Awkward Daughter-in-law
– Emily, did you even read the list? I gave you the list, everythings there, – Mrs. Dawsons voice was sharp, as if talking to someone rather slow. – It says: jellied meat from three sorts three. Not two, not one. Three.
– Mrs. Dawson, I did read it. But actually, I wanted to talk about that. The birthdays next week and I was thinking…
– You were thinking. – She paused, letting the word thinking hang accusingly. – You were thinking, but Im telling you. Jellied meat with three types of meat, cabbage and mushroom pies, poached salmon, mimosa salad, Olivier salad, that crabstick and sweetcorn salad, stuffed eggs, pancakes with sour cream, roast duck with Bramley apples, potato roulades, cottage cheese bake, a Napoleon cake and a Feather sponge. Thats the minimum. The minimum, Emily. Therell be forty people.
I held the phone and gazed blankly out the window. Outside, heavy November rain streaked down, dreary and out of place just like this conversation.
– I understand, Mrs. Dawson. Ill call you back later, all right?
– Dont leave it long, though. Hardly any time left before Saturday.
I put the phone on the kitchen table and sat there for a while, just watching it. The list, written on squared paper in Mrs. Dawsons insistent hand, lay under the salt cellar. I picked it up and read down the fourteen items: next to each one, it said homemade, not from a shop, or like last time but better.
Last time. That had been Marinas anniversary five years married. Id started three days ahead. Three days almost without sleep; by the second, my feet gave up and my hands were cracked from scouring boards and endless washing up. Ian would get home, wolf down a snack straight from the hob, and plop in front of the telly. Once hed offered to help. No, Ill manage, Id said, and he nodded and left. No nastiness, just that was that.
During the party itself, Mrs. Dawson tried the jellied meat, beckoned me over, and whispered, nearly toneless: A bit too much salt. Nothing else. Not a word. Guests praised the food, asked for seconds some said they hadnt had pies like those in years. Mrs. Dawson would nod and say, Its our family tradition. Not once did my name crop up.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table in our flat on Oak Lane, the same one Id lived in with Ian for nineteen years, I realised tradition meant something very particular to Mrs. Dawson. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: the daughter-in-law tidies. Tradition: the daughter-in-laws grateful to be invited to the table at all.
My phone buzzed. Marina.
– Em, did you speak to Mum? She says you were a bit odd.
– I was fine. Just tired, I suppose.
– Well, you see. The birthdays next week, time to start shopping. I can go with you Wednesday, help carry bags. – Pause. – Oh no, cant, Ive got my nails done then. Thursday?
– Marina, Ill do the shopping on my own.
– All right, if youre sure. But Mum really wants the duck with Bramley apples, not other apples. It needs that tartness, you know?
– Yes, I know.
– And the jellied meat needs to look clear last time it was a bit cloudy.
I closed my eyes. Clear jellied meat. Bramleys for the duck. Two cakes. Forty people.
– All right, Marina. Ive got it.
Phone away, I stood up. Time to start supper. Ian would be home at seven, hungry. If dinner wasnt ready hed give me this long, puzzled look and say, You havent cooked today? Not cross, just silently baffled, like someone waiting at the bus stop when the buss vanished.
I opened the fridge: chicken, onions, carrots. Pot on the stove. The motions were familiar, almost mechanical. Nineteen years of sameness.
Id met Ian at twenty-six. He was funny, loud, told stories that left everyone in stitches. Mrs. Dawson, first meeting me, had said, Youre a clever girl, Emily, I can tell. I took it as a compliment. Later, I realised clever really meant doesnt argue.
I married at twenty-eight. The first year was decent. Then Jack was born. Then Jack grew up and headed off to study in another city. Then it was this: the flat, the kitchen, the list on the fridge.
The broth bubbled. I lowered the heat and walked to the living room, wanting to call Mum just to hear her voice. But my phone was already buzzing.
Mum.
– Em, – her voice was gentle, but carried that undertone that made my stomach jolt. – Can you come over today?
– Whats wrong?
– Its Dad. Hes poorly. We called the ambulance. Were at the hospital now.
