I stand in the kitchen, staring at the chaos before me, struggling to believe my eyes. Yesterday was my birthday, and I decided to invite my new husband’s parents over.
Anton and I had married just two months ago—quietly, without fuss, just a simple registry office ceremony. Neither of our families was there; it was just the two of us. Now we live together in my flat, the one I’d rented before the wedding. But last night… that was something else.
Truth be told, I’d been nervous about meeting the in-laws. They’re down-to-earth but strong-willed. His mother, Margaret, likes to take charge, while his father, John, is the quiet type—until he says something, and then it hits home. I’d prepared carefully: set the table, bought the best ingredients, even baked a cake myself, though my baking skills are hit-or-miss. Anton kept saying not to worry, that his parents were easygoing, but I wanted to impress. First official visit, after all.
They arrived on time, bearing gifts. Margaret brought an enormous bouquet of roses and a shiny, wrapped box. John handed over a bottle of homemade elderflower wine—claimed he’d brewed it himself. We sat down to eat, and at first, everything seemed fine. I’d made salads, roasted a chicken, and prepared potatoes with wild mushrooms. Anton praised the food, his parents nodded along, even complimented the spread. Then came the turning point.
Margaret, as it turned out, had a knack for bringing up topics that made me squirm. Out of nowhere, she asked when we were planning for children. I nearly choked on my wine. Anton tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but she wouldn’t let it go. “Back in my day, Emily, John and I started our family straight after the wedding. You’re young—why wait?” I forced a smile, though all I could think was, *We’ve only just married—give us time to breathe!* Anton looked just as flustered, but he never argues with his mother.
Then Margaret turned her attention to my kitchen. She stood, inspecting everything like a customs officer. “Emily, why so few dishes? You’ll need more if you’re hosting. And these dark curtains—I’d go for something lighter.” I clenched my jaw, cheeks burning. Anton whispered, “Don’t take it to heart—she’s always like this.” But this was *my* kitchen. I’d arranged it to my taste, and now I was being told it wasn’t good enough.
Thankfully, John lightened the mood. He launched into stories about his allotment, how this year’s cucumber harvest was so massive they didn’t know what to do with them all. I nodded along, silently willing the evening to end. Then Margaret handed me her gift. I unwrapped the box to find… a china tea set. The kind with floral patterns, straight out of a vintage shop. I thanked her, but all I could think was, *Where on earth am I supposed to put this?* Our cupboards are already crammed, and this thing looks like it’s meant for a royal gathering.
Anton, seeing my panic, tried to joke. “Mum, you know Emily prefers takeaway in paper cartons.” Margaret only narrowed her eyes. “That’s not proper, Anton. A home needs real crockery.” I nearly laughed—if I hadn’t, I might have screamed. In that moment, I realized life with these people was going to be an absolute rollercoaster.
When they finally left, I exhaled. Anton hugged me and said, “You did great—better than I expected.” But honestly, I’m still reeling. Now I stand here, staring at that tea set, the half-eaten chicken, the unfinished bottle of wine, and wonder: what does it mean to be part of a new family? On one hand, I love Anton, and I’d endure a hundred nights like this for him. On the other… how do I stop these comments from getting to me? Maybe in time, Margaret and I will find common ground. Or maybe I’ll just learn to keep my distance.
This morning, I woke up thinking: I need to talk to Anton. Maybe next time, we celebrate just the two of us. Or invite my parents—at least they don’t criticize my curtains. But I know his parents are part of my life now, like it or not. Somehow, I’ll have to make peace with it. Maybe next time, I’ll serve them tea in that ridiculous set, pour them a glass of elderflower wine, and say, “Cheers to the curtains.”
Joking.
Mostly.
