Rise early and make mum a soup, Peter demanded. Let whoever gave birth to her do the cooking.
Evelyn was slumped in her favourite armchair, a mug of chilled fruit juice in hand, staring blankly at the telly. It was Friday, nine oclock. The credits of the latest drama were rolling, but they meant nothing to herher mind was already on tomorrow. Saturday again. Saturday again, when the inlaw marathon began.
Five long years of marriage had turned these weekends into a grueling survival test. Every Saturday, a curse you cant shake off.
It started innocently enough. Martha Smith, Peters mother, used to pop over once a monthfor a cuppa, a chat, a peek at the grandchildren. Peter would say, with genuine concern in his voice:
Mums alone and getting on a bit. My dads been gone ten years. Lets give her a little attention, keep her spirits up.
Evelyn readily agreed. After all, she was supposed to respect the older generation and show care.
Then, slowly, things began to shift.
First came the nitpicking about the house. After her very first visit, Martha politely called Peter into the hallway:
Petey, dear, do you even mop the floors?
Mum, of course I do, he replied, puzzled.
Strange. Why are there streaks on the linoleum? And theres dust on the skirting boards.
From that day on, Evelyn turned into a compulsive cleaner before every inlaw visit. She scrubbed the flat for hours, sweating through her cardigan. She mopped the floors twiceonce with a strong detergent, then wiped them dry. She dusted everything: furniture, bookshelves, radiators, even the ceiling cornices. She polished the bathroom until it shone like a showroom.
Mums always expected spotless order, Peter explained patiently as he watched his wife crawling with a rag. She grew up in a house that looked like a museum.
Are you implying Im a slob? Evelyn asked, her voice weary, back straightening after hours of hunching.
Not at all. Just a bit more relaxed around the house.
Relaxed. A generous description for a woman who clocked tenhour days at the bank, juggling nervous clients, endless reports, and a demanding boss.
But Evelyn endured it stoically. Family is all about compromise, she told herself.
A year later, Martha started coming more oftenfirst every fortnight, then every Saturday without fail.
She gets bored in an empty flat, Peter said sympathetically. At least she has a place where she can unwind.
Unwind. An interesting choice of word for a house that was basically a onewoman show.
Because the only one really relaxing there was the motherinlaw. Evelyn was working herself to the bone.
Marthas demands soon expanded beyond spotless surfaces. She no longer settled for tea and biscuits in front of the TV; she wanted outings, shopping trips, a new blouse.
Petey, darling, shall we pop out and look for a new shirt? My wardrobes gone to the dogs. shed chant every Saturday.
Of course, Mum! Evelyn, get ready quickly.
So Evelyn trudged through hot, cramped shopping centres, lugging endless racks of clothes, waiting patiently in fitting rooms. Martha was a demanding shoppertrying on five or six items just to buy one, or sometimes none at all, sighing in disappointment.
The quality these days isnt what it used to be. Back in the day they stitched better, shed lament.
Shall we try another shop? Evelyn suggested, exhausted.
Yes, lets! Theyll have better stuff.
Backtoback fitting rooms, long queues at the tills, endless comparisons.
Peter never joined these marathon shopping trips. He always had more important masculine pursuitsfootball on the telly, a catchup with the lads in the garage, washing his car, or a fishing trip.
Women enjoy these things more, dont they? hed philosophise. Id just be in the way with my advice.
Interesting indeed, after a hard week at the bank, dragging a cranky elderly lady through malls.
Even that wasnt the limit of Evelyns patience.
Yesterday she arrived home from work in a complete state of exhaustion. A quarterly report for the head office, an emergency meeting with senior management, a row with a difficult clienther head was throbbing, her legs barely holding her up.
Peter was lounging on the favourite sofa, sipping tea, watching another crime drama, nibbling on shortbread.
How was work? he asked without looking away from the screen.
Im knackered, Evelyn admitted, collapsing into the armchair.
Right, get some rest. By the way, Mums arriving tomorrow morning.
I know, she replied curtly.
Listen, Evie, get up early tomorrow and make mum a soup. Shell be coming from the country, tired and hungry. It has to be a proper farmraised chickenher stomachs delicate now, she needs a real broth, not that supermarket nonsense.
Evelyn lifted her head slowly.
Farm chicken?
Yes. The market on Brick Lane has a good vendorAunt Lucy keeps live birds. We need a warm, fresh one. Frozen supermarket chicken is practically junk, Mum says.
