first with a concentrate, then wiped them dry. She dusted every surface the bookshelves, the radiators, the picture frames. She polished the bathroom until it shone like glass.
Ma has always expected immaculate cleanliness, Peter explained patiently, watching his wife glide around with a cloth. When she grew up, the house was always spotless, like a museum.
Do you think Im a slob? Ethel asked, her back aching from the endless bending.
No, not at all, Peter replied. Just a little more relaxed around the house.
Relaxed. A generous description for a woman who spent ten hours a day at the bank, dealing with nervous clients, endless reports and a neverending stream of managerial demands.
Ethel endured it stoically. Family, she told herself, was all about compromise and mutual concession.
After a year, Mabels visits became more frequent first every two weeks, then every Saturday without fail.
She gets lonely in that empty flat, Peter would say sympathetically. Its good she has a place where she can unwind.
Unwind. A pleasant word for what, in reality, meant Mabel would lounge in their home while Ethel toiled like an ox.
Soon the spotlesshouse rule was joined by a new, compulsory entertainment schedule. Mabel no longer settled for tea and biscuits in front of the TV; she wanted outings, shopping trips, a fresh blouse.
Petey, love, shall we pop out and look for a new top? My wardrobes gone a bit tatty, shed chirp each Saturday.
Of course, Mum! Right away, Ethel, get ready, Peter would answer.
And Ethel would obediently prepare, dragging herself through cramped shopping centres, lugging endless racks of clothing, waiting patiently in fitting rooms.
Mabel was a demanding shopper she would try on five or six items only to buy one, or walk out emptyhanded with a sigh.
The quality isnt what it used to be. Back in the day they made things to last, shed mutter.
Maybe we should try another store? Ethel suggested, exhausted.
Lets, lets maybe the next one will be better, Mabel replied, already heading for the next fitting room.
Peter never joined these marathon shopping excursions. He always had more pressing masculine pursuits the football match on TV, a catchup with the lads in the garage, washing his car or heading out to fish.
Women enjoy these things more, you know, hed philosophise. Id just be in the way with my advice.
After a grueling week at the bank, Ethel returned home one evening utterly spent. Shed just finished a quarterly report for the head office, survived an emergency meeting with senior managers, and endured a heated argument with a difficult client. Her head throbbed, her legs felt like jelly.
Peter was lounging on the favourite sofa, sipping tea, watching a crime drama and nibbling on a shortbread biscuit.
How was work? he asked without turning from the screen.
Exhausted, Ethel admitted, collapsing into the armchair.
Right, you can rest. By the way, Mums arriving early tomorrow, he added.
I know, she replied shortly.
Listen, Ethel, get up early tomorrow and make Mum a soup. Shell be coming from the country, tired and hungry. Use a freerange chicken you know Mums stomachs delicate now. She needs a proper, hearty broth, not some supermarket nonsense.
Ethel lifted her head slowly.
Freerange chicken?
Exactly. Theres a good stall at Borough Market; Aunt Lucy keeps live birds there. The chicken must be warm and fresh. Frozen supermarket chicken is nothing but a sham.
What time do you want me to be there?
Rise at half past five. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight, and Mum usually arrives by nine.
Why arent you going?
Id love to, but youre the one who knows the market better. And soup is a womans job, isnt it? I can finally catch up on some sleep before lunch.
Ethel drifted to the bathroom, brushed her teeth at a snails pace, and thought about the injustice. He was planning to sleep in on his day off, while she would have to get up before dawn, travel across town for a chicken, then spend three hours at the stove.
Are you setting an alarm? Peter called from the living room.
What alarm? she asked, confused.
Just so you dont oversleep. Mum gets here around nine, and the soup takes ages.
She emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth.
Will you set an alarm for yourself?
No need; Im not cooking tomorrow, Peter replied.
She gave a neutral Okay and left the phone untouched.
At seventen in the morning, a persistent knock echoed at the door. It was still dark outside, a light drizzle pattering against the windows.
Who could that be? Ethel murmured, feeling for her robe.