Jacket already on, I darted back to the stove to turn it off. Typed a quick message for Ian: Dads unwell, gone to my parents, dinners on the hob. Grabbed my bag and left.
Outside, it was dark and damp. I hailed a cab and stared out at the blurred city lights all the way. Dad. John Evans. Seventy-two. His heart always solid, never complained. Why complain? Ill outlive you all! hed say. I believed him. I needed to believe it now.
The hospital smelt of antiseptic and hummed with the echo of long, white corridors. Mum waited by the window in A&E, small and still in her coat and clutching her handbag to her chest.
– Mum.
She turned; her eyes were dry but wide, making my throat tighten.
– His blood pressures through the roof, and somethings up with his head. He collapsed in the hall. I popped out of the kitchen, and there he was, on the floor.
– How is he now?
– Doctors are looking at him. We have to wait.
We sat on those stiff waiting-room chairs, her holding my hand small and cool in mine. And I wondered how it had been nearly three weeks since I last came round. Always so busy. Groceries, cooking, cleaning, talking menus with Mrs. Dawson.
An hour and a half later, a young, tired doctor appeared, glasses askew.
– Weve stabilised him, – he said. – But theres a possible stroke. Well need more tests and to keep him in for at least a week.
– Will he be all right? – Mum asked.
– Well observe. Too early to say.
I took Mum home, made her tea, sat with her until she dozed off in the armchair. Afterward, I sat alone in the kitchen, enveloped by a familiar kind of quiet, like a well-loved old blanket. Her geraniums bloomed on the sill, as they always did, no reminders needed. On the wall, an old photo: me at about seven, holding Dads hand, gazing off somewhere, as he watched me.
I got home past midnight.
Ian was still awake, scrolling his phone, though he set it aside as I entered.
– Hows he doing?
– Not good. They think its a stroke.
– Thats serious, – he said. A pause. – Did you eat?
– No.
– Theres chicken in the pot, I warmed it up. Go get some.
I did, eating standing up by the sink, no energy to set the table. Then straight to bed but I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Dads face, Mums hands, the scent of that kitchen.
In the morning, Mrs. Dawson rang.
– Emily, I hear you went off somewhere yesterday. Ian mentioned something about your father? I do hope you realise there are only six days left till the party.
– Mrs. Dawson, Dads still in hospital.
– Yes, I heard. But the hospital is close, isnt it? And youre not the patient, are you? When are you planning to start the cooking?
Suddenly, it felt as if time inside me stood still cold and clear, like a pond with no current.
– Im not sure yet.
– What do you mean, not sure? – her voice now had that familiar bewilderment she reserved for unexpected answers. Emily, its my birthday. Seventy years old. That happens just once. Do you understand?
– I do. Dads a one-off too.
Silence.
– Well, – she said at last, I expect youll manage it somehow. You dont have to be at the hospital all day, do you? Visit, and then youre free.
I said nothing. Said goodbye and hung up.
Ian was in the kitchen, sipping coffee. He looked over at me.
– Mum call?
– Yes.
– And?
– Asked about the food.
He nodded, sipped. Then, Well, Em, it is a big birthday you get that, right? Forty people. Cant just call it off now.
– Im not saying cancel it.
– So there you go. Youll manage. Go see your dad every day, of course, but you can cook as well, cant you?
I stared at him. He was still focused on his phone, frowning not at me, but at something on his screen.
– Ian, – I said, – what if it was your mum in hospital?
He looked up.
– Whats that got to do?
– Nothing. Just asking.
– Itd be different.
– Why?
– Because its my mum, – as if that settled everything.
I got dressed and went to the hospital.
Dad lay in a four-bed bay. When I entered, he was unconscious and my chest clenched. The nurse said he was just sleeping. I sat with him, watching his face wrinkles, the grey stubble, his big hands on the blankets, knotty and worn. Those hands carved me wooden birds when I was a girl. Those hands once caught me when I fell off my bike.
He woke and saw me, smiled a tentative smile, not quite sure he wasnt dreaming.
