So, here we go—Mary Wilkinson, that’s me—seventy-seven years old, and today, all I asked my daughter-in-law, Emily, for was a bowl of soup. Not so long ago, I believed her duties were to keep the house tidy, cook, tend to the family, just like I did in my time. But life’s moved on, and I’ve learnt my expectations belong to the past. My son, James, and Emily took me in, and now I live under their roof, stuck somewhere between guest and burden. It weighs heavy on my heart, but I’m trying to accept it, even if the hurt still lingers.
Back in the day, I ran a proper household—up at dawn, roasting joints, baking Victoria sponges, stitching cushions, raising James. My late husband, God rest him, worked at the steelworks, and I made sure he came home to warmth and order. I thought that’s how it ought to be—the woman keeps the home, and the daughter-in-law carries it on. When James brought Emily home, I hoped she’d be like a daughter to me, that we’d bustle about the kitchen together, swapping recipes like old times. But it wasn’t to be.
Emily’s modern—office job, forever on her mobile, dressed in those sharp clothes, rarely cooks. When they married, I was still in my own flat, but two years ago, my health slipped—weak legs, dizzy spells. James insisted I move in: *Mum, we’ll manage, you’ll be better off with us.* So I agreed, sold my flat to pull my weight, and gave them the money to fix up their place. Thought I’d help where I could. Turns out, Emily doesn’t want my help—or my opinions.
From day one, I noticed she’d rather I stayed out of the kitchen. Once, I offered to make a shepherd’s pie—James always loved mine—but she just smiled and said, *Mary, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll just order in—quicker that way.* Order in? Food’s meant to be care, not a click on an app. I tried tidying up, but Emily would gently stop me—*No need, we’ve got a robot hoover.* A robot? Where’s the soul in that? I bit my tongue, but it gnawed at me—like I didn’t belong. James just shrugged—*Mum, Emily’s got it handled, take it easy.* Take it easy? At seventy-seven, ‘easy’ isn’t sitting idle—it’s feeling useful.
The worst part? Her attitude. I always thought a daughter-in-law should respect her mother-in-law, lend a hand, heed advice. But Emily does things her way—whipping up quinoa bowls instead of proper bangers and mash. The house is clean, but sterile—no crocheted blankets, no scent of fresh bread. I once hinted—*Emily, maybe a treacle tart? James used to love it.* She just said—*Mary, we’re cutting back on sugar these days.* Cutting back? And what feeds the soul?
The resentment grew. I thought she didn’t value me, my years. Tried talking to James—*Son, your wife doesn’t keep a home—everything’s delivered, everything’s through a screen. Is this a family?* But he just brushed me off—*Mum, we’re fine, don’t stir trouble.* Fine for them, maybe. Me? I feel like an old sideboard, shoved into a corner. My neighbour Doris said—*Mary, times change, daughters-in-law aren’t like they were.* But I won’t blame the times. I just want to be seen—not just fed and put to bed.
Then it hit me—I couldn’t do this anymore. Emily was cooking dinner—some chicken with a posh sauce. Sitting in my room, hearing her and James laugh, I felt like a stranger. So I walked into the kitchen and said—*Emily, love, could you make me a bowl of soup? Just plain, how I like it—with potatoes.* She looked surprised but nodded—*Of course, Mary—I’ll do it tomorrow.* And yesterday, she brought it—simple, warm, nearly like mine. I ate it and nearly cried. Not from the taste, but from knowing—this is all I ask now. Not baking, not scrubbing, not my old ways—just a bowl of soup.
I’ve realised my expectations were from another life. Emily won’t be like me, and maybe that’s alright. She works, she’s tired—at my age, who am I to say how their home should run? But it aches, not being needed like before. James loves me, I know, but he’s busy with his own life. And here I sit, thinking—where’s the woman who ran everything? All that’s left is an old lady asking for soup.
I won’t give up. I’ll learn this new life—watch my soaps, stroll in the garden, ring up old mates. Maybe I’ll ask Emily to show me how to order food on that phone—might even like it. But I won’t be a burden. If they don’t see me as Mum or Gran, I’ll find my own reasons. For now, I’ll ask for a bowl of soup—and maybe just a scrap of the warmth I miss so much.
