When I stepped up to the table, my mother-in-law gave me a sharp slap: “I made this for my son! You and the kids can eat wherever you like!”
Emily zipped up her youngest daughters coat and double-checked the older boys shoelaces. Outside the car window, bare trees flickered past, the sky smothered in grey clouds as the road stretched farther from the city. Oliver sat behind the wheel, humming some tune, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the radio.
“Mum, does Granny have a swing?” asked seven-year-old Thomas, wriggling in the backseat.
“I dont know, love,” Emily replied. “Probably. Shes got a big garden.”
“Can we play outside?” piped up four-year-old Lily, already restless from the journey.
“Of course,” Emily soothed. “But first, well say hello to Granny and have lunch.”
Oliver caught her eye in the rearview mirror.
“Em, dont worry so much,” he said. “Mums changed. Shes missed the kids. Shell be happy to see you.”
Emily nodded but didnt answer. Her husband sounded confident, but inside, anxiety twisted her stomach. Margaret had never been the warm, cuddly type. She was distant, sharp with her remarks, and every visit to Olivers mother felt like an ordeal.
The last time theyd all visited was two years ago. Margaret had spent the evening criticising how Emily dressed the children, how she cooked, how she behaved. Oliver had stayed quiet, and Emily had gritted her teeth and endured. Since then, theyd only met in neutral placescafés, parks. But this time, Oliver had insisted.
“Mums lonely,” hed said. “The kids are growing up. We should visit more. And her house is nice, spacious. We could use a weekend in the country.”
Emily hadnt argued. Maybe Margaret *had* changed. Maybe age had softened her. People *do* change.
The car turned off the main road onto a dirt track, passing a few scattered houses before stopping at a tall wooden fence. Behind it stood a two-storey cottage with large windows and a slate roof. The garden held apple trees, already bare, and a weathered wooden bench.
Oliver killed the engine, got out, and opened the gate. Emily helped the children out, took Lilys hand, and led them towards the house. Thomas dashed ahead, dragging his backpack of toys.
The front door swung open, and there stood Margaret. Tall, thin, with cropped grey hair and sharp features, she wore a smile, but her eyes stayed cold.
“So, youve come,” she said instead of hello. “Hope youre not staying long. Ive just cleanedtry not to make a mess.”
Emily froze on the doorstep, unsure how to respond. Oliver slung an arm around his mothers shoulders.
“Mum, were here for the weekend,” he said. “Thought wed spend time with you. The kids have missed you.”
Margaret looked the children up and down.
“Missed me, have they?” she drawled. “Well, come in, then. But shoes off at the door. And wash your hands *immediately*.”
Emily helped the children out of their coats and shoes, lining everything neatly by the door. Thomas and Lily clung to her, uneasy in the unfamiliar house.
Inside, the air smelled of foodsomething hearty, with onions and meat. The scent was comforting, and Emily realised she was starving. Theyd had an early breakfast, and the car snacks had been sparse.
Margaret marched into the kitchen without looking back. Oliver hauled the bags upstairs. Emily stood in the hallway with the children, uncertain.
“Mummy, Im thirsty,” Lily whispered.
“One second, sweetheart,” Emily promised.
She stepped into the kitchen. Everything was spotless, sterile. The pans gleamed, the countertops shone, not a single item out of place. Margaret stood at the stove, stirring a pot.
“Margaret, could the children have some water?” Emily asked.
“Glasses are in the cupboard,” Margaret replied without turning. “Dont break them.”
Emily fetched two glasses, filled them from the jug, and handed them to the children. Thomas and Lily gulped greedily. Stroking Lilys hair, Emily returned to the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?” she offered.
Margaret looked her up and down.
“You can chop the vegetables,” she allowed. “But do it properly. I dont like big chunks.”
Emily nodded, took the knife and board. Margaret set a bowl of cucumbers and tomatoes in front of her. Emily began slicingsmall, even pieces, trying to please.