– You came, – he said. Soft voice, not his own it used to boom like someone accustomed to speaking outdoors.
– Of course, Dad. How are you?
– Not too bad. Bit woozy, thats all. Nothing really.
– Its not nothing, Dad.
– Well, – he shrugged, as far as the bed would let him Well see.
I sat with him two hours. Afterwards, I called Mum: Dads awake, talking. She, in a voice that made my eyes sting, whispered, Thank heavens.
I got the bus home, watching the city smudge behind the fogged glass. This was what mattered, I thought: Dad in hospital, Mum home alone. That mattered. Mrs. Dawsons endless list and the clear jellied meat and the Bramleys didnt matter. Not at all. I was surprised it felt so obvious, wondered why I hadnt allowed myself this clarity before.
Ian came home cheerful that evening, brought bread, talked about work. I listened, nodded, and then said:
– Ian, Im not cooking for the party.
He stopped, set down his glass.
– What do you mean not cooking?
– I mean, not cooking. Dads in hospital. Mum needs help. I cant spend three days at the stove.
– Emily, – he said, using my full name as he did when annoyed, – there are forty guests. Mum needs to be hostess. Its her birthday.
– Ian, my dads had a stroke.
– I know. Thats bad. But the doctors are there. Doesnt mean you need to be at his bedside all day.
– It means Im not making twelve dishes for forty people when my dads lying in hospital.
Ian got up, walked round the kitchen.
– You get that Mum cant just call it all off? Everybodys invited, Marinas told them.
– Then order catering.
– Order food? – He sounded as if Id suggested streaking down the high street. – Mum wants homemade. You know what shes like.
– I know, – I replied. – Only too well.
He looked at me, and something in his expression was new not anger, more the confusion of someone whose usual world has stopped working.
– Em, think about it. Seventy is once in a lifetime. Dads in hospital, yes, but you can still cook.
– No.
– No?
– No, Ian.
He left the room. After a while, the phone went again Marina.
– Emily, whats going on? Ian says youre refusing to cook? Forty guests, do you understand?
– I do.
– Its Mums birthday! Seventy years! Does that not mean anything?
– It does. And it also means something that my dads in hospital.
– Well, its not like we can move the party!
– Marina, you can get catering, or you can cook yourselves. Ill give you recipes.
Silence. Then,
– We cant cook like that.
– Time to learn.
I set my phone down. No trembling this time which surprised me. Id imagined it would be scary or Id cave in. But all I felt was that same clear stillness.
Next day I was back at the hospital. Dad was a little better. Already upright, spooning in his bland porridge, wincing but eating. They feed you like its a nursery, he grumbled. I brought homemade broth in a flask, Mum had cooked it early. He drank it all, Now thats better.
Back at Mums, the two of us sipped tea in the tiny kitchen with flowery curtains, the fridge door held fast by faith. It smelt of bread and the dried mint she picked every summer for tea. I knew and loved that scent, from childhood; it was mine, not like the kitchen where I cooked for days for people who never thanked me.
– How are you, Em? – Mum asked.
– Im alright. Im coping.
– Did something happen with Ian?
– His mums seventieth is on Saturday.
– So, are you going?
– Probably. But I wont be cooking.
She was quiet a moment.
– Emily, are you happy there?
I looked at her.
– What do you mean?
– I just see how you come here always rushed, exhausted, never at ease. Even now, youve checked your phone twice.
She was right; I glanced at it, embarrassed.
– Just habit.
– I understand, – she said, and poured more tea.
Wednesday brought another call from Mrs. Dawson this time her voice was controlled, almost trembling.
– Emily, can we talk like adults?
– Im listening.
– I know about your father. Im sorry, I really am. But you must understand, Ive looked forward to my seventieth for twenty years. There wont be another. Im an old lady.
I said nothing.
– Im not asking you to forget your dad, – she said. – Just do what you do so well. You cook better than anyone. You know that. Its your way of contributing to the family. Isnt it?
– Mrs. Dawson, – I said slowly, – this week Ive realised something. My contribution isnt jellied meat or pies. My dads in hospital and I want to be with him.
