A Gift with a Side of Criticism: How the Mother-in-Law Tried to Ruin a Birthday
Olivia had spent all day bustling in the kitchen—today was her birthday, after all. Everything had to be perfect: the salads, the starters, the main course. By evening, the guests began to arrive—her parents, her closest mates, and, of course, her mother-in-law, Margaret Henderson. The girls happily pitched in, arranging the food and setting the table. The celebration promised to be warm and cosy—at least until Margaret decided to speak up.
“My dear daughter-in-law,” she began with a stiff smile. “Happy birthday! And in honour of this special occasion, I’ve got you something…” She stepped forward and handed Olivia an envelope.
Olivia opened it eagerly, but her smile vanished when she saw what was inside—a voucher for a cooking class.
“I do hope you’ll finally learn to cook properly,” Margaret said, her voice dripping with icy sweetness. “So that next year, we won’t have to be embarrassed sitting at your table.”
The room fell silent. Olivia stood frozen.
“Seriously? You couldn’t resist, even on my birthday?”
“Calm down,” cut in Daniel. “Sit. I’ll handle this.”
He led his mother into the kitchen. No one knew exactly what was said behind that closed door, but Margaret left soon after—taking the voucher with her. An awkward hush lingered, though the guests gradually relaxed. Toasts were made—to health, to love, to patience.
By the time most had left, only Olivia’s closest friends remained. The mood had soured.
“Liv, is your cooking really that bad?” asked Emma.
“Come off it, I’m no chef, but it’s edible. Margaret just thinks that if her son isn’t the one cooking, it must be rubbish.”
“Has she even tried your food?” Jess asked, surprised.
“Rarely. She usually decides it’ll be awful before she takes a bite.”
And then the plan took shape. Olivia was determined to prove it wasn’t about the food—it was about bias.
She and Daniel arranged everything. He cooked the meal himself while Olivia passed it off as her own. When Margaret arrived for dinner, she was geared up for a fight—but the sight of the neatly set table disarmed her. A proper roast, soups, sides—everything looked promising.
“Well,” she muttered. “I suppose those classes weren’t a total waste.”
She started eating. Even gave a reluctant compliment.
“The lessons helped. Not quite up to Daniel’s standard, mind you, but at least you didn’t waste your money.”
That’s when Daniel pulled out his phone, played a video, and set it in front of her.
On the screen—him, in the kitchen, preparing the very meal she’d just praised.
“Mum, I’m done with you belittling Olivia. You just ate food that I cooked—and you liked it. If you’re determined to put her down for no reason, it stops now. No more comments about her cooking. Ever.”
Margaret went pale.
“This is her doing! She’s turned you against me! I raised you better than this!”
“Mum, enough. You’re the one pushing me away.”
She stood, stiff with pride, and slammed the door on her way out.
Months passed. No calls, no messages. Daniel didn’t reach out either. But eventually, she cracked—realising she was losing her son. She rang, apologised. Slowly, she and Olivia found a way forward. The snide remarks still slipped out now and then, but far less often. Olivia learned to let them slide. For the sake of peace.
In the end, even the strongest walls crumble when the truth can’t be ignored.
