Get up early and whip up a soup for mum, my husband declared. Let whoever gave birth to her make it.
Emma sank into her favourite armchair, a mug of chilled tea in hand, staring blankly at the telly. It was Friday, nine oclock, the closing credits of the latest drama scrolling by, but they meant nothing to her. Her mind was already on Saturday the sacred ritual of the motherinlaws arrival.
Five long years of marriage had turned every weekend into a grueling survival test. Every Saturday, like a curse you cant shake off.
It had started innocently enough. Mrs. Margaret Whitaker used to drop by once a month a cuppa, a chat, a checkin on the kids. Peter, earnest as ever, would say:
Mums alone and getting on in years. Dads been gone a decade. Lets spare a little time, give her some moral support, have a proper catchup.
Emma readily agreed. After all, she was his mothers daughterinlaw, and you respect the elders.
But slowly, things began to shift.
The first warning came in the form of nitpicking about the house. After her very first visit, Margaret politely called their son into the hallway:
Peter dear, does anyone actually mop the floors here?
Emma does, Mum, he replied, baffled.
Its odd, though. Why are there swirls on the linoleum? And youve got dust on the skirting boards, she noted.
From that day on, Emma turned into a cleaning fanatic before each visit. She scrubbed for hours, sweating through every mopandbucket session.
Shed wash the floors twice first with a concentrated cleaner, then polish them dry. She dusted every surface: furniture, bookshelves, radiators, even the skirting boards. She polished the bathtub until it shone like a mirror.
Mothers always demanded spotless perfection, Peter explained, watching his wife crawl around with a rag. She grew up in a house that looked like a museum.
Do you think Im some sort of slob? Emma asked, her back aching from the strain.
No, love, just a bit more relaxed at home.
Relaxed. A generous description for a woman who puts in tenhour days at the city bank, juggling nervous clients, endless reports, and a demanding boss.
But Emma endured it. Marriage is all about compromise, after all.
A year later Margaret started popping in more often first every fortnight, then every Saturday without fail.
Shes bored in an empty flat, Peter would say with a sigh. At least she has somewhere to rest her soul.
Rest. A word that took on a whole new meaning when the only one actually resting in their house was the motherinlaw, while Emma was toiling like a horse on a galley.
Soon, the spotless house wasnt enough. Margaret wanted entertainment. She no longer settled for tea and biscuits in front of the TV; she demanded outings, shopping sprees.
Peter, love, lets pop out and find me a new blouse, shall we? shed chirp every Saturday. The wardrobes looking rather drab.
Of course, Mum! Right away, Emma, get ready.
And Emma obeyed, dragging herself through cramped shopping centres, lugging endless racks of clothes, waiting patiently in fitting rooms.
Margaret was a demanding shopper shed try on five or six items, only to leave with one, or sometimes nothing at all, letting out a disappointed sigh.
Quality just isnt what it used to be. Back in the day they stitched better, shed complain.
How about we try another store? Emma suggested, already exhausted.
Lets! Theyll surely have better stuff.
Meanwhile, Peter never joined these marathon shopping trips. He always had more pressing male pursuits a football match on the telly, a garage meetup with mates, washing his car, or a fishing trip.
Ladies, you enjoy that stuff more, hed philosophise. Id just be in the way with my advice.
After a long week at the bank, hopping from one shopping centre to another with a fussy elder, Emma found it oddly fascinating until the next test arrived.
Yesterday Emma trudged home from work utterly depleted. Shed just finished a quarterly report for the head office, survived an emergency board meeting, and dealt with a nightmare client. Her head throbbed, her legs barely supported her weary frame.
Peter was lounging on the beloved sofa, sipping tea and nibbling on a biscuit while a crime drama played on the flatscreen.
How was work? he asked without looking away from the chase scene.
Exhausted, Emma admitted, collapsing into the armchair.
Right, get some rest. By the way, Mums arriving tomorrow morning.
I know, she replied tersely.
Listen, love, get up early tomorrow and make Mum a soup. Shell be coming from the country, tired and starving. It has to be farmers chicken you know Mums stomachs delicate now. She needs a proper, hearty broth, not that supermarket nonsense.
Emma blinked.
Farmers chicken?
Yes. Theres a good stall at the market. Auntie Lucy keeps live birds there. Make sure its warm, not frozen. Mum says frozen chicken is nothing but rubbish.