– Then be with him, whos stopping you? Hospital in the morning, kitchen in the evening. Im not asking the impossible.
– To you its not impossible. For me, it is. Because I cant pretend everythings okay when its not.
A long silence.
– Youve always been a bit difficult, – she remarked, calm as if noting the weather.
– Maybe so.
– Ians very upset.
– I know.
– He says youve changed.
– Maybe I have.
We hung up. My hands were steady.
On Thursday morning, I packed a small case: clothes, charger, a few things. Passport. It wasnt a big decision; I just did it. I texted Jack: Granddads getting better. Ill stay with Grandma for a bit. Im fine. His reply came quickly: Mum, Ill call this evening. Are you really okay? Really. Love you.
When Ian left for work, I left a note on the kitchen table: Staying at Mum and Dads. Will ring.
I paused at our kitchen door. Nineteen years in this kitchen. That table. This stove. The scent of someone elses morning.
I closed the door behind me and stepped outside.
The rain had stopped, but it was cold and bright. The sky was that blue-grey you only get late in autumn. I walked to the bus stop, wondering how nineteen years could be so much nearly half my life. And how, for half my life, Id acted like I deserved only what I was given. Nothing more.
Back home, Mum greeted me with the smell of mint and warm light from the hallway. She saw my case, asked nothing, simply let me in and hugged me hard.
– Youre staying?
– For a few days. If thats all right.
– If thats all right? – she tutted. – This is your home.
Four days I spent with my parents. Every morning, Mum and I went to see Dad. He improved sitting up, annoyed at the drips, wanting decent food. Doctor said things looked hopeful, with time and rehab needed.
Those four days, I slept like I hadnt in years: no alarm, woke on my own. Ate Mums simple cooking porridge with butter, beetroot soup, apple pie from her garden Bramleys picked in September. The pie was nothing fancy, just Mums usual. But it smelt so good I cried at the table.
– Whats wrong, love? – Mum noticed.
– Nothing. Its just delicious.
She nodded and didnt press.
Ian called Friday. His tone was tight.
– Whenre you coming back?
– Not sure.
– Em, the birthdays tomorrow. The whole familyll be there.
– I know.
– Mums in a state. Marinas trying some of the dishes and everythings burning.
– They can get it catered. Ive said all this.
– Mums hurt, you know.
– I get it. I wish it hadnt come to this. But Im here.
A long pause.
– Youve changed, – he said. Just like Mrs. Dawson the same words, but a different note, somewhere between frustration and perplexity.
– Probably, – I said.
On the Saturday, I didnt go.
Mum and I took Dad soup in the morning and a bun Mum had baked at dawn. He ate it all, claimed hed soon be cooking himself since Mum had forgotten how. Mum laughed, Well see about that. I sat, listening to their usual banter familiar, easy, the comfort of long understanding. Both in their seventies, and still, they had that.
In the evening I sat with a book in the armchair, not really reading. Mum knitted opposite. Outside, the snow arrived softly real winter snow. My phone buzzed more than once. Marina: Total disaster, guests arrived, barely any food, mortifying! Mrs. Dawson said nothing. Ians text: Well?
I put the phone aside and opened my book.
A few days later, I went back to the flat on Oak Lane, to collect things, sort paperwork, practical life. Dad had moved to a general ward; he was on the mend, Mum coped well.
Ian sat in the kitchen. Something about him was different too, as if his own routines had shifted.
– Can we talk? – he asked.
– We can.
We talked not arguing, but a real conversation, probably the first in years. He tried to explain; I told him how tired I was, how after nineteen years of always being convenient, it had taken something from me I still couldnt name. He listened – tried to justify, said hed never meant any harm, apologised for nothing in particular, said Mums just Mum. I didnt argue. Only explained my own view.
– Do you want to divorce? – he said bluntly, unexpectedly.
I waited.
– I want to live differently whatever that turns out to mean.
He nodded. Got up, poured a glass of water.
– Ill call Jack.
– All right.
Jack turned up a fortnight later, almost unannounced, lugging a big holdall and with that serious, attentive look hed always had for difficult talks.
