Gillian Thompson tries to take charge of my kitchen, and I point her toward the door.
Pippa, whos chopping that onion? It isnt for a soup, its for the pigs feed, I swear! Its cut too big the bite will crunch, and Simon cant stand that.
Gillians voice booms over my ear, forcing me to tilt my head back. It isnt even a voice, more like the whine of a drill a steady, boring hum that seems to drill straight into my brain. I inhale deeply, count to five in my head, and, forcing the softest smile I can manage, lay the knife down.
Gillian, this is onion for Frenchstyle meat. Itll bake in the oven for an hour and a half under a blanket of mayo and cheese. Nothing will crunch; itll melt away. Ive been making this for ten years, and Simon always asks for seconds.
Oh, stop with the stories! Gillian flails her arms, and her heavy amber beads clink dully. Ten years? Ive been feeding him for thirtyfive! His stomach is delicate; he cant have something so rough. Hand me the knife.
She reaches for the chopping board, as if this is the moment the real cooking will finally begin, not the confusion that has reigned since she arrived.
I gently but firmly block her access to the counter.
Gillian, you dont need to. Ive got this. Youre a guest. Go into the sitting room, Simon has the TV on catch your soap. We agreed: today is my birthday and I want to set the table myself.
Gillian presses her lips together until they become a thin line. In her eyes I see hurt mixed with stubborn resolve.
Guest is that what youre calling me? My own daughterinlaw cant even be helped. Im only trying to do right by you, so you dont look foolish in front of the cousins, Aunt Maggie, and the rest. Theyll say, Look what a useless daughterinlaw Gillian raised.
My mother raised me, I reply quietly but firmly, reaching for the knife again. She taught me that the lady of the house deserves her own space in the kitchen.
Gillian snorts and moves to the window, running a finger along the sill as if checking for dust. I know that gesture by heart; if no dust is found, shell spot a smudge on the curtains or a streak on the glass.
An hour ago the kitchen was filled with pleasant aromas and the buzz of a birthday celebration Im turning thirtyfive today now the air feels as heavy as a thundercloud.
Simon sits in the lounge, hearing every word. The flats thin walls carry the conversation perfectly, but he chooses his favorite ostrich tactic: stay out of it and hope it blows over. He dislikes conflict, especially when it forces him to pick between the two most important women in his life.
I keep chopping the onion, trying not to watch the angry stare from Gillians back. Cooking is my sanctuary. The kitchen is my kingdom, my place of power. Surrounded by spice jars, gleaming pots and the whirr of the mixer, I unwind after a long day at the bank. I know each ingredients temperament, I can guess the right amount of salt without tasting. Most of all, I hate it when anyone intrudes on this sacred ritual.
Gillian cant stay silent for long. Her nature demands action and direction.
Pippa, have you marinated the meat? she calls from the window. I told you yesterday to add some vinegar. The meat is tough now; without vinegar the fibres will stay hard.
I marinated it in kefir with herbs and lemon. Vinegar dries out the fibres, Gillian. This will be tender.
Kefir?! she gasps. Good God, who puts kefir on beef? Itll turn sour! Youre an adult, yet you cant get the basics right. I found a recipe in a magazine, clipped it, brought it over last time. Wheres it?
I think its in a drawer, I lie. The recipe that suggested drowning good meat in mayo, vinegar and a packet of instant seasoning I tossed straight away.
Fine, Gillian says, marching to the stove where a fish sauce simmers on low heat. Whats that bubbling? The colour looks odd, pale.
She grabs a spoon from the holder and, before I can react, scoops up the sauce and pops it into her mouth.
Ugh! Taste like chalk! Pippa, did you even add salt? Are we on a diet?
I freeze. Inside a feeling rises that makes me want to drop everything apron, knife, towel and disappear into fog. But its my birthday. Friends and family will arrive; I cant ruin the day.
Its béchamel, I say, each word deliberate. It gets nutmeg and Parmesan. The Parmesan is already salty. I havent added cheese yet. Please, just put the spoon down.
Nutmeg Parmesan Gillian mimics. All showoff. People need simple, hearty food potatoes, herring. Youre overcomplicating. Let me salt it, or itll be a disgrace on the table.
She reaches for the salt cellar.
No, dont! I step forward, grabbing her wrist.
Thats the mistake. Physical contact triggers a flare. Gillian jerks her hand back, eyes widening in outrage.