Its Mabel! a familiar voice chirped cheerfully.
Ethels heart dropped into her stomach. Her motherinlaw was here, far earlier than usual.
She opened the door to find Mabel standing with two large canvas bags, wearing a light trench coat, looking fresh and full of energy.
Good morning, dear! Does the kitchen already smell of soup, or am I too early?
Ethel swallowed the lump forming in her throat. The soup Mabel spoke of had only been mentioned the night before.
Theres no soup yet, she rasped.
Oh dear! Mabel flustered. Peter said youd be up early
Peters still asleep, Ethel whispered.
Mabel stepped inside as if nothing had been said, hung her coat, and said, No matter. Lets head to the market straight away and get that chicken. Peter insisted its freerange, not the packaged kind.
Ethel, still in her robe, stared at the vibrant woman before her, feeling the heat rise inside.
Im not going, she said firmly.
How can you not? And the soup?
Let the one who ordered it cook it.
But Peter works all week! He needs a break too!
And I need to work too. I need a break as well.
Mabel perched at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a lengthy discussion.
Ethel, dont you understand? My doctor said I must have a hot broth first thing my stomachs fragile, she warned.
I understand, I just dont see why its my problem.
Peter finally shuffled in from the bedroom, still in his wrinkled shirt, hair disheveled.
Ah, Mum! Youre here already? he called.
Mum! Mabel beamed, turning to him. Wheres the soup? Ethel says she wont fetch the chicken.
Peter stared at his wife, confused. What? I told you yesterday get up early and make Mum some soup.
Ethel turned slowly to face him, dried her hands on a towel, and met his gaze.
Let the one who gave birth to her prepare the soup.
Silence settled over the kitchen. Mabel froze. Peter opened his mouth, then shut it again.
What did you just say? he asked quietly.
Its what Ive been thinking for years, she replied.
This is outrageous! Mabel shouted. How can you speak like that?
Its simple, Ethel said, voice steady. Words.
But Im your motherinlaw!
And what does that make me? Your servant?
What servant? Peter interjected. Mum is family!
Your family. Your mother. Youre the one who should be cooking for her.
I dont know how, he muttered.
Just look it up online there are endless recipes, Ethel suggested.
Youre a woman, you should know! Peter stammered.
And you? An alien?
Mabel tried to soften her tone. Ethel, I know youre exhausted, but family duties
Whose duties? Ethel snapped. Mine? Yours?
Im an elderly lady
Who spends her days driving to the country, shopping, demanding entertainment. Not exactly frail.
How dare you! Mabel hissed.
Its easy. Five years of putting up with this and Im done.
Ethel walked to the stove, turned on a burner, and set a tiny pot of oatmeal on it.
What are you doing? Peter asked.
Making myself breakfast. Porridge.
And us?
Youre adults. You can fend for yourselves.
Ethel, thats wrong! Mabel protested.
Whats wrong? That I refuse to be a free housemaid?
But Im your sons mother!
Then take on your own motherly duties. Feed your son.
Im not going to cook in someone elses kitchen!
Peter sat down, looking bewildered. Mum, maybe we could go out for tea?
Its expensive, and not good for the stomach, Mabel replied sharply.
Then make something at home, Peter insisted.
I wont! Ethel declared.
I cant cook either! Peter shouted, frustrated. Ethel, you should look after the family!
My own family, yes. Other peoples aunts, no.
My mother isnt a stranger!
To me she is. I didnt raise her, I didnt choose her.
Mabels eyes welled up. How cruel!
Its cruel to treat a person as a servant for five years, Ethel answered.
Where are you going? Mabel asked.
To my own business. You two are grownups; youll figure it out.
She retreated to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of fatigue.
The kitchen was left with two adults, each now faced with the simple question of how to make a humble bowl of soup or perhaps just a bowl of porridge and, more importantly, how to share the load fairly.
In the end, they learned that love and respect cannot thrive when one side bears all the work; true partnership means dividing the chores as evenly as the love that binds them.