What time should I be out?
Early. Youll be up at half past five. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight. Mum usually gets here by nine.
Why arent you going yourself?
Id love to, but youre the one who knows the ropes. And soup is still a ladys job, you know. I can finally catch up on some sleep before lunch.
Evelyn shuffled to the bathroom, brushed her teeth at a snails pace, pondering the fairness of life. Peter was planning a lazy lunchtime liein, while she would have to rise before dawn, chase a chicken across the city, then stand over a pot for three hours.
You setting an alarm? Peter called from the lounge.
What alarm? she asked, bewildered.
You know, so you dont oversleep. Mum gets here at nine, and soup takes ages.
Evelyn peeked out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth.
Are you setting an alarm for yourself?
Why would I need one? Im not cooking tomorrow.
She said nothing about the alarm and left it unset on her phone.
Morning arrived with a persistent knock at the front door. Seven past ten, a drizzle tapping the windows.
Who could that be? she muttered, fumbling for a robe.
Its Martha! a cheerful voice announced.
Her heart sank. Motherinlaw, and far earlier than usual.
She opened the door to find Martha, cheeks flushed from the rain, two big shopping bags in hand, a light spring coat fluttering.
Good morning, Evie! Smells like soup yet, or am I too early?
Evelyn swallowed the lump in her throat.
Theres no soup, she croaked.
Oh dear! Peter said youd be up early
Peters sleeping.
Martha stepped in as if the comment hadnt registered, shrugged off her coat, and hung it on the rack.
No worries, love! Well pop to the market, get a fresh chicken. Peter said you need farmfresh, not the chemical stuff.
Evelyn, still in her robe, stared at the buoyant woman and felt the heat rise inside her.
Im not going.
How can you not? What about the soup?
Let the one who ordered it cook it.
But Peter works all week! He needs a break!
I need to work too. And I need a break.
Martha settled at the kitchen table, apparently expecting a lengthy debate.
Evie, you dont understand. My doctor insists I have a hot broth every morning. My stomachs fragile!
I understand. I just dont see why its my problem.
Five minutes later Peter stumbled in, hair a mess, still in his gym tee.
Mum! Youre already here?
Petey! Wheres the soup? Evelyn says she wont fetch a chicken.
Peter stared at his wife, baffled.
Didnt I tell you yesterday to get up early and make mum soup?
Evelyn turned slowly, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and met his gaze.
Let mums soup be made by the one who gave birth to her.
A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. Martha froze. Peter opened his mouth, then shut it.
What did you just say? he whispered.
What Ive been thinking for ages.
Evelyn! Martha protested. How can you speak like that?
Simple, Evelyn replied. Its semantics.
But Im your motherinlaw!
So what? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? Mums family! Peter interjected. Shes family, isnt she?
Your family. Your mother. Youre the one who should be cooking for her.
I cant!
Learn. The internets full of recipes.
But youre a woman! Peter stammered.
And youre an alien? he retorted.
Martha softened a touch.
I get it, youre exhausted. But family duties
Whose duties? Mine? Yours? Evelyn snapped. Im the one whos been dealing with it for five years.
Im an elderly lady
Who zips around the country, hits the shops, demands entertainment. Not exactly spry.
How dare you! Martha snapped.
Easy. Five years of putting up with it, Im fed up.
Evelyn walked over to the stove, flicked on a burner, and set a tiny pot of porridge on it.
What are you doing? Peter asked.
Making myself breakfast. Porridge.
And us?
Youre adults, you can fend for yourselves.
Evelyn, thats wrong! Martha exclaimed.
Whats wrong? That I wont be a free housemaid?
But Im Peters mum!
Then take on your own motherly duties. Feed your son.
Im not cooking in someone elses kitchen!
Peter sat down, looking baffled.
Mum, shall we go out for brunch?
Brunch is pricey, Martha grumbled, and bad for the stomach.
Then make something at home.
I wont!
I cant cook either! Peter erupted. Evelyn, youre supposed to look after the family!
My own family, yes. Not yours.
My mum isnt a stranger!
She is to me. I didnt grow up with her, I didnt choose her.
Marthas eyes welled up.
How cruel!
Cruel is five years of being used as a servant, Evelyn retorted.
Where are you going?
To my own business. Youre both grownups, youll sort it out.
She slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away half a decade of exhaustion.
The kitchen was left with two adults, now forced to decide whether to boil a simple broth or just have a bowl of porridge.
