Awkward Daughter-in-Law
Emily, did you even look at the list? I gave you the list, its all written down, Margarets voice sounded as if she was talking to someone a bit dense. It says: jellied stock from three kinds of meat. Three. Not two, not one. Three.
Mrs. Carter, I did read it. Thats exactly what I wanted to discuss. The birthdays in a week, and I thought…
You thought. My mother-in-law paused, letting the word thought hang in the air as an accusation. You thought, whereas Im telling you. The jellied stock has to be from three meats, pies with cabbage and mushrooms, potted fish, mimosa salad, potato salad, the crab stick one, devilled eggs, pancakes with cream, roast duck with Bramley apples, potato roulades, cottage cheese bake, Victoria sponge, and angel cake. Thats the minimum. Minimum, Emily. Forty people are coming.
I held the receiver and stared out the window. Outside, heavy November rain streaked the glass, feeling just as weighty and misplaced as this conversation.
I understand, Mrs. Carter. Ill ring you later, alright?
Best not to delay. Theres hardly any time before Saturday.
I put the phone on the kitchen table and just sat there, looking at it. The list, in my mother-in-laws bold, imperious handwriting, was there too, weighed down by the salt cellar. I picked it up and read through it. Fourteen items. Each had an annotation: homemade, not shop-bought, like last time, but better.
Like last time. Last time was Marinas wedding anniversary, my sister-in-law. Id started prepping three days out. Barely slept for three nights. By the evening of day two, my legs had stopped obeying me, and my hands, raw from constant washing, were riddled with tiny cracks. James would come home, eat something straight from the oven, then crash in front of the telly. Once, he asked if I needed help. I said, No, Im fine. He nodded and left. No resentment in it just left, thats all.
At the do itself, Margaret took a taste of the jellied meat, called me over, and whispered, almost flatly, A bit too much salt. Not another word about the food. Meanwhile, the guests raved, asked for seconds, someone said they hadnt had pies like that in years. Margaret nodded and said, Its our tradition. Never mentioned me.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table in our flat on Station Road, where James and I had lived nineteen years, I thought that tradition for Mrs Carter meant something very specific. Tradition: daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: daughter-in-law cleans. Tradition: daughter-in-law is grateful to be invited to the table.
My phone buzzed. Marina.
Em, did you speak to Mum? She says you were a bit odd.
I was fine. Just tired.
See, there you are. Her birthdays next week, you need to start shopping. I could come with you Wednesday, help with the bags. Pause. No, I cant Wednesday, I have my nails. Thursday?
Marina, I can get the shopping.
Suit yourself. Just remember, Mums adamant about the Bramley apples for the duck, not a different variety. Bramleys are sharp, you know.
I know.
And the jellied stock must be clear. Last time was a bit cloudy.
I closed my eyes. Clear jellied stock, three meats. Bramleys for the duck. Two cakes. Forty people.
Fine, Marina. Ive got it.
I slipped my phone away and got up. Needed to sort out supper. James would arrive at seven, hungry, and if there was no dinner ready, hed give me that long, questioning look and say, You didnt cook tonight, then? Not exactly a reproach, just bafflement the confusion of someone who comes to the bus stop and finds no bus.
I opened the fridge, took out a chicken, onions, carrots. Fired up the hob. Routine movements, almost automatic. Nineteen years of the same motions.
I first met James at twentysix he was lively, loud, could tell a story so everyone laughed. At our first meeting, Mrs Carter said, Youre a smart girl, Emily, its obvious. I took it as a compliment. Later I understood smart meant, roughly, knows when to keep quiet.
We married when I was twenty-eight. First year was alright. Then we had Tom. Then Tom grew up and went to university in another city. Then it was just this: the flat, the kitchen, and Margarets menu on her old squared notepaper.
The stock started boiling. I turned down the heat and headed for the lounge. Wanted to phone Mum, just to hear her voice. But the phone was already ringing.
It was Mum.
Em, her voice was soft, but something in it made my stomach drop. Can you come round today?
Whats happened?
Its your Dad. Hes not well. Paramedics have been. Were at the hospital now.
