I will never forget that NewYears Eve when I finally stopped putting up with my motherinlaws caprices at the family table and fled to my friends flat.
Whos cutting the salad like that? she shrieked, brandishing a knife as though the carrots in the bowl were meant for a boar. Those cubes are the size of hedgehogs! No one can fit them in a mouth. Ive told you a hundred times the pieces should be dainty, elegant, so the flavours can shine, not as if youve hacked them with an axe. Tamaras voice drowned out even the chatter of the television, where young Eddie Lukashen was once more scheming about a night at the bathhouse.
Emma froze, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock read four oclock on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as though shed unloaded a freight of coal, not stood at the stove since dawn. Her feet were swollen in slippers, and a fresh scrape on her finger throbbed.
MrsHarper, Emma inhaled deeply, fighting to keep her voice from trembling, these are normal cubes, standard size. Thats how we always cut them. If you dont like them, you can simply skip this salad. We have three other dishes coming.
Skip it? the motherinlaw snapped, nearly toppling the sauce cruet. Whats this, a talk with my sons wife? Ive travelled all the way to your house to celebrate, to bring the family together, and you give me a piece of stale bread? Victor! Do you hear how your wife is speaking to me?
Victor, Emmas husband, sat in the living room wrestling with a tangled strand of fairy lights, sighing heavily. He despised confrontations, so he had taken on the ostrich strategy: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.
Emma, Mum, he called from the sofa, why dont you cut them smaller? Is it that youre feeling sorry for yourself? Mum wants the best. She was a professional chef once; she knows what shes doing.
I ran the mess hall! MrsHarper declared proudly, adjusting the heavy brooch at her throat. My sanitising standards were stricter than a dental clinics. And you, Emma, have a kitchen in chaos. Your towel is stained, and you use it to dry your hands. Thats downright unhygienic!
Emma set the knife down in silence. Inside her, a slow, steady boil of anger began to rise the kind that usually ends in irreversible fallout. It wasnt the first NewYear with her motherinlaw, but it felt the heaviest. MrsHarper had arrived two days earlier, ostensibly to help, but in reality to inspect every corner and issue a verdict: daughterinlaw a slob, son underfed, no grandchildren (as if Emma were selfish or ill), and the flat tastelessly furnished.
The towel is clean, Emma replied calmly. I took it out this morning; a drop of beet juice fell on it. MrsHarper, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast a goose; its cramped in here.
A goose? her motherinlaw squinted suspiciously. How did you marinate it? In mayo, like last year? Thats vulgar! A proper goose should soak for two days in lingonberry sauce with juniper. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Didnt you read it?
I used my own recipe, with apples and honey. Victor loves it.
Victor only likes what youve trained him to eat! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hell have gastritis, look at how pale he sits. I used to make steamed meatballs for him as a child, clear soups
Emma felt the goose might as well fly out the window, or straight into the motherinlaws heart.
Enough, she said, wiping her hands on the apron. The goose goes into the oven. The salads are done. All thats left is to set the table and pull ourselves together.
Pull yourself together? MrsHarper glanced at her with a critical eye. Your hair looks like straw, the circles under your eyes could be maps. At least put on a cucumber mask. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Emma swallowed the rebuke for the sake of her husband, for the sake of the celebration, for the sake of not starting the year with a fight. She placed the heavy roasting tray in the oven, set the timer, and slipped into the bathroom.
Turning the tap on, she finally let the tears flow. For five minutes she sat on the edge of the tub, wailing, mascara streaking her cheeks. She was thirtyfive, a department manager at a major logistics firm, responsible for twenty staff. She and Victor had bought the flat together, investing her inheritance. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice inside whispered, sounding just like her own mothers, you must be wiser, you must endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.
Emma washed her face, applied patches, forced a smile at her reflection. All right. Six hours left. Well listen to the chimes, eat, and shell retire early. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to see the Christmas tree, and Ill curl up with a book.
She left the bathroom, hoping for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat; things seemed to be falling back into place.
In the bedroom lay her dress a darkblue velvet gown with a lovely back cut, bought especially for the holiday with half her bonus.
Emma, are you really going to wear that? MrsHarpers voice floated down the hall as she entered without knocking.
Yes, its my festive dress.
Honestly the motherinlaw pursed her lips. The velvet looks heavy. Youll look like a boiled kettle. And the colour is mournful. NewYear should be joy, sparkle! You need something bright, airy. I have a sequinned cardigan I could lend you if youll fit into it.