What time do you want me to be out?
Early. The market opens at six, youll be back by eight, and Mum usually gets here by nine.
Why arent you going yourself?
Id love to, but youre better at this. And soup is a womans job, after all. I can finally catch up on sleep until lunch.
Emma shuffled to the bathroom, brushing her teeth while pondering the fairness of it all. Hed sleep in his rightful day off, while shed have to rise at half past five, drive across town for a chicken, then stand at the stove for three hours.
Set an alarm? Peter called from the lounge.
What alarm? she asked, confused.
Just so you dont oversleep. Mum arrives at nine, and soup takes ages.
Emma emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth:
Are you going to set an alarm for yourself?
I dont need an alarm. Im not cooking tomorrow.
She said it calmly, but never set an alarm on her phone.
At seven past ten the next morning, a persistent knock rattled the door. Outside, a light drizzle pattered against the windows, the sky still a grey wash.
Who could that be? Emma murmured, fumbling for her robe.
Its Margaret! a cheery voice announced.
Her heart sank. The motherinlaw, and far earlier than usual.
Emma opened the door to find Margaret standing there with two hefty tote bags, a light trench coat, looking fresh, spry, and full of energy.
Good morning, Emma! Smells like soup yet, or am I early?
Emma swallowed the lump in her throat. Soup the word shed only heard the night before.
Theres no soup, she croaked.
Oh dear! Margaret gasped. Peter said youd be up early
Peters still asleep, Emma replied flatly.
Margaret marched in as if nothing had been said, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the rack.
No worries, love! Lets dash to the market, get that chicken. Peter told me it must be farmfresh, not the frozen stuff.
Emma stood in her robe, watching this lively woman, feeling the pressure build inside her.
Im not going, she said.
How can you not? And the soup?
Let the one who ordered it cook it.
But Peter works all week! He needs a break!
And I need to work. I need a break too.
Margaret plonked herself at the kitchen table, clearly expecting a long discussion.
Emma, dont you understand? The doctor said I must have something hot in the morning. My stomachs delicate!
I get it. I just dont see why its my problem.
Five minutes later Peter shuffled in, still in his crumpled Tshirt, hair a mess.
Mum! Youre here already?
Peter! Margaret beamed. Wheres the soup? Emma says she wont fetch the chicken.
Peter stared at his wife, bewildered.
You told me just yesterday to get up early and make Mum a soup, he said.
Emma turned slowly to face him, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, meeting his eyes.
Let the one who gave birth to her make the soup.
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Margaret froze. Peter opened his mouth, then closed it.
What did you say? he whispered.
What Ive been thinking for ages, Emma replied.
Emma! Margaret exclaimed. How can you speak like that?
Its simple, Emma said. Its just words.
But Im your motherinlaw!
And? Does that make me your servant?
What servant? Peter interjected. Mums family!
Your family. Your mother. You feed her.
I dont know how!
Learn. The internets full of recipes.
But youre a woman! Peter stammered.
Yeah, and you? An alien?
Emma softened, I know youre tired, Margaret, but family duties
Whose duties? Emma shot back. Mine? Where are yours?
Im an old lady
A lady who zips off to the cottage, roams shops, demands entertainment. Not exactly old.
How dare you! Margaret snapped.
Easy. Five years of putting up with this Im fed up.
Emma walked to the stove, turned on a burner, and set a tiny pot of porridge on it.
What are you doing? Peter asked.
Making myself breakfast. Porridge.
And us?
Nothing. Youre adults.
Emma, thats wrong! Margaret protested.
Whats wrong? That I refuse to be a free domestic?
But Im your mother, Peter!
Then do motherly things. Feed your son.
Im not cooking in anyone elses kitchen!
Peter sat down, looking bewildered.
Mum, shall we go out for brunch?
Brunch is pricey, Margaret winced. And bad for the stomach.
Then cook something at home.
Im not!
I cant cook at all! Peter erupted. Emma, youre supposed to look after the family!
My family, yes. Not other peoples aunts.
My mum isnt an aunt!
To me she is. I didnt grow up with her, didnt choose her.
Margarets eyes welled up. How cruel!
Cruel is using someone as free staff for five years, Emma retorted.
Where are you going?
To my own business. You two are adults, sort it out.
She slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away five years of fatigue.
In the kitchen, the two grownups were left to argue over whether to make a simple soup or just a bowl of porridge.