I was already zipping up my coat before I remembered the pot on the hob. I went back, turned off the heat. Messaged James: Dads poorly, gone to theirs, dinner on the stove. Grabbed my bag. Left.
Outside, it was dark and damp. I hailed a cab and stared through the window at blurred headlights all the way there. Dad. Seventy-two, his heart had always ticked like a metronome, never a complaint. Said, No need to fuss, Ill outlive the lot of you. I always thought it was true. I wanted it to be true.
The hospital smelled of disinfectant and had endless white corridors. Mum was standing by a window in A&E. Small, still in her coat, clutching her handbag to her chest.
Mum.
She turned. Her eyes were dry, but I could hardly breathe when I saw them.
They say his blood pressures sky high. And something with his head. He collapsed right in the hall. I left the kitchen, he was just on the floor.
How is he now?
Theyre running tests. Doctor said to wait.
We sat on hard plastic chairs and waited. Mum held my hand small, cool. I kept thinking I hadnt visited for almost three weeks. No time. Always something shopping, cooking, cleaning, chatting to Margaret about menus.
After an hour and a half, the doctor came out. Young, tired, glasses slipping down his nose.
Weve stabilised him, he said, but we suspect a problem with the blood vessels in his brain. Hell need more scans and to stay in at least a week.
Will he be alright? Mum asked.
Well do our best. Too soon to say for sure.
I took Mum home, made her a cup of tea, and sat with her until she dozed off in the armchair. Then I just sat in their kitchen, soaking up the silence. Here, it was a special kind of quiet, warm and soft as an old jumper. Mums geraniums crowded the windowsill, blooming every year without fail. On the wall, a photo: me, about seven, holding Dads hand and gazing off somewhere, while he watched me.
I didnt get home until after midnight.
James wasnt asleep, lying with his phone, but put it down when I came in.
Hows your dad?
Not good. They think its a stroke.
Thats serious, he said quietly. Did you eat?
No.
Theres chicken in the pot, I warmed some. Go help yourself.
I did, eating standing up at the sink couldnt face setting the table. Then I went to bed. Couldnt sleep for ages, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Dads face, Mums hands, the smell of that kitchen.
In the morning, Mrs Carter called.
Emily, I heard you rushed off yesterday. James said it was your dad. I trust you realise there are only six days until the birthday?
Mrs Carter, Dads in hospital.
Yes, I heard. But its nearby, isnt it? Youre not a patient. When do you plan to start cooking?
Something inside me became incredibly slow, incredibly clear. Like water thats stopped flowing and just sits still.
I dont know yet.
What do you mean you dont know? Margarets voice took on that bewildered note she reserved for truly unexpected answers. Emily, its my seventieth! You understand? Once in a lifetime. Do you understand that?
I do. Dads once in a lifetime too.
Silence.
Well, she finally said, Im sure youll manage. You dont have to be in the hospital twenty-four-seven. Visit and get on with things.
I said nothing. Said goodbye and hung up.
James was in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Looked at me.
Was that Mum?
Yes.
And?
Asking about cooking.
He sipped his coffee. After a moment, he said:
Look, Em, its a big birthday. Forty people. Cant just cancel everything, can we?
Im not asking to cancel.
Exactly. You can do both. Visit your dad during the day, cook in the evening, right?
I looked at him. He was staring at his phone, brow slightly furrowed, not at my words but at whatever he was reading.
James, I said, what if it was your mum who was in hospital?
He looked up.
Whats that got to do with it?
Just wondering.
Thats different.
Why?
Because shes my mum, he said, as if that explained everything in the world.
I got dressed and headed to the hospital.
Dad was in a shared ward. When I arrived, he was unconscious, making my chest clamp tight again. Later the nurse assured me he was just asleep. I sat by the bed and watched his face. Wrinkled, grey stubble on his chin, big hands with knotted fingers showing above the blanket. Hands that made me wooden birds once, caught me when I fell off my bike.
Dad opened his eyes, looked at me, smiled a cautious smile, not sure if this was a dream yet.
Youre here, he said. His voice wasnt his own, softer than Id ever heard.
