Get up early tomorrow and make mum a soup, James demanded. Only the one whos her child should be the one to cook it.
Emma sat in her favourite armchair, a mug of chilled fruit tea in her hands, staring blankly at the television. It was Friday, nine oclock, and the credits of the latest drama were scrolling across the screen, but she saw none of it her mind was already on the next day. Saturday again. Saturday again, with the inevitable arrival of her motherinlaw.
After five long years of marriage those weekends had become a draining survival test. Every Saturday, a curse that could not be shaken off.
It had begun innocently enough. Margaret, Jamess mother, used to visit the young couple once a month a chance to sit down, chat, and catch up on the childrens progress. James would always say with genuine concern in his voice:
Mom is alone now, shes getting on in years. Dad passed away ten years ago. Lets give her a little attention, keep her company.
Emma always agreed. After all, it was her husbands mother respecting the older generation and showing care was the proper thing to do.
But slowly, almost unnoticed, everything began to change.
The first complaints were about the housework. After Margarets very first visit she politely summoned James to the hallway.
James, love, do you ever sweep the floors? she asked.
Emma does, Mum, he replied, surprised by the question.
It seems odd. Why are there streaks on the linoleum? And theres dust on the skirting boards, Margaret noted.
From that day on, before every motherinlaws arrival Emma turned into a compulsive cleaner. She scrubbed the flat for hours, up to a feverish sweat.
She washed the floors twice first with a concentrated cleaner, then drymopped them. She dusted everywhere the sofas, the book shelves, even the radiators and the baseboards. She polished the bathtub until it shone like glass.
Mother has always expected perfect cleanliness, James explained patiently, watching his wife crawl around with a cloth. She grew up in a house that looked like a museum.
Do you think Im some sort of slob? Emma asked, her back aching.
No, not at all. Its just youre a bit more relaxed at home.
Relaxed. A fitting word for a woman who worked tenhour days at a bank, dealing with anxious clients, endless reports and demanding managers.
Emma endured it stoically. Family, after all, is a series of compromises and mutual concessions, isnt it?
Within a year Margaret started dropping by more often first every two weeks, then every Saturday without fail.
She gets bored in a quiet flat, James said sympathetically. Its good she has a place to rest her soul.
Rest an odd word in this context. Because the only person actually resting in their home was Margaret, while Emma toiled like a horse.
The original demand for spotless rooms was soon joined by a compulsory entertainment programme. Margaret no longer satisfied herself with tea, biscuits and a television programme. She wanted outings, shopping trips.
James, dear, shall we go out and look for a new blouse? My wardrobe is looking tired, she would say each Saturday, as if it were a song.
Of course, Mum! Right away, Emma, get ready, James would reply.
And Emma would obediently get ready, dragging herself through cramped shopping centres, carrying endless racks of clothing, waiting patiently behind fittingroom doors.
Margaret was an especially demanding shopper she would try on five or six items only to buy one, or sometimes nothing at all, sighing in disappointment.
The quality isnt what it used to be. Back in the day garments were sturdier, she complained.
Shall we try another shop? Emma suggested, exhausted.
Lets! Theyll surely have better stuff.
More fitting rooms, longer queues at the tills and James never joined these exhausting shopping tours. He always had more pressing masculine pursuits a football match on TV, a garage meetup with friends, washing his car or a fishing trip.
Ladies, you enjoy this stuff more, he would say philosophically. Id just be in the way with my advice.
Indeed, after a long week at the bank, wandering through shopping centres with a capricious elderly lady did not seem like a punishment at all.
Yet even that was not the limit of Emmas patience.
Yesterday Emma returned home from work late and utterly spent. She had just finished a quarterly report for the head office, a crisis meeting with senior managers, and a heated argument with a difficult client. Her head throbbed, her legs barely supported her exhausted body.
James was comfortably settled on the favourite sofa, sipping his evening tea and munching on a shortbread biscuit while the latest crime drama played on the television.
How was work? he asked without turning away from the screen.
Im exhausted, Emma admitted, collapsing into her armchair.
Right, rest then. By the way, Mum will be here first thing tomorrow, James reminded.
I know, Emma replied shortly.
Listen, Emma, get up early tomorrow and make Mum a soup. Shell be coming back from her cottage, tired and hungry. It has to be made from freerange chicken you know Mums stomach is delicate now. She needs a proper, hearty broth, not something from a tin.
Emma raised an eyebrow.
Freerange chicken?
Yes. At the farmers market on the high street theres a lady called Aunt Lucy who keeps live birds. It needs to be warm, not frozen. Frozen chicken is nonsense, according to Mum.
What time should I be there?
Early half past five. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight. Mum usually arrives by nine.
