I stood in the kitchen, surveying the chaos before me, scarcely able to believe my eyes. Yesterday had been my birthday, and I’d decided to invite my new husband’s parents over. Thomas and I had married just two months earlier—quietly, without fuss, a simple registry office affair. Neither of our families had been there, just the two of us. Now we lived together in the flat I’d rented before the wedding. But last night… that had been something else.
Truth be told, I’d been nervous about meeting the in-laws. They were decent folk, but strong-willed. Margaret, his mother, liked to oversee everything, while his father, Arthur, was a quiet man—though when he did speak, his words carried weight. I’d gone to great pains to prepare: setting the table, buying the finest ingredients, even baking a cake myself, though my pastry skills were usually hit-or-miss. Thomas had assured me there was no need to worry, that his parents weren’t picky, but I’d wanted to make a good impression. This was their first proper visit, after all.
They arrived promptly, bearing gifts. Margaret brought an enormous bouquet of roses and a box wrapped in shimmering paper, while Arthur handed over a bottle of homemade elderflower wine—he’d brewed it himself, he said. We sat down to dinner, and at first, all went smoothly. I’d prepared salads, roasted a chicken, and made potatoes with mushrooms. Thomas praised the meal, his parents nodded approvingly, even offering compliments. But then things took a turn.
As it turned out, Margaret had a knack for raising topics that left me uneasy. Out of nowhere, she started asking when we planned to have children. I nearly choked on my wine. Thomas tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but she wouldn’t let it go. “In our day, Emily,” she said, “Arthur and I started thinking about family straight after the wedding. You’re young—why wait?” I forced a smile and nodded, though all I could think was, *We’ve only just married, give us time!* Thomas looked just as flustered, but he never liked arguing with his mother.
Then Margaret turned her attention to my kitchen. She stood, inspecting everything like a royal inspector. “Emily, why do you have so few dishes? You ought to buy more if you’re having guests. And these dark curtains—I’d have hung something brighter.” I bit my tongue, though my cheeks burned. Thomas leaned in and whispered, “Don’t take it to heart, she’s always like this.” But it was *my* kitchen—I’d arranged it to my taste, and now I was being told the curtains weren’t right.
Fortunately, Arthur lightened the mood by talking about his allotment, how this past summer his cucumbers had grown so plentiful they’d hardly known what to do with them all. I listened politely, though I couldn’t wait for the evening to end. Then Margaret presented her gift. I unwrapped the box to find… a full tea set. The sort with delicate floral patterns, the kind you’d see at your grandmother’s house. I thanked her, though all I could think was, *Where on earth will I put this?* Our cupboards were already crammed, and this set looked fit for a banquet.
Seeing my dismay, Thomas tried to lighten the moment. “Mum, you know Emily prefers sushi on a casual plate.” But Margaret only narrowed her eyes. “That’s not proper, Thomas. A home needs decent china.” I nearly laughed—though whether from nerves or sheer disbelief, I wasn’t sure. At that moment, I realised life with these people was going to be quite the adventure.
When they finally left, I exhaled in relief. Thomas pulled me close and said, “You did marvellously—better than I expected.” But I was still reeling. Now, standing in the kitchen, I stared at the tea set, the half-eaten chicken, the unfinished bottle of wine. What did it mean, becoming part of a new family? On one hand, I loved Thomas, and for him, I’d endure these moments. On the other—how was I to shrug off such comments? Perhaps, in time, I’d grow used to them, maybe even find common ground with Margaret. Or maybe I’d simply learn to keep my distance.
This morning, I woke thinking I ought to speak with Thomas. Perhaps we’d agree that next time, we’d celebrate just the two of us. Or invite my parents—at least they wouldn’t criticise my curtains. Still, I knew my in-laws were now part of my life, and like it or not, I’d have to learn to coexist. Next time, perhaps I’d set out that tea service, pour them some of their own wine, and say, “This one’s for the curtains.” A joke, of course. Or was it?