Margaret glanced over occasionally, wrinkling her nose.
“Do you always chop like *that*?” she asked. “Its uneven.”
“Sorry,” Emily muttered. “Ill be neater.”
“See that you are,” Margaret huffed.
Oliver came downstairs and poked his head into the kitchen.
“Smells amazing, Mum!” he said. “Whats cooking?”
“Beef stew,” Margaret replied, her face softening. “Your favourite. Remember how you begged for it as a boy?”
“Course I do!” Oliver grinned. “No one makes it like you!”
Margaret smiled, pleased.
“Go relax, love. Itll be ready soon.”
Oliver nodded and wandered into the living room. Emily kept chopping. Her hands moved mechanically, her mind drifting. Why hadnt Oliver offered to help? Why had he left her alone with Margaret?
“Staring wont get it done,” Margaret snapped. “Speed up. We havent got all day.”
Emily worked faster. When she finished, Margaret snatched the bowl, eyed the contents critically, and set it on the table.
“Now set the plates,” she ordered. “Second shelf.”
Emily arranged the plates. Margaret adjusted one by a millimetre.
“Finally, something done right,” she muttered.
Emily said nothing. The tension coiled inside her, but she wouldnt show it. Not in front of the children. Not on the first day.
Margaret ladled the stew into a serving dish, placed it centre-table, laid out bread, poured juice into a pitcher.
“Call everyone,” she commanded.
Emily fetched Oliver and the children. Oliver took his seat, rubbing his hands.
“Looks incredible!” he beamed.
Thomas and Lily sat beside Emily. She poured their juice, cut their meat into small pieces. Lily picked up her fork and began eating. Thomas kicked his legs under the table as he chewed.
Exhausted, Emily reached for a plate.
Then Margaret shot up. Her face twisted, eyes flashing with fury.
“What do you think youre doing?!” she shouted.
Emily froze.
“II was just getting some food,” she stammered.
“I made this for *my son*!” Margaret hissed. “Not for *you*!”
Before Emily could react, Margarets hand cracked across her cheek. The slap rang out, sharp and brutal.
Emily staggered, the plate slipping from her fingers. It shattered on the floor. Her face burned, ears ringing. Thomas and Lily sat frozen, forks mid-air, eyes wide with fright.
“I made this for *him*!” Margaret repeated, breathing hard. “You and your children can eat *anywhere else*!”
Emily pressed a hand to her cheek. The room tilted. This couldnt be happening. Not in front of the kids. Not with Oliver right there.
Oliver sat still, staring at his plate. He didnt look up. Didnt move. Didnt speak.
“Ollie” Emily whispered.
He lifted his gaze. His jaw was tight, lips pressed thin.
“Mum, that was too far,” he said quietly.
“Too *far*?!” Margaret scoffed. “Ive been cooking all day! For *you*! And *she*” She jabbed a finger at Emily, “thinks she can just help herself!”
“Margaret, I just wanted to eat,” Emily tried. “Weve been travelling since”
“Be *quiet*!” Margaret cut her off. “Im not speaking to *you*!”
Emily stepped back. Her cheek throbbed. She wanted to grab the kids and runfar from Margaret, from her icy glare, from this house.
“Mum, calm down,” Oliver pleaded. “Emily didnt mean anything.”
“She *always* means something!” Margaret snapped. “Waltzing in like she owns the place!”
Emily looked at Oliver. He wouldnt meet her eyes.
“Ollie, are we leaving?” she asked softly.
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“Lets not make a scene,” he muttered. “Mums tired. Shes been cooking. Lets just eat and forget it.”
“Forget it?!” Emily whispered. “She *hit* me!”
“Not in front of the kids,” he said sharply.
Emily looked at Thomas and Lily. Thomas had shrunk into his chair, eyes brimming. Lily hid her face in her hands, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders.
Emily went to them, hugging Lily close.
“
