Dear Diary,
It was one of those longstanding Saturday rituals that have turned into a kind of endurance test. For the past five years since Cressida and I tied the knot, every weekend has become a battle of wills, courtesy of my motherinlaw, Martha.
It all started innocently enough. Martha would pop round once a month, a cup of tea in hand, to catch up and see how the grandkids were doing. Id always said, Mums getting on, lives alone now. Lets give her a bit of company, some moral support. Cressida gladly agreed after all, respecting the older generation is the polite thing to do.
Soon, however, the visits began to feel more like inspections. After her first stay, Martha politely ushered our son, Tom, into the hallway and asked, Peter, love, do you or anyone else mop the floors?
Of course we do, Mum, Tom replied, baffled.
She then pointed out streaks on the linoleum and dust on the skirtings. From that day on, Cressida turned into a cleaning fanatic before every visit. Shed scrub the floors twice, first with a strong detergent, then drywipe them to a shine. Dust was wiped from every surface furniture, bookshelves, radiators, even the baseboards. The bathroom was polished until it could have reflected a passing bus.
Mum grew up in a house that looked like a museum, Id say, watching Cressida crawl around with her rag. Shes just used to everything spotless.
Do you think Im a slob? Cressida would mutter, rubbing her sore back.
No, love, just a bit more relaxed at home, Id reassure her, though she works tenhour days at the bank, handling irate clients and endless spreadsheets.
A year later Martha started dropping by more often first every fortnight, then every Saturday without fail. Shes bored in her flat, Id explain, so its nice she has a place to unwind. But the quiet respite was hers alone; Cressida was left to grind away like a horse on a galley.
Marthas expectations grew beyond immaculate cleanliness. She wanted outings, shopping trips, new blouses. Peter, darling, lets go see some new tops. The wardrobes looking drab, shed chirp every Saturday.
Of course, Mum! Cressida, get ready, James would answer, and Cressida would trudge through the cramped shopping centre, carrying endless racks of clothes, waiting patiently at the changing rooms while Martha tried on five or six items only to buy one or leave emptyhanded, sighing about the decline in quality.
I never joined those marathon shopping trips. I had my own mens business the footy on TV, a catchup with the lads in the garage, washing the car, or heading out for a bite of fishing. You women enjoy these things more, Id joke, and Ill just stand by with my advice.
Even after a grueling week at the bank, a latenight report, a heated meeting and a nasty client, Id be lounging on the sofa, sipping tea, watching a crime drama. How was work? Id ask, not taking my eyes off the screen.
Exhausted, Cressida would admit, collapsing into her armchair.
Right, youll need to be up early tomorrow. Mums arriving from the country, tired and starving. Make her a proper soup not that premade stuff. Use a freerange chicken from the market; she says frozen chicken is nothing but rubbish, Id instruct.
Cressida would stare at me, bewildered. Freerange chicken?
Yeah, go to Kirkgate Market, ask Aunt Lucy. She keeps live birds there. The chicken has to be warm, not frozen. Mum swears its the only thing that sits well with her delicate stomach.
What time should I be out?
Half past five. The market opens at six, youll be home by eight, and Mum usually pulls up at nine.
Why dont you go yourself?
Id love to, but you know Im better at this. And the soup is a womans job, right? Thatll give me a chance to catch up on sleep before lunch.
Cressida left for the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and mulled over the injustice of it all. She didnt set an alarm, thinking shed manage, but I called out from the lounge, Set an alarm, or youll miss her!
She replied, What alarm? Im not cooking tomorrow.
I tried to brush it off, but the tension stayed thick.
The next morning the doorbell rang at seventen. A grey drizzle pattered against the windows. Who could that be? Cressida murmured, still in her robe.
Its Martha! a cheery voice announced.
My heart sank. The motherinlaw had arrived earlier than usual, bags in hand, looking fresh as a daisy in a light coat.
Good morning, love! Does the soup smell wonderful yet, or am I too early? she chirped.
Cressida gulped, Theres no soup.
Oh dear! Martha flustered. James said youd be up early
James is still asleep, Cressida whispered.
Martha shrugged off the comment, hung her coat, and said, Never mind, well head to the market straight away, get that freerange bird. James told me its essential for her stomach.
No, Im not going, Cressida snapped.
How can you not go? And the soup?
The person who ordered it should make it, she retorted.
Marthas eyes widened. But James works all week! He needs a break too!
Exactly, I need my work too, and my rest, Cressida replied.
Martha settled at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a long discussion. You know my doctor said I must have a hot broth in the morning. My stomach cant handle anything else!
I understand, but I dont see why its my problem, Cressida said.
Just then James shuffled in, hair a mess, still in his sleep shirt. Mum, youre here already?
James! Wheres the soup? Cressida says she wont fetch the chicken, Martha exclaimed.
You told me yesterday to get up early and make the soup for Mum, James said, bewildered.
Cressida turned slowly, dried her hands on a towel, and stared James in the eye. Let Mum make the soup herself, the one who gave birth to her.
A heavy silence fell. Martha froze, James opened his mouth, then closed it. What did you say? he whispered.
Its what Ive been thinking for ages, Cressida replied.
Martha, how can you speak like that? the motherinlaw snapped.
Its simple, dear, Cressida said calmly. Just using my words.
But Im your motherinlaw! Martha huffed.
So what? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? Mums family! James interjected. Shes my mother.
My mother, my mother, Cressida repeated. Then youre the one who should be cooking.
I dont know how, James muttered. Im terrible in the kitchen.
Then learn. The internets full of recipes, Cressida said.
Women should cook, right? James stammered.
Are we aliens now? I thought, watching the argument spiral.
Martha, trying to soften, said, I know youre exhausted, Cressida, but family duties
What duties? Mine? Yours? Cressida shot back. You travel to the country, go shopping, demand entertainment. Not exactly a frail old lady.
How dare you! Martha shrieked.
Easy, Cressida replied. Ive tolerated five years. Im done.
She walked to the hob, turned on a burner, and set a small pot of porridge on it.
What are you doing? James asked.
Making myself breakfast, she said. You two are adults, you can fend for yourselves.
Its wrong! Martha protested.
Whats wrong? That I dont want to be a free housemaid? Cressida answered.
But Im your sons mother! Martha cried.
Then take care of your own son, Cressida snapped. I didnt grow up with you, I didnt choose this.
Martha began to sob. How cruel!
Its cruel to use a person as a servant for five years, Cressida said quietly.
Im going, she announced, heading to the bathroom. The hot water washed away the fatigue of half a decade.
In the kitchen, James and Martha were left to decide whether to boil a simple broth or settle for cereal.
Looking back, I realise that letting grievances simmer only makes the boil hotter. A family must share the load, not pile it onto one person. Ive learned that respect isnt just about listening to elders; its about ensuring everyone, regardless of age, gets a fair slice of the pie.
Lesson learned: a household runs smoothly only when each member pulls their weight, and no one is left to feel like permanent staff in their own home.
