Margaret Winchester woke at dawn and, as usual, made her way to the kitchen of her home in the outskirts of Oxford. To her surprise, her daughter-in-law was already bustling by the stove.
“Good morning,” smiled Eleanor, stirring something in a saucepan.
“Morning,” Margaret muttered, wrinkling her nose. “What on earth are you making?”
“Beef stew,” her daughter-in-law replied without looking up. “William adores it.”
“Beef stew?” Margaret sniffed suspiciously. “Since when does stew smell like *that*?”
“How *should* it smell?” Eleanor shrugged, covered the pot with a lid, and left the kitchen.
Margaret wasted no time. She darted to the stove, yanked off the lid, and peered inside. What she saw made her gasp in horror.
“What in heaven’s name is this concoction?” she muttered, backing away as if from poison.
Eleanor returned with bowls and, noticing Margaret’s reaction, calmly explained, “It’s stew, Margaret. Fresh vegetables from our garden—just picked. Cooking with homegrown ingredients feels like a celebration.”
“A *celebration*?” Margaret scoffed, folding her arms. “That garden of yours is nothing but drudgery! Wasting time digging in dirt when you could just buy everything at the shop? I’ll never understand it.”
“I enjoy it,” Eleanor replied softly, ladling the stew into bowls. The rich scent of beef, carrots, and herbs filled the kitchen. “The earth gives so much when you work with it.”
“Gives *what*?” Margaret rolled her eyes. “Maybe if you’ve nothing better to do. Proper people…” She trailed off when Eleanor merely smiled, as if ignoring the jabs. “And who on earth is all this for?”
“For us,” Eleanor said. “Enough for days. William always asks for seconds.”
Margaret recoiled dramatically, as if the very aroma made her queasy.
“I shan’t touch a bite!” she declared. “Just the smell turns my stomach. What on earth have you put in there?”
Eleanor sighed, avoiding Margaret’s gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her husband, William, entering the kitchen, tense and silent as he watched the scene unfold.
Margaret couldn’t fathom what had come over her son. Just two years ago, William had been a promising London tech professional. They’d visited galleries, dined at elegant restaurants, discussed his bright future. And now? This quaint cottage life, the garden, this plain-spoken Eleanor! Just the name made Margaret’s skin prickle with irritation.
William had always been a catch—tall, clever, charming. So many respectable girls from good families had fancied him! Why had he chosen this country girl and this backwater existence? Margaret had hoped it was a phase, that he’d come to his senses and return to the city. But time passed, and William only grew more entrenched in this “rustic fantasy.”
She’d had enough. Eleanor’s dinner invitation was the perfect opportunity. Margaret had a plan: remind her son who he really was and pull him out of this absurdity before it was too late.
William entered the kitchen, kissed his wife’s cheek, and turned to his mother.
“Mum, try the stew. Ellie makes it brilliantly.”
“William, you know perfectly well your father and I never ate these peasant dishes,” Margaret dismissed. “I remember how you used to grimace at stew as a boy—said it was old-fashioned slop.”
Eleanor smiled faintly, picturing a young William wrinkling his nose. But her husband was a man now, with tastes that had clearly changed.
“Times change, Mum,” he chuckled. “Ellie’s stew is legendary. Just try it.”
“*Legendary*?” Margaret gasped. “William, are you calling a pot of boiled beef *legendary*? Legends belong in theatres and museums, not some… some *domestic experiment*!”
Eleanor bit her tongue, but the words stung. She knew Margaret saw her as some simple country wife, unworthy of her son. Still, she wished—just once—her mother-in-law might appreciate her efforts.
“Mum, that’s enough,” William said firmly. “Ellie does so much for us. We’re happy—that’s what matters.”
“Happy?” Margaret pursed her lips. “For now. You’re a London boy, William. The city *needs* you. This… this gardener’s fantasy is just a whim. You’ll remember my words.”
William frowned. “I’m an adult, Mum. Ellie and I chose this life, and I’ve no regrets.”
“None *yet*,” Margaret countered. “But you’ve forgotten what real life is. This girl has you charmed with her vegetable patches, but it won’t last.”
Eleanor couldn’t stay quiet. “Margaret, what’s so wrong with our life? We’re not hurting anyone. William’s content—shouldn’t that make you happy?”
“Happy?” Margaret snapped. “I see how you’re dragging my son away from civilisation! You’ve got him right where you want him. Next, I suppose, you’ll have a baby to chain him here for good!”
Eleanor froze, stunned by the cruelty of it. William stood, his expression dark. “Mum. Too far.”
Margaret didn’t back down. “I’m telling him the truth. You can’t live like this forever, William. How can a city boy like you possibly enjoy *gardening* and *stew*?”
William suddenly smiled. “Funny thing, Mum—I was a city boy because I didn’t know anything else Ellie showed me another way to live, and I prefer it.”
Margaret scoffed but said no more. Her plan had failed—but she wasn’t finished yet.
After Margaret left, Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, staring at the stew pot. William’s defence warmed her, but the hurt still ached. She’d so wanted Margaret to accept them.
William returned, took her hand, and squeezed it.
“Don’t let it bother you, Ellie. Mum’s always thought she knows best. But I chose you—I chose *this*. If she can’t accept it, that’s her loss.”
Eleanor nodded, leaning into him. “I just wanted her to understand. Maybe that was too much to ask.”
“She might come around,” William said gently. “Even if she doesn’t, we’ve our own happiness.”
Eleanor smiled, the pain easing. Their little world, their home, their stew—this was *theirs*, and no one could take that.
“Here’s an idea,” she laughed. “Let’s finish this stew. To us—to our life, however simple it seems.”
William picked up his spoon. “To us, to our stew, and to whatever’s next.”
