Margaret Elizabeth awoke that Saturday morning with a festive lightness in her heart. Sixty yearsa milestone worthy of celebration. She had planned this day for months, curating guest lists and selecting her finest dress. The mirror reflected the satisfied face of a woman accustomed to life unfolding precisely as she intended.
“Mother, happy birthday!” Edward was the first to appear in the kitchen, carrying a small gift box. “This is from Eleanor and me.”
Eleanor offered a silent nod, cradling her morning tea by the stove. She was never one for words at such an hour, particularly when it came to her mother-in-laws celebrations.
“Oh, Edward, thank you!” Margaret accepted the gift with practised cheer. “Have you both eaten?”
“Yes, Mother, alls well,” Edward replied, glancing at his wife.
Eleanor set her cup in the sink, bracing herself for what lay ahead. Margarets buoyant mood these past days had only sharpened her commanding tendencies. As if the occasion granted her greater authority to dictate every detail.
“Eleanor, dear,” Margaret addressed her in that particular tonethe one that never boded well. “I have a small favour to ask.”
Eleanor turned, schooling her expression into neutrality. Three years in this house had taught her to read Margarets inflections like an open book.
“Heres the menu. Have it all prepared by fiveI cant very well be standing in the kitchen on my own jubilee, can I?” Margaret extended a neatly folded sheet, her handwriting immaculate.
Eleanor scanned the list, and her stomach clenched. Twelve dishes. Twelve! From simple canapés to elaborate salads and hot appetisers.
“Margaret,” she began carefully, “this will take all day…”
“Naturally!” Margaret laughed as if Eleanor had remarked on the weather. “What else would one do on such an occasion but cook for the guest of honour? You understand, dont you? All my friends will be here, the neighbourswe simply cant let standards slip.”
Edward shifted uncomfortably between them, sensing the tension thickening.
“Mother, perhaps we could order something?” he ventured weakly.
“Order? On my birthday?” Margaret gasped. “Feed my guests shop-bought food? What would people think? No, everything must be homemade, prepared with love.”
Eleanor clenched her fists. Love. Someone elses lovehers, as she slaved away in the kitchen.
“Fine,” she said curtly and turned to leave.
“Eleanor!” Edward called after her. “Wait.”
She halted in the hallway, breathing deeply. Edward approached, eyes downcast.
“Listen, Id help, truly, but you know Im hopeless in the kitchen…”
“Of course,” Eleanor said tightly. “And its perfectly acceptable for your mother to treat me like hired help?”
“Dont be dramatic,” Edward mumbled. “Its just one day. Think of all she does for usletting us live here, never charging rent…”
Eleanor studied him a long moment. She could remind him of Margarets constant remarks about the housekeeping, the critiques of her cooking, the endless reminders that she had “welcomed a country girl into the family” as if it were charity. But what good would it do? Edward would never see it. To him, his mother was a saint, and Eleanors grievances mere petulance.
“Very well,” she said and returned to the kitchen.
The hours blurred in a frenzy of chopping, boiling, frying, mixing. Her hands moved mechanically while her thoughts churned. Then, as she stirred a sauce, inspiration struck. The idea was so simple, so elegant, she nearly laughed aloud.
From the cupboard, she retrieved a small boxsomething shed bought weeks ago but never used. A mild laxative. The label promised effects within an hour.
Eleanor reviewed the menu. Salads, cold appetiserseach could discreetly accommodate a few drops. The roast, however, she left untouched. After all, she and Edward needed something to eat.
By five, the table groaned under the feast. Margaret, resplendent in new silk and pearls, surveyed the spread like a general inspecting troops.
“Not bad,” she conceded. “Though the coronation chicken could do with more salt.”
Eleanor said nothing as she arranged the dishes. Inside, anticipation hummed.
Guests arrived promptly, showering Margaret with gifts and praise. Her friendswomen of similar vintage, equally bedeckedgushed over the table.
“Margaret, youve outdone yourself!” exclaimed Beatrice from next door.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Margaret demurred. “Eleanor assisted, though the real work was mine, of course.”
Eleanor, setting out plates, barely suppressed a laugh. Assisted. Naturally.
“Edward,” she murmured, “dont touch the salads. Wait for the roast.”
“Why?”
“Just wait.”
He shrugged but complied. Eleanor sat back, watching as guests devoured the appetisers. Margaret held court, boasting of her meticulous planning.
“This quiche is my signature,” she declared. “A family recipe.”
“Divine!” cooed Constance. “Youve a real gift, darling.”
An hour passed. Eleanor checked her watch. Then, at last, it began.
Beatrice clutched her stomach first. “Oh dear,” she groaned. “I feel rather unwell…”
“Me too!” another guest gasped. “Margaret, are you certain everything was fresh?”
Margaret paled. “Of course! I bought it all yesterday!”
Then she, too, doubled over. Apologies and groans filled the air as guests scrambled for the loo.
“Eleanor,” Edward hissed, “whats happening?”
“No idea,” she said mildly. “Lucky we avoided the salads.”
By seven, only the three of them remained. Margaret slumped on the sofa, ashen.
“Rest,” Eleanor said sweetly. “Well clear up.”
“What did you put in the food?” Margaret demanded weakly.
Eleanor carved the roast. “A mild laxative. Only in the cold dishes. The roast is safe.”
Margaret opened her mouth, but necessity sent her hurrying away again.
“Eleanor!” Edward frowned. “Was that necessary?”
“How else?” She met his gaze. “Youve no idea how she treats me when youre not here. Half the time I dont even tell you because I know youll defend her. Mother means well, Mother helps us, Mother took us in. But her treating me like a servant doesnt trouble you?”
Edward chewed his roast in silence.
“Perhaps it was cruel,” Eleanor continued. “But Im tired. Tired of being nobody in this house. Used, then scolded for ingratitude. Today, she learned a lesson. Perhaps next time shell think twice before dumping work on me and claiming the credit.”
“Still…” Edward began.
“Still what? No one was harmed. A few hours in the loo. The lesson will linger.”
And linger it did. After that ill-fated birthday, Margarets manner softened. She was never warm, but the sharp edges dulled. No more orders, no more dumping chores on Eleanor.
Six months later, Edward announced they were moving.
“Weve saved enough for our own place,” he said at supper.
His mother stared, stunned. But she only nodded.
“Perhaps its time,” she conceded. “Young people need their own nest.”
On moving day, as they carried the last boxes, Margaret approached Eleanor.
“You know,” she said quietly, “perhaps I was… unkind.”
Eleanor paused, arms full of crockery. “Perhaps. But it doesnt matter now. We understand each other.”
“Yes.” Margaret hesitated. “Still… that birthday… it was rather… effective.”
They looked at each otherand for the first time in years, laughed. Truly laughed.
In their new home, Eleanor often recalled that day. Not with regret, but satisfaction. Sometimes, to be understood, one must speak a language the other comprehends. And Margaret, it turned out, only understood the language of consequences.
The lesson served Edward, too. He finally saw his wifes grievances as more than whims. Though he still deemed her methods extreme, he never again dismissed her complaints.
Margaret visited occasionally, bearing cakes, asking after them, even offering helpnever again commanding.
“You know,” Eleanor told Edward one evening in their own kitchen, “Ive grown rather fond of her. Now that shes stopped acting like a general.”
“I still think you went too far,” he smiled.
“Perhaps,” Eleanor agreed. “But it worked. Sometimes the boldest methods are the most effective.”
And she was right. Peace settled in their homebuilt on mutual respect and clear boundaries. And wasnt that what mattered most?