Are you trying to pull my hand away? I was about to season it for you! Im trying to help, you ungrateful thing!
I didnt ask for help! I snap, voice rising. Gillian, Im asking you for the tenth time: leave the kitchen. Let me finish in peace.
Simon! she yells toward the hallway. Simon, come here! Look at how your wife fights with his mother! Shes kicking me out of the kitchen!
Simon appears, guilty and frightened, his gaze shifting from his angry mother to his pale, clenchedfist wife.
Mum, Pippa, whats happening again? Its a celebration, you can hear it through the whole block.
You tell her! Gillian points at me. Im giving her advice on how to save the meat, how to finish the sauce, and she twists my arms away! She tells me to go away!
I never said go away, I correct coldly. I asked you to leave the kitchen and not interfere. Those are two different things.
Simon, do you hear? Gillian turns to her son, looking for backup. She thinks Im in the way! I raised you, taught you to make borscht when you first married! If it werent for me, youd have ruined your stomachs with these experiments!
Simon scratches his head.
Pippa, honestly Mum just wants the best. Shes experienced. Maybe you should listen? Shell just sprinkle a little salt, it wont hurt.
I look at my husband as if seeing him for the first time. Disappointment floods my eyes, and Simon steps back.
So you think this is normal? I whisper. Normal that, in my own house, on my birthday, I cant even take a step? Normal that Im criticised for every slice of onion? Normal that someone sticks a dirty spoon into my sauce?
Why dirty? Gillian retorts. I licked it!
That line sends a shock through me.
Simon, Ive been prepping this table for five hours. Im exhausted. I want a proper birthday. If your mother doesnt leave the kitchen and stop meddling, Ill just turn everything off, throw it in the bin and well order pizza. Or Ill go to a friends house. Your choice.
Why the ultimatums Simon mutters. Mum, lets just go to the bedroom, please. Give her space.
No! Gillian plants her hands on her hips. Her posture, like a stubborn kettle, signals the showdowns final stage. I wont let guests be poisoned! Ill finish everything myself. And you, she nods at me, go and dress yourself. Youre of little use anyway, just moving ingredients around. Hand me the apron.
She reaches for my apron, trying to untie the knot at my waist.
It feels like an invasion, a brutal breach of personal boundaries. Something inside me snaps; the tension in the room turns from a taut string to icy calm.
I step back, pull the apron off myself, fold it neatly and place it on the counter.
Fine, I say.
Good girl, Gillian declares triumphantly, snatching the apron. Now go rest.
No, you havent understood, I lift my eyes, no longer pleading, only steel. Gillian, put the apron down and leave my flat.
Silence settles over the kitchen, deafening. The sauce bubbles, the fridge hums.
What? Gillian repeats, stunned. What did you say?
I said: leave. Right now.
Pippa, what are you doing? Mum the guests are coming
Thats exactly why Im doing this, I turn to Simon. I dont want a scene when people arrive. If she stays, shell comment on every dish, tell my parents Im incompetent, oversalt the guests plates. Ive put up with this for five years, Simon, silent for the sake of peace. Today is my birthday, and Im giving myself a proper gift: a peaceful evening without toxic remarks and kitchen battles.
Youre kicking her out? Gillians voice quivers, tears slipping in. My own sons mother, from his home?
This is our home, Gillian. Im the one who runs the kitchen. I respect you as Simons mother, but you dont respect me as a person or as the host. My patience has run out. Please get dressed and leave. Well call you a taxi.
Simon! Will you let her treat me like this? she shrieks, turning on her son. Shes humiliating me! Driving me out like a dog!
Simon stands between two fires. He sees my resolve, knows Im not easily swayed once I decide. He realises that if he doesnt back me now, he may lose me. He also remembers the oversalted soup his mother forced on us last week.
Mum, Pippas right. Youve gone too far.
What?! Gillian stumbles, clutching the table edge. And you you betray your own mother for this kitchen lady?
Shes not a kitchen lady, Mum. Shes my wife. And we asked you not to interfere. Cant you hear us? Please, go home. Well bring you a cake on the weekend. But today, let it be as Pippa wants.
Gillian looks at her son, horror dawning. For thirtyfive years shes never seen Simon side with anyone but her. Her world crumbles.