Of course Im here. How are you feeling?
Its alright. Bit light-headed. Nothing, really.
Not nothing, Dad.
Well, he shrugged as much as lying down allowed. Well see.
I stayed two hours. Later, I rang Mum to say Dad was awake, chatting. Mum just said, Thank goodness in a voice that prickled my eyes with tears.
On the bus home, I looked through steamed up glass. Thought about what mattered now. Dad, in hospital. Mum, alone at home. That mattered. Margarets list with Bramleys and clear jellied stock that didnt. Not at all. The thought was so obvious, I wondered why it hadnt occurred to me before. Or maybe Id thought it, but never let myself think it right to the end.
James came home cheerful, brought a loaf, chatted about work. I smiled and nodded. Then:
James, Im not cooking for the party.
He stopped, glass half raised.
What do you mean, not cooking?
I mean Im not. Dads in hospital. Mum needs help. I cant spend three days at the cooker.
Emily. He said my name in full, how he always did when he was cross. There are forty guests. Mums expecting you. Its her big day.
And my dads had a stroke.
I get it, its serious. But there are doctors. You dont have to stay at the hospital all day.
No. But Im not making twelve dishes for forty people while Dads lying there.
James paced the kitchen.
You know Mum cant just cancel! Invites have gone out. Marinas told everyone.
They can get food in.
Get food in? He said it like Id suggested something indecent. Mum wants homemade. You know Mum.
I know, I said. I know very well.
He looked at me, something new in his expression, something I couldnt name at once. Not anger more the bafflement of someone whose trusted appliance has finally packed in.
Em, think about it. Its once in a lifetime. Youll visit Dad, but you can still cook, cant you?
No.
No?
No, James.
He left the room. Minutes later, Marina rang.
Emily, whats going on? James says you refuse to cook? Forty guests, do you understand?
I do.
Its Mums seventieth! Does that mean nothing?
It means plenty. And my dad being ill means plenty too.
But we cant move the party!
Marina, I said, you can get in a caterer. Or cook yourselves. Ill give you my recipes.
Silence. Then:
We cant cook like you.
Youll learn.
I put the phone down. My hands didnt shake, which surprised me. Id expected fear, or that Id waver, but inside there was only that same still, clear calm that had appeared that morning.
Next day, back to the hospital. Dad a bit better. Sitting up now, eating tasteless porridge and grimacing. Said, Same as school dinners in here. I laughed. Id brought homemade broth in a flask, Mum had made it. He finished it all, said, Now, thats real food.
Later, Mum and I sat in their tiny kitchen with flowered curtains and a fridge whose right handle was barely hanging on. It smelled of fresh bread and dried mint Mum picked it every summer from her garden. That was my childhood smell, not the scent of some other kitchen where I spent three days making food nobody ever thanked me for.
How are you, Em? Mum asked.
Fine. Coping.
Whats going on with James?
Mother-in-laws party is Saturday.
Are you going?
Probably. But Im not cooking.
She was quiet for a bit, then asked, very gently:
Emily are you happy there?
I looked at her.
What do you mean?
Just… you always seem so tired. Always rushing. You never just sit calmly. Even now, youve checked your phone twice.
I glanced at my phone. She was right.
Habit, I suppose.
I understand, said Mum, and poured us more tea.
On Wednesday, Mrs Carter rang with a rare, wobbly softness in her voice.
Emily, we need an adult talk.
Im listening, Mrs Carter.
I understand your dads unwell. I am sorry, really. But surely you see Ive waited twenty years for this party. Im seventy. Im an old woman. Ill never have another seventieth.
I was silent.
Im not asking you to abandon your father, she continued. Just do what you do best. Youre the best cook. Everyone knows it. Its your contribution to the family. Isnt that right?
Mrs Carter, I said quietly, Ive realised something this week. My contribution isnt jellied stock or pies. My dads in hospital and I want to be there.
Well, be there. Im not stopping you. Go in the morning, cook in the evening. Im not asking the impossible.
Maybe not for you. But it is for me. I cant pretend things are normal when theyre not.