No thanks. I like this dress, and Victor likes it.
Victor doesnt mind as long as you dont chop him up. As a woman speaking to another woman, I say it doesnt suit you. It highlights every flaw. Youd be better off at the gym than stuffing buns at night.
Emma began to dress in silence. Her hands shook, the zipper jammed.
Let me help, or youll tear it it must be expensive, even if its useless, MrsHarper tugged the zipper, causing Emma to sway. See? I warned you. Dont complain later that Victor looks at younger women.
By ten oclock the table was set. Crystal glimmered, candles flickered, the goose, golden and fragrant, sat in the centre. Victor donned a shirt, MrsHarper slipped into that sequinned festive dress and piled on her gold jewellery, looking like a Christmas tree.
Emma felt like a squeezed lemon. She had neither appetite nor spirit; she just wanted the evening to end.
Lets toast the old year! Victor announced cheerily, pouring champagne. Its been a tough one, but weve managed. The important thing is were together!
Yes, a tough one, the motherinlaw echoed, raising her glass. Especially for me. My health is shot, my blood pressure spikes, theres no help. My son works, his wife is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness
Mum, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.
Calls once a week just for the sake of it. Lets not dwell on gloom. Lets drink to the hope that next year some women will remember their proper domestic duties.
Emma took a sip, feeling the bitterness of the champagne.
Try the salad, she offered, sliding a herring huss towards her motherinlaw. MrsHarper speared a piece, sniffed it, grimaced, and chewed deliberately, rolling her eyes.
Well she finally said. The herring is oversalted. The beet isnt cooked enough, it crunches. And the mayo Emma, did you pour a whole bottle of vinegar in there? Its as sour as a lemon rind.
Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Emma whispered.
Lemon juice in a huss! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest in peace, wasnt a chef either. She fed you readymade stuff, thats why youre such a mess.
That cut deep. Emmas own mother had died three years earlier; she still hadnt come to terms with the loss. Her mother had been a hardworking woman, two jobs to raise her daughter, never making exotic marinades, but always keeping a warm, cosy home.
Dont you dare speak of my mother, Emma hissed, her blood hot in her face.
What did I say? Speaking the truth isnt a sin. Victor, pass the bread; this salad is impossible to eat without something to chase it with.
Victor passed the bread without looking at her, chewing silently as if he could become invisible.
Then something clicked inside Emma. Anger, hurt, fatigue melted away, replaced by a cold calm. She looked at Victor, the man who had promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, now watching his mother trample the memory of Emmas own mother and demean her work.
Victor, does it taste alright? she asked.
What? he startled. Well its fine. Emma, lets not argue at the table. Mums just giving her opinion.
Opinion, indeed. Fine then.
Emma rose slowly.
Where are you off to? For the hot dish? Its still early, sit down, the motherinlaw commanded.
No, Im not after the hot dish.
Emma left the sitting room. In the bedroom she hung the velvet dress in the wardrobe, put on jeans and a cosy sweater, gathered a small sports bag, slipped in her toiletries, nightclothes and phone charger. In the hallway she pulled on a puffer coat, hat and boots.
From the lounge came MrsHarpers voice: I told my neighbour you dont need that multicooker; it makes dead food! A proper pot on the coal stove Victor, wheres Emma? Shes taken a while. Is she upset? She seems nervous, maybe you should see a doctor for her.
Emma peered into the doorway.
Im not upset, MrsHarper. Im just drawing conclusions.
Victor dropped his fork.
Emma, where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor.
Going to the shop? Need anything? Ill run out!
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate, eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so forgive me. Toss the salads if they disgust you.
Emma, stop making a circus of this! the motherinlaw protested. Sit at the table now! Guests are at the door, the chimes in an hour!
I have no guests, Emma replied calmly. There are only two strangers in this house. One who despises me, and another who couldnt care less. Happy New Year to you both.
She turned and headed for the front door.
Emma! Emma, stop! Victor leapt up, overturning a chair, chasing after her. Are you mad? Its night! Where will you go?
To the one who values me.
She opened the door.
If you go now, Victor shouted, his voice trembling between fear and anger, Mum will be completely hurt! Youll break the family!
The family was broken when you let her trample on my feet, Emma said, slamming the door.
Outside, soft snow fell, muffling the world. In the distance, fireworks began to pop. Emma breathed the icy air; strangely, she didnt feel cold. Freedom lightened her.