– You all right, Mum?
– Im OK, Jack. Honestly.
– Dad said… well, things are hard between you.
– Much more honest, – I corrected. – Thats the word.
He stayed three days. We talked a lot. He was cross with me, then with his dad, then stopped and just let it be. When he left he hugged me by the door and said:
– First time in years you dont look tired.
– Really?
– Really.
The divorce itself was polite, no rows just two people whod lived side by side, but not together, for a long time now. Ian kept the flat on Oak Lane. I took my things, a few boxes, and went to stay with Mum and Dad while I sorted myself out. Mum didnt say a word of reproach, just cleared a room, made the bed up, and put the small wooden bird Dad carved for me on the bedside table. I saw it when I first came in, picked it up. Light, smooth, filled with tiny knife-blades.
Dad was discharged early December. He made it home on his own feet, slower than before, leaning on a stick but under his own steam. On the doorstep he paused, looked around.
– Well, thats that. Everyones home.
New Years Eve passed: just the four of us me, Mum, Dad, and Jack, who came home especially. We decorated the tree, watched old black-and-whites, ate Mums potato pie and her homemade Olivier salad. Nothing special, just real family food. I helped Mum at the floury board and thought: this is what it means, cooking for people. Not for a list, not for tradition. For people.
February, I rented a small flat a studio on the fifth floor, looking out at a peaceful courtyard with a few silver birches. There was hardly any furniture; the air smelt of new paint and someone elses life. I carried my things over, stood in the empty room a while, then looked out at the birches.
Marina rang once in March, voice a mix of wounded and conciliatory.
– Emily, how are you? Mums… well, shes worried, of course, but wont say it. You know what shes like.
– I know.
– So hows it going now?
– Fine, Marina. Im living.
– Would you… maybe pop by now and then? Special occasions at least. Its just us here now.
I smiled. She couldnt see, but I still smiled.
– Ill think about it well see.
– Its just… you know how to do the jellied meat. Ours turned out all cloudy.
– Ill send you the recipe. The secret is straining the broth twice through muslin. Have a go.
– Are you serious?
– Absolutely. Not difficult, you just have to do it for yourself.
I sent her the recipe. She replied with an astonished emoji and never called again.
Dad took a while but gradually got stronger. By spring hed ditched the stick, grumbled about the doctors, wanted to go back to his allotment. They hesitated, but he went anyway in May when the soil warmed. I took him myself, we opened the summerhouse, lit the stove. Sitting together on the porch, mugs of tea, watching the trees.
– Dad, do you remember carving those little birds for me?
– I do. You always lost them.
– I kept one.
– I know. Mum said. – He paused. – Im proud of you, love.
– Why?
– No reason. Just am. – He balanced his mug on the rail and looked out across the allotments. – Lifes long. Dont waste it.
I nodded. All around us, hawthorn blossom and soft garden smells, a deep quiet except for a distant cuckoo.
That spring, I went back to work accounting, low-key, after years of barely working. Mrs. Dawson always said family came first; Ian never disagreed. Now, I joined a small firm, easygoing team, ordinary work. The first weeks felt odd, then I settled in. Something Id missed returned: my days belonged to me again.
At weekends I visited my parents, sometimes stayed over. Mum and I would bake, not from a list, not for forty mouths just because, just one pie, with whatever was to hand. Dad offered advice nobody wanted. Mum told him she could manage alone. The little bird sat peacefully on my bedside.
One summer evening Jack rang just to chat.
– Mum, you all right?
– I am, Jack. Really am.
– You know, Im glad for you. Youre different now.
– Different?
– I mean better.
I laughed.
– Hows work, Jack?
– Fine. The lot of us are planning a trip, I want to come up in August if I can. – He went on about his job, summer, and plans. I listened, gazing out my window the birches beyond dense and green. The whole courtyard brimmed over with leaf and life.
– Come and visit, – I said. – Ill make beetroot soup.
– Your soup?
– Mums recipe. Traditional.
– Cant be beaten, – Jack said, and we left it at that.