A long silence.
Youve always been a bit difficult, she finally said. Not harsh, just matter-of-fact, like commenting on the weather.
Maybe.
James is very upset.
I know.
He says youve changed.
Maybe I have.
I said goodbye and put the phone away. Still no trembling.
Thursday morning, I packed a small bag. Change of clothes, charger, essentials, passport. I didnt overthink it just did. Messaged Tom: Grandads better. Ill be at Grandmas for a few days. All good. He replied almost instantly: Mum, Ill ring later. Are you sure youre alright? I typed: Im sure. Love.
When James left for work, I put a note on the kitchen table: Staying at Mum and Dads. Ill ring.
I lingered a moment on my kitchen threshold. Nineteen years of this kitchen. This table. This oven. This morning, but someone elses.
I closed the door. Went downstairs. Walked out into the street.
The rain had stopped, the air was cold and sharp. Over the city, the morning sky was grey-blue, as it only is in late autumn. I walked to the bus stop, thinking that nineteen years is a long time. Nearly half a life. For half of mine, Id accepted what I was given as if that was all I deserved.
At Mum and Dads, the smell of mint and warm hallway light met me. Mum opened the door, saw my bag, didnt ask anything. Just stood aside and let me in. Then hugged me short, tight. I stood there as something long-held inside started to ease.
Will you stay? Mum asked.
A few days. If thats alright.
If thats alright, she tutted mildly. This is your home, love.
I stayed four days at my parents. Each morning, Mum and I went to the hospital. Dad improved, started talking, getting grumpy at the drip, demanding proper food. The doctor said the outlook was cautiously good, with more recovery needed.
I slept. Really slept for the first time in years no alarm, just drifting until I woke naturally. Ate Mums food, simple and honest: buttered barley, vegetable stew, apple pie from last autumns Bramleys Mum had stored in the shed. Not fancy, just her apple pie, but the taste made my eyes sting behind my glasses.
Are you alright? Mum asked, noticing.
Nothing. Just delicious.
She nodded, didnt pry.
James rang. First call, Friday night. His voice was tight.
Any idea when youre coming back?
Not sure yet.
Em, the partys tomorrow. The family are all coming.
I know.
Mums panicking. Marinas trying to cook, its burning.
Cater. Like I said.
Mums upset, you know.
I know. I do. Im sorry its come to this. But Im here.
Long pause.
Youve changed, he said. Like Margaret had, but with more bafflement than blame.
I suppose I have.
Saturday, I didnt go to the party.
That morning, Mum and I brought Dad soup and a bun shed baked before sunrise. He ate everything, praised the bread, said hed soon be home cooking himself if Mum kept slacking. Mum laughed and said, Well see about that. I sat listening to their familiar banter not really bickering but the patter of two people perfectly at home together after a lifetime.
In the evening, I sat in Dads armchair with a book. Not reading it, just holding. Mum was knitting nearby. Snow drifted gently outside. My phone buzzed a few times Marina: Complete disaster, guests arrived, barely any food, absolute shambles. Margaret didnt text. James sent one word: Well?
I put down the phone and picked up my book.
James and I had our talk a few days later when I got back to the flat on Station Road. Back, because my things, my documents, my practical life were there. By then, Dad was in a regular ward, improving. Mum was managing.
James sat at the kitchen table and looked at me as I came in. Hed changed somehow that week too, as if something in him had realigned.
Talk? he asked.
Lets.
We talked for hours. Not arguing just talking. Maybe for the first time in years, really talking instead of the usual script: his work, my cooking. I told him I was tired. Tired of being a function. For nineteen years, Id tried to be accommodating and it had cost me something I couldnt even name. James listened. Sometimes he tried to explain, said he hadnt meant anything bad, it just happened, you know, Mum is Mum. I didnt argue, just told it as I saw it.
Do you want a divorce? he eventually asked. Direct, matter-of-fact. I was startled.
I didnt answer immediately.
I want to live differently, I said. What its called, I dont know yet.
He nodded, got up, poured a glass of water.
Ill ring Tom.
Good.