Why arent you going?
Id love to, but youre better at this. And soup is a womans job, after all. I can finally have a proper sleep until lunch and gather my strength.
Emma drifted to the bathroom, brushed her teeth for a long time, and thought about the fairness of life. He planned a lazy morning, she had to be up at half past five, drive across town for a chicken, then stand over a pot for three hours.
Set an alarm? James called from the living room.
What alarm? she asked, confused.
Just so you dont oversleep. Mum arrives by nine and the soup takes a while.
Emma stepped out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in her mouth.
Will you set an alarm for yourself?
No need. Im not cooking tomorrow.
She said it as if she didnt have to feed his mother. As if he had no part in the family duties.
Fine, Emma replied neutrally, but she did not set any alarm on her phone.
The next morning, a persistent knock on the front door woke her at seventen. Outside, a light drizzle tapped the windows.
Who could that be? she muttered, reaching for her robe.
Its Margaret! a cheerful voice announced.
Emmas heart lurched. Her motherinlaw, arriving far earlier than usual.
She opened the door to find Margaret on the doorstep, two hefty shopping bags in hand, wearing a light trench coat, looking fresh, lively and full of energy.
Good morning, Emma! Does the soup already smell wonderful, or am I too early? Margaret chirped.
Emma swallowed the lump in her throat. The soup she had never heard mentioned until the night before.
Theres no soup, she croaked.
Oh dear! Margaret exclaimed. James said youd get up early
James is still asleep.
Margaret stepped inside as if nothing had happened, hung her coat and said, No worries, love! Lets pop over to the market and buy a chicken. James insisted it must be freerange, fresh, not the frozen nonsense from the supermarket.
Emma stood in her robe, watching the buoyant woman and feeling a boil rise inside her.
Im not going anywhere, she said.
How can you not? What about the soup?
The soup should be made by the one who ordered it.
But James works all week! He needs rest!
I need to work too. And I need rest.
Margaret settled at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a long discussion.
Emma, dont you understand? The doctor told Mum she must have something hot in the morning. Her stomach is delicate!
I understand. I just dont see why its my problem.
Exactly five minutes later James appeared, still in his crumpled shirt, hair a mess.
Mum! Youre already here? he asked.
Yes, dear, Margaret replied, eyes hopeful. Wheres the soup? Emma says she wont go for the chicken.
James stared at his wife, bewildered.
You said yesterday, Get up early and make Mum a soup, he reminded her.
Emma turned slowly to face him, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and looked him straight in the eye.
Let the one who gave her life make the soup.
Silence fell over the kitchen. Margaret froze. James opened his mouth, then closed it.
What did you just say? he whispered.
The thing Ive been thinking about for ages, Emma answered.
Emma! Margaret cried. How can you speak like that!
Its simple, Emma replied. Just words.
But Im your motherinlaw! Margaret protested.
And so what? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? James interjected. Mum is family!
Your family. Your mother. You should feed her.
I dont know how.
The internet is full of recipes.
But youre a woman! James stammered. How can I possibly
Right, and youre an alien?
Emma, Margaret said gently, I get that youre exhausted. But there are family responsibilities
Whose responsibilities? Emma snapped. Mine? Yours?
Im an old lady
Who still drives to her cottage, goes shopping, demands entertainment. Not exactly old.
How dare you! Margaret snapped.
Its easy. Five years of putting up with this, Im fed up.
Emma walked to the stove, turned on a burner and placed a tiny pot on it.
What are you doing? James asked.
Making myself breakfast porridge.
For us?
No, youre adults.
Emma, thats wrong! Margaret protested.
Whats wrong? That I dont want to be your free housemaid?
But Im your sons mother!
Then do your motherly duties. Feed your son.
Im not going to cook in someone elses kitchen!
James sat down, looking bewildered at his mother.
Mum, why dont we go to a café?
Its pricey, and bad for her stomach, Margaret retorted. Then make something at home.
I wont!
I cant cook either! James exploded. Emma, you should look after the family!
My own family, yes. Not yours.
My mum isnt a stranger!
To me she is. I didnt raise her, I didnt choose her.
Margarets eyes filled with tears.
How cruel!
Cruel is five years of being used as a servant, Emma answered.
Where are you going? Margaret asked.
To my own things. Youre both adults, sort it out.
She slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of fatigue.
In the kitchen, two grown people remained, now forced to decide whether to boil a simple soup or just a bowl of porridge. In the end, Emma realised that love and respect cannot be measured by who cooks or who cleans; they are built on fairness and shared responsibility. She vowed that from then on, every family meal would be a partnership, and no one would ever be reduced to a silent servant again.