She dialled her friends number.
Lucy, are you awake?
Emma? Whats wrong? Were having a party! What do you need?
Can I come over? Right now?
There was a pause, then Lucys tone grew serious.
What happened? Did Victor hurt you?
Ive left. Probably forever. Im standing by the flat with my bag.
Ill be waiting! Grab your coat and come. Weve got plover, a mountain of toast, and a sea of bubbly. You know the code for the intercom?
I remember.
Emma called a cab. The fare was steep NewYears night always is but she didnt mind. When the bright yellow cab pulled up, she slid into the back seat and, for the first time that day, managed a genuine smile.
Lucys flat was noisy, cramped, and utterly warm. The hallway smelled of mandarins and rice. Lucy, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned sweater, hugged Emma so tightly her bones cracked.
Come in, love! Youre freezing! Mick, pour the punch!
Lucys husband, Mick, a burly man with a grin, shouted, More tea, you daft thing! The living room was a hodgepodge of people, children, a dog, a couple of friends. No crystal, no elaborate settings just paper napkins, a massive pot of pilau, a tower of buttered toast with caviar, and a bucket of mandarins.
Emma, youre just in time! Were about to make wishes! Mick roared. Sit down!
They thrust a glass of something fizzy into Emmas hand and a heaping plate of steaming pilau.
Eat! You must be famished, Lucy whispered. I know you never get a moment to eat when youre busy.
Emma tasted the pilau. It was divine, free of any sanitary standards or juniper, simply cooked with love.
What happened? Lucy asked as the clock struck midnight and everyone shouted Hurrah! while sipping champagne.
Emma recounted the goose, the oversalted salad, the strawhat criticism and Victors silence.
Right proper wretch, Lucy summed up. Your mums a witch. Leaving was the right thing. Dont waste your life on them. Youre a beauty, youll find a decent bloke wholl hold you like a queen and love his mother too.
Emmas phone, left on silent, blinked like a Christmas tree. Twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Mum. WhatsApp buzzed with messages: Emma, come back, we cant find the corkscrew!, Where are the napkins?, Mums pressure is spiking!, You selfish, how could you abandon us on a holiday!.
She read them and laughed, half in tears, a laugh of liberation.
The corkscrew they cant find she muttered, wiping her eyes. Two adults cant open a bottle of wine or locate a napkin. Pathetic.
Forget it, Lucy snatched the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They danced until three in the morning. Emma forgot her sore back, the grievances, the cold. She felt alive.
Morning of January1st found Emma waking on Lucys couch, head a little fuzzy but spirit buoyant. She knew she had to return home, not to apologise, but to close a chapter.
She arrived back at the flat around noon. The hallway was dim, smelling of stale smoke and something burnt. On the floor lay that very corkscrew theyd lost. The living room was chaos: dishes piled, remnants of food scattered. The goose sat untouched, one wing torn off evidently, without the housewifechef the appetite vanished.
Victor slept on the sofa, a blanket draped over him. The motherinlaw was absent; the guest room door stayed shut.
Emma stomped into the kitchen, heels clacking, flung open the window to let the frosty air rush in, and began grinding coffee. The grinders roar sounded like a cannon in the silent flat.
Victor shuffled in, hair rumpled, a guilty look on his face.
Did you come? he rasped. Thanks for the party. Mum spent the night on valerian.
Youre welcome, Emma said, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?
We didnt eat it. No appetite. Emma, do you realise what youve done? Youve embarrassed me before my mother. Shes thinking of leaving. She says she wont set foot here again.
Thats the best news of the year, Victor.
Youve become a stranger, cruel.
Ive become myself, Victor. I wont be a convenient servant any longer. I want to be happy.
At that moment the guestroom door swung open and MrsHarper stumbled in, a hand clutching her chest, a damp towel on her forehead.
There she is, the calamity! she croaked. Back already! After I gave my own mother a heart attack! Victor, Ill call a cab. I cant stay in the same room as that woman. Shes a monster!
MrsHarper, Emma said, meeting her gaze, a cab sounds fine. Please take all your advice, recipes, and grievances with you. Next time you visit, only come if invited, and behave like a guest, not a health inspector. Otherwise the door stays shut.
MrsHarper opened her mouth, gasping like a fish out of water.
Victor! Hear that? Shes kickingShes kicking the last vestiges of our peace, and I will not let her remain.