Tom came down two weeks later. Turned up unannounced, big overnight bag, with the look he had as a boy when something important needed saying serious, careful.
Mum, are you alright?
Im fine, Tom. Really.
Dad said well, its all complicated.
Its all honest, I said, correcting him. Its a different word.
He stayed three days. We talked and talked. He was angry with me, then angry with his dad, then settled down and just stayed nearby. When he left, he hugged me at the door and said,
You dont look tired anymore, for the first time in ages.
That obvious?
Really obvious.
We sorted the divorce with no fuss, like people whod lived side by side but not together for a long time. James kept the flat on Station Road. I took my things, a few boxes, and moved in with my parents for now, until I got sorted. Mum never said a single unnecessary word. She just cleared the spare room, made up the bed with fresh sheets, and set that old wooden bird Dad carved years ago on the bedside table. I spotted it my first night small, smooth, covered in tiny knife-marks.
Dad came home in early December. Walked in on his own, slower than before, leaning on a stick, but on his own feet. He paused on the threshold, looked at me.
All here, he said. Thats what matters.
We spent New Year with just the four of us: me, Mum, Dad, and Tom who came specially. We decorated a little tree, watched old films, ate Mums salad and cabbage pie. Ordinary, nothing fancy. I helped Mum roll the pastry, flour dusting the board, thinking: this is what it means to cook for people. Not for a list, not for tradition, but for people.
In February I rented a small flat. One bedroom, fifth floor, looking out onto a quiet communal garden with a few old silver birches. Plain, hardly furnished, it still smelled faintly of fresh paint and someone elses life. I stood in the middle of the empty room for a long while. Then walked over, peered out at the birches.
Marina rang once, in March. Her tone was a complicated mixture of offended and conciliatory.
Em, so how are you? Weve been, well, Mums worried. She wont admit it, you know what shes like.
I know.
So what now?
Im alright, Marina. Living.
Could you… maybe come round sometimes? For holidays, at least. Weve managed, just about.
I smiled, though she couldnt see me.
Ill consider it, I said. If it works out.
Thing is, you do know how to make jellied stock properly. We tried ours always comes out cloudy.
Ill message you the recipe. The secrets in straining the stock twice through muslin. Give it a go.
You serious?
Deadly. Its not hard. You just have to do it yourself.
I sent the recipe. Marina replied with a wide-eyed emoji and didnt call again.
Dad recovered slowly, but steadily. By spring, hed lost the stick, grumbled about the doctors, insisted on going to the allotment. The doctors said, Maybe. He said, You just watch, Ill go. And in May he did, as soon as the ground warmed up. I drove him there, helped air the house, set a fire. We sat on the porch, drinking tea from old blue-edged cups. Beyond the fence, the blackthorn was in flower.
Dad, I said, remember the wooden birds you used to carve for me?
I do. You lost most of them.
I kept one. Still have it.
I know, he replied. Mum told me. He paused Well, Em, youve done well.
Why?
You just have. He put his cup down and looked at the blackthorn. Lifes long. Dont waste it on the wrong things.
I nodded. The evening was scented with sweet damp and blossom, and the silence was deep, broken only by a distant wood pigeon.
That spring, I went back to work. Id once been an accountant, then spent some years barely working family was my priority, Margaret always said, and James never objected. Now I found a job in a small local firm, calm staff, clear routines. At first the rhythm felt strange, but I settled in. For the first time in years, my days felt like my own.
At weekends I visited Mum and Dad, sometimes stayed over. Mum and I would bake one pie, not for a list or crowd, just with whatever filling we had. Dad would join in with advice no one asked for. Mum would say she managed before his help. The wooden bird rested on my table, quietly.
One summer evening, Tom phoned just for a chat.
Mum, you alright?
I am, Tom. Really am.
You know, he hesitated, Im proud of you. Youve changed so much.
Changed, I agreed.
For the better.
I laughed.
Hows things with you?
Good. Im planning to visit in August. Maybe a few mates as well.
Come. Ill make borscht.
Just ordinary borscht?
Mums recipe. The real thing.
Nothing better, he said. Promise youll make it.
