I Couldn’t Figure Out Where All the Food My Wife Cooked Was Going—Until My Mother-in-Law Told Us the Shocking Truth

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 4

I remember back when I couldnt work out where all the food my wife prepared kept vanishing to. Eventually, it was my mother-in-law who revealed the truth.

At first, I was quite pleased that my mother-in-law was staying with us, as she was of great help. Our son was often unwell, so we decided not to send him to nursery. My wife had asked her mother, Margaret, to look after our boy.

Margaret agreed, on the condition that she would only come to ours during the day and return to her own home every evening to rest in her own familiar surroundings.

There were evenings when we had matters to attend to or simply wanted an outing. If we found ourselves delayed, wed ask a neighbour to help, allowing Margaret to get back home and not be overtired.

In the beginning, everything ran smoothly. We would hurry back, and on arrival, the boy would be well fed and neat. But then, Margaret began leaving before we returned.

My wife always prepared meals lasting a day or two. Each month, we gave Margaret an envelope with some pounds in it as a token of our appreciation for her time and care.

Yet, I began to notice that all the food my wife cooked kept disappearing. Margaret hardly ate anything, and our sons appetite was even less. I decided to ask Margaret about it one afternoon. She explained that my father-in-law, Peter, would visit in the afternoons. Since she didnt have time to prepare meals at her own house after a long day, shed serve Peter some of what my wife had cooked. Most afternoons, hed sit at our table and eat as well.

I didnt quite know how to respond. Margaret went home each evening, yet apparently she found it burdensome to cook even then. I could understand Peter joining us for supper once a week, but certainly not every day.

The trouble was, there was barely enough left for our own dinner most nights. My wife kept her counsel, but I worked out it would actually be cheaper to hire a nanny outright.

I grew uncomfortable with my in-laws behaviour. My wife urged me to remain silent, but I couldnt help but wonder did they not realise we too had expenses? We were paying Margaret every month for her help with our son, and still, they dined at our cost. I wondered if anyone else had faced anything of the sort in their family.

My Mother-in-Law Suggested We Move into Her Flat—But Clearly She Had an Agenda —Thank you so much for offering, that’s very generous. But we’ll have to say no. My mother-in-law’s face fell. —Why is that? Are you just too proud? —No, not proud. We’ve just settled in. Switching schools in the middle of the year is stressful for the kids. Besides, we’re used to it here. We’ve just renovated, everything’s new. And at your place… — Kristina paused, choosing her words, then decided to be direct. — You’ve got lots of precious memories and things there. The kids are small, something will get broken or stained. Why put ourselves through that stress? When Kristina got home from work, her husband was standing in the hall, clearly waiting for her. She took off her shoes, walked silently into the bedroom to change, then headed for the kitchen. Her husband trailed behind, silent. Kristina couldn’t take it: —Are we going to start this again? I already said: no! Denis let out a long sigh. —Mum called again today. Says her blood pressure’s up. It’s hard for her over there, Granddad and Grandma have gotten very frail, acting like kids. She can’t cope on her own. —And? — Kristina took a sip of cold water, staving off rising irritation. — She chose to live at the cottage. She rents the flat out and gets money, gets fresh air. She liked it there. —She liked it until she had the energy. Now she’s moaning it’s boring and hard. Well… — Denis took a deep breath. — She’s suggested we move into her three-bed. Kristina stared at him, barked: —No. —Why say “no” right away? You didn’t even hear me out! — Denis threw up his hands. — Look: it’s a great area. Fifteen minutes from your office, twenty from mine. The language school’s just across the road, the nursery’s in the yard. No more commuting in traffic! And we could rent out this place, the mortgage would pay for itself. We’d even have some money left over. —Denis, do you hear yourself? — Kristina got right up close. — We’ve lived here two and a half years. I chose a spot for every plug socket in this place! The kids have friends next door. This is finally our home. Ours! —What does it matter where you live if you’re only home to sleep? We’re spending two hours a night just getting back from work! — he parried. — It’s an old building, high ceilings, thick walls, you can’t hear the neighbours. —And the décor was outdated even when I was at school, — Kristina shot back. — Have you forgotten the smell in there? And most of all, it isn’t our home. It’s Anna Leonidovna’s. —Mum says she won’t interfere. She’ll stay at the cottage, just wants to know her flat’s being looked after. Kristina gave a bitter smile. —Denis, do you have the memory of a goldfish? Remember how we bought this flat? Her husband looked away. Of course, he remembered. They’d spent seven years in rentals, saving every penny. When they finally had enough for a deposit, Denis had gone to his mum. The plan was perfect: sell mum’s big flat in the centre, buy her a nice two-bed and something decent for the two of them. Anna Leonidovna nodded and smiled, saying, “Of course, you need more space.” They’d already lined up options, already dreamed. But on the very day they were supposed to meet the agent, she called. —Remember what she said? — Kristina continued. — “I’ve been thinking… My area is so prestigious, the neighbours are so civilised. How can I go to your new build with all those people? No, I don’t want to.” So we went to the bank, took out a huge mortgage and got this place five miles outside the M25. Ourselves. Without her “prestigious” square meters. —Well, she was afraid of change, her age and all, — muttered Denis. — She’s different now. She’s lonely. Wants the grandkids close. —The grandkids? She sees them once a month when we visit with groceries. Then after half an hour she’s sighing because the noise gives her a migraine. Six-year-old Artyom ran into the kitchen, four-year-old Liza at his heels. —Mum, Dad, we’re hungry! — Artyom shouted. — And Liza broke my plane! I spent three hours building it, and she smashed it… —That’s not true! — squeaked Liza. — He dropped it himself! Kristina exhaled. —Right, go wash your hands. Dinner soon. Did Daddy cook pasta? —I did, — Denis muttered. — And sausages. While the kids banged chairs and Kristina dished out food, the subject was dropped. They didn’t pick it up again until bedtime. *** Saturday, they had to go to the cottage — Anna Leonidovna called in the morning, saying Grandpa’s medicine had run out and she “felt pressure in her chest”. The drive took an hour and a half. Anna Leonidovna met them at the door. At sixty-three she looked amazing: hair done, nails, a dainty silk scarf at her neck. —Oh, you made it, — she held out her cheek for a kiss. — Kristina, have you put on weight? Or is it just the blouse? —Hello, Anna Leonidovna. The blouse is just loose, — Kristina swallowed the jab as always. They went inside; the mother-in-law’s parents were dozing in front of the telly. Kristina greeted them, but they just nodded. —Tea? — asked Anna Leonidovna, heading to the kitchen. — I’ve got biscuits, a bit stale… I haven’t been shopping, my legs ache. —We brought cake, — Denis put the box on the table. — Mum, let’s talk. About the flat… Anna Leonidovna perked up. —Yes, yes, Denis. I’m nearly done here; the air is nice, nature, my parents need care. But in winter? It’s deathly boring. Meanwhile, the flat is standing empty, other people are in it, ruining everything. Breaks my heart! —Mum, your tenants are decent, a family, — Denis interjected. —Decent! — she snorted. — Last time I checked, the curtain was crooked. And it smelled… not right. So why are you stuck in the sticks? Move in with me. There’s plenty of room. Kristina glanced at her husband. —Anna Leonidovna, where do you plan to live? — she asked directly. Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows in surprise. —Where? Here, of course. With my parents. Well, maybe sometimes I’ll come to check on things, have blood tests at my clinic. I know all the doctors at our surgery. —How often is “sometimes”? — Kristina clarified. —Oh, maybe a couple of times a week. Or for a week, if the weather’s bad. I’ve got my room there, my bedroom. Don’t put the kids in it, they can have the big room. But my bedroom must stay as it is. Just in case. Kristina bristled. —So, you’re offering us the three-bed, but want us to keep one room just for you? So we’d live with the kids in two? —Why lock it? — Anna Leonidovna looked baffled. — Use it, just don’t move my things. Or the china cabinet. The crystal stays. And the books. Denis, remember? Don’t touch the library! Denis shifted awkwardly. —Mum, if we do move in, we’ll need to sort things out – make a kids’ room, set up beds… —Why beds? There’s a great sofa, still good! You dad bought it. No need to spend money! Kristina stood. —Denis, can we speak outside for a minute? She stepped onto the porch, not waiting for her husband. He followed, casting anxious glances at the door. —Did you hear that? — Kristina hissed. — “Don’t touch the sofa”, “my room”, “I’ll visit for a week”. Do you get what that means? —Kristin, she’s just afraid of change… —No, Denis! We’d just be unpaid caretakers! Can’t even move a cupboard! She’ll drop in any time, use her key, and tell me how to hang curtains, boil soup and make beds! —But it’s closer for work… — he tried weakly. —I don’t care! I’d rather sit in traffic for two hours and come home to a place that’s mine, where I make the rules. Denis was silent, looking at his shoes. He understood. Of course he understood. The easy way out had clouded his thinking. —And another thing, — Kristina crossed her arms. — Remember the ‘flat swap’? She let us down then because “being posh” was more important. Now she’s bored. She just wants company — us nearby, someone to nag. Just then, Anna Leonidovna appeared in the doorway. —What are you whispering about out here? Kristina turned to her. —We won’t put you out. We’re not moving. —Nonsense, — her mother-in-law huffed. — Denis, why are you letting your wife decide everything? Denis raised his head. —Mum, Kristina’s right, — he said, firmly. — We’re not moving. We have our own home. Anna Leonidovna pursed her lips. She knew she’d lost, but wouldn’t admit it. —Suit yourselves. I was only trying to help. Go on, keep wasting your lives in traffic jams. Just don’t complain later. —We won’t, — Denis promised. — Shall we head off, Mum? Do you need any more medicine or anything? —I need nothing from you, — she said, turning on her heel and slamming the door. They drove back in silence. By then, traffic at the city entrance had cleared, but there was still a red spot on the sat-nav near their area. —Are you mad? — Kristina asked as they stopped at the lights. Denis shook his head. —No. I pictured Artyom jumping on Dad’s old sofa and Mum having a heart attack. You’re right. It was a bad idea. —I don’t mind helping, Denis, — she said softly, patting his knee. — We’ll bring food, medicine. Get a carer if it gets hard. But we’re living separately. Distance is key to a good relationship. —Especially with my mum, — he said, wryly. *** Of course, Anna Leonidovna held a grudge against her daughter-in-law and son. Turns out she had already evicted the tenants, certain her son and his wife would move in. She badgered Denis for nearly a month. But Denis held firm—turns out, saying “no” isn’t that hard when it’s really needed.

01

Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.

05

I Discovered My Son Had Abandoned His Pregnant Girlfriend—So I Hired a Top Family Lawyer for Her When I Learned What My Son Did, My World Collapsed, Not from Shame, But for the Sake of the Poor Girl Delivering Takeaways on Her Scooter, Exhausted and Heavily Pregnant—So I Decided to Make Things Right Myself I Knocked on Her Door Tuesday Afternoon—Still in Her Work Uniform, Belly Obvious, Eyes Tired—And Said Honestly, ‘I’m the Mother of the Irresponsible Lad Who Left You, and I’m Here to Sort Things Out’ Tears Filled Her Eyes as I Explained, ‘I’m Not Here to Cause Trouble, I’m Here with Solutions—I’ve Already Paid for the Best Family Law Solicitor, Your Appointment Is Tomorrow’ I Told Her, ‘That Boy May Have Come from My Womb, But He Did Not Inherit My Values; He’ll Support This Baby, Even If He Has to Work Three Jobs.’ The Lawyer Did His Job Brilliantly. When My Granddaughter Was Born—Because She Is My Granddaughter, Whether My Son Admits It or Not—I Showed Up at the Hospital with Nappies, Baby Clothes, and a Cot in the Boot ‘Ma’am, You Don’t Have to—’ She Began. ‘Yes, I Do,’ I Interrupted. ‘I’m the Grandma.’ My Son Stopped Speaking to Me, Accusing Me of Betrayal and Interference. I Told Him the Only One Who Ruined Lives Was Him—I’m Simply Repairing the Damage Two Years Later, the Young Woman and My Granddaughter Live With Me—She’s Studying Nights to Be a Nurse, I Mind the Baby, and We’re the Oddest, Yet Closest Family in the Neighbourhood. My Son Still Doesn’t Speak to Me, But He Pays Child Support Without Fail—The Solicitor Is Very Convincing. Yesterday, While I Was Feeding the Baby, She Gave Me a Hug and Whispered, ‘Thank You, Mum.’ ‘Mum.’ And I Wonder: Is There Any Greater Gift Than Gaining a Daughter and Grandchild, Even If It Means Temporarily Losing a Son? Sometimes, Family Isn’t Where You’re Born, But Who You Choose to Stand By. A Story of Responsibility, Conscience, and Unexpected Love

04

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Couldn’t Figure Out Where All the Food My Wife Cooked Was Going—Until My Mother-in-Law Told Us the Shocking Truth