Fine then! she shouts, throwing the apron onto the floor. Stay and rot in your sour cheese! My feet wont be on this floor any longer! I give my all, and youre selfish!
She storms into the hallway, the clatter of her shoes echoing, her coat flapping off the rack.
No taxi needed! Ill walk, or catch a bus! Youll be ashamed that an old mother has to lug her bags!
The door slams, glasses clink.
I stand frozen, eyes on the discarded apron. My hands tremble slightly. The adrenaline that gave me strength begins to ebb, leaving a hollow aftertaste.
Simon steps behind me, careful as if I might crumble, and places his hands on my shoulders.
How are you? he asks.
I dont know, I admit. Im sorry it turned out like this. I didnt want to hurt her.
You didnt hurt her, you set a boundary. It was overdue, he says, nuzzling my hair. Im sorry. I should have stopped her at the onion stage.
I lean into his embrace, cheek against his chest.
Do you really mean that, or are you just trying to soothe me? I ask softly.
Its true. I saw how she pushed you. Shes always been the commander. Dad put up with it, so I learned to put up with it too. You dont have to.
He lifts the apron from the floor, shakes off crumbs and hands it to me.
Put it on. We still have fish to finish. Want me to peel the potatoes? Just show me how, or Ill end up chopping them for the pigs too.
I laugh nervously, the tension loosening.
Ill handle the potatoes. You grab the wine and open the kitchen window; we need fresh air.
The two remaining hours before the guests arrive pass in a coordinated dance. Simon, feeling guilty, slices bread, arranges plates, polishes glasses. The kitchens atmosphere lightens; the weight lifts, the fear of making a mistake fades.
When the guests arrive my parents, my sister with her husband, a couple of close friends the table looks immaculate. In the centre sits the Frenchstyle meat (the onion saved at the last minute), beside it a fragrant fish in béchamel, and salads burst with colour.
Wheres Gillian? asks my mother, Vera, glancing at the spread. We thought shed be here to help.
Simon glances at me, then replies, Shes feeling a bit off, decided to rest at home. She sends her best wishes.
Vera nods sympathetically, a knowing spark in her eyes; shes familiar with the motherinlaw dynamics.
The dinner goes off perfectly. The kefirmarinated meat melts in the mouth, earning delighted exclamations. The fish sauce is silky, and no one complains about undersalted food.
Pippa, youre a wizard! the brotherinlaws husband declares, loading his plate. Simons lucky to have you. This isnt something you get in a restaurant!
I smile, taking the compliments, but inside I feel a deeper triumph. I look at Simon, whos laughing, pouring wine for the guests. He no longer looks upset about the earlier clash; instead he seems relieved, as if finally hes cut the invisible umbilical cord that kept him tethered to his mothers expectations.
Later, when the guests have left and the dishwasher hums softly, Simon lounges on the sofa, scrolling his phone.
Did Mum text? I ask, sitting beside him.
Yeah. Blood pressure 160, taking tablets. Thanks for the birthday gift for old age.
Are you calling her?
Tomorrow. Not today. Let things cool down. I was thinking maybe we should change the lock?
Why? I ask.
She still has a spare key. She loves popping in when were not home to tidy up, moving our laundry around. I kept quiet before, but now I see its another boundary breach. If were building a fence, we need to finish it.
I rest my head on his shoulder.
Lets do it.
A month passes since that memorable showdown. Gillian doesnt vanish from our lives, but she takes a twoweek theatrical pause, not answering calls, then finally rings her son to ask for medication.
Our relationship shifts: cooler, more distant, but honest. Gillian no longer attempts to run my kitchen. The first time she visits after the fallout, she pauses at the kitchen doorway, eyes the stove, purses her lips, then walks into the living room without a word.
I dont relish in her discomfort. I brew tea, place a slice of homemade cake on the table.
Good? I ask as she takes a bite.
She chews, looking out the window, then says, The dough is a bit dry. Shouldve added more butter. And the eggs could be whisked more.
I simply smile and sip my tea.
And Simon likes it, I answer calmly. And I like it. Thats what matters.
She shoots me a quick glance; the certainty that once filled her gaze softens into respect for the strength she unexpectedly discovered in her quiet, easygoing daughterinlaw.
Fine, fine, she mutters, reaching for a second piece. Put another cup of tea on, housekeeper.
I pour. My hand is steady, my heart at peace. I now know there is only one true mistress of this kitchen, and its me.
