“For heaven’s sake, what do you think you’re doing?” Edith’s voice trembled with indignation. “My son was perfectly fine before he met you!”
“And now he isn’t, is that it?” Charlotte stood in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wet with tears, clutching a tea towel. “Perhaps you’d care to explain what the problem is?”
“The problem is that Edward’s lost nearly a stone! Just look at the state of him!”
Edward sat at the table, staring into his half-finished bowl of soup, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. At thirty-two, he felt like a scolded schoolboy.
“Mum, leave it,” he muttered, not lifting his head.
“I will not! Look at yourself—hollow cheeks, dark circles under your eyes. All because she doesn’t feed you properly!”
“How can you say that?” Charlotte exploded. “I cook every day! I made this soup from scratch this morning!”
“Soup!” Edith scoffed. “Water with a few carrots. Where’s the beef? Where’s the cream? Where’s a proper meal for a working man?”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. Six months had passed since she’d married Edward, and every visit from her mother-in-law ended in a row—the soup wasn’t right, the shirts weren’t pressed properly, the flat wasn’t clean enough.
“Edith, I’m doing my best,” she said quietly. “But I have a job, I’m studying part-time—”
“Job!” Edith threw up her hands. “What nonsense! A woman’s place is at home, caring for her husband! Instead, you’re off heaven knows where while my son goes hungry!”
Edward finally looked up.
“Mum, I’m not hungry. I’ve lost weight because I joined the gym.”
“The gym?” Edith stared as though he’d said something indecent. “Why on earth would you need that? You’re perfect as you are!”
Charlotte couldn’t take it anymore and walked out. In the bedroom, she sank onto the bed and let the tears flow. She was sick of the constant criticism. Nothing she did was ever good enough for Edith.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Edward first introduced her to his mother, Edith had been warm—serving tea, asking about her family, even complimenting her.
But the moment they announced their engagement, everything changed.
“Charlie, where are you?” Edward poked his head in. “Mum’s gone.”
“Thank goodness,” Charlotte sniffed.
He sat beside her and pulled her close.
“Don’t take it to heart. She’s just set in her ways.”
“Her ways? You lived with her until you were thirty-two!”
Edward sighed. This was a sore subject.
“She’s been alone most of her life, Charlie. Dad died when I was fifteen. She’s done everything for me.”
“I understand. But I’m your wife now. Can’t we find some middle ground?”
“We will. It just takes time.”
Time. Charlotte had heard that word a hundred times before. How long would it take Edith to accept her as family?
The next day, she decided to act. After work, she bought ingredients and cooked a proper Sunday roast—beef stew, mashed potatoes, and a fresh salad. She laid the table with a linen cloth and their best glasses.
When Edward came home, he gaped.
“Blimey! What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just wanted to spoil my husband.”
“Smells like Mum’s cooking when I was a boy.”
They dined by candlelight. Edward praised every dish, and Charlotte felt a flicker of hope. Maybe if she tried harder, Edith would soften.
But the very next day, her mother-in-law arrived with fresh grievances.
“Edward, did you stay up late last night?” she demanded the second she stepped in. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“I went to bed at half eleven, Mum.”
“Half eleven! And up at seven! That’s no way to treat your body!”
Charlotte realised then—it wasn’t about the food or the bedtime. It was about her. She’d “stolen” Edith’s only son.
So she tried a different approach.
“Edith,” she began during the next visit, “would you teach me to make that beef stew Edward loves so much?”
Edith eyed her suspiciously. “Why?”
“I’d like to make him happy. You know his tastes best.”
For a long moment, Edith hesitated, as if waiting for a trick.
“Well… I suppose. Though I doubt you’ll manage it properly.”
“We’ll see.”
And so they tried. Edith dictated the recipe while Charlotte took notes. Then they went to the market together.
“See, the beef must be like this,” Edith instructed, pointing to the butcher’s display. “Not too fatty, but not lean either. And the carrots must be fresh.”
Charlotte listened carefully. Back home, they cooked side by side.
“Chop the onions bigger,” Edith corrected. “And don’t cry, or the stew will taste bitter.”
“How do I not cry? The onions sting.”
“Rinse the knife under cold water. And breathe through your mouth, not your nose.”
Slowly, the tension eased. Edith shared stories of Edward’s childhood, and Charlotte listened, genuinely interested.
“At five, he’d eat three bowls of this stew in one sitting,” Edith chuckled. “I thought he’d burst one day.”
“He doesn’t eat much now. Must be his age.”
“Nonsense. He’s just tired from work. That new project’s been gruelling, difficult clients and all.”
Charlotte blinked. Edward rarely spoke about work. Yet his mother knew everything.
“He tells you a lot?”
“Oh yes. We’ve always confided in each other. Even as a boy, he’d tell me everything—school, friends, girls he fancied.”
There was a wistfulness in Edith’s voice.
“I suppose he tells you now,” she added quietly.
“Not really,” Charlotte admitted. “He’s not much of a talker.”
Edith stared.
“Edward? Not a talker? Why, he could chatter for hours!”
Charlotte realised how little they truly knew each other. Six months of marriage wasn’t long.
The stew was a triumph. When Edward tasted it, he couldn’t believe Charlotte had made it.
“Just like Mum’s!” he marvelled. “How’d you manage it?”
“Edith taught me,” Charlotte said, and Edith brightened visibly.
“Oh, I only gave a few tips.”
From then on, cooking lessons became a ritual. Edith would visit, and they’d cook together—first Edward’s favourites, then other dishes.
“This was my mother’s recipe,” Charlotte said once, showing off her scones. “God rest her.”
“Gone too soon?”
“Fifty-eight. Cancer.”
Edith softened. She, too, had her struggles—high blood pressure, a dodgy heart.
“I always worry something will happen to Edward,” she confessed one day. “He’s all I’ve got.”
“Nothing will happen,” Charlotte reassured her. “We’ll take care of him.”
“We,” Edith repeated, and for the first time in months, she smiled at her daughter-in-law.
Gradually, the ice thawed. Edith stopped nitpicking, and Charlotte came to understand her better.
Edith had been a primary school teacher—devoted to children but never having more of her own.
“I raised so many pupils,” she said, flipping through old class photos. “But only one of my own.”
“And you raised him well,” Charlotte said.
“Too well, perhaps. Always sheltered him.”
Charlotte also discovered Edith was a brilliant knitter. Spotting her struggling with a unravelled scarf, Edith offered to help.
“Let me teach you. Winter’s not over yet.”
Evenings became cosy—knitting, tea, long chats about everything.
“Do you have a cottage?” Charlotte asked once.
“A little one in the Cotswolds. Edward practically grew up there. We’d go every weekend.”
“And now?”
“It’s lonely by myself. Too much upkeep.”
Charlotte suggested, “We could help. Edward misses it.”
Edith perked up. “Really? He said that?”
“Of course. He talks about helping you in the garden.”
So off they went—all three of them. Edward was giddy, showing Charlotte his favourite spots.
“Built a treehouse here,” he said, pointing to an old oak. “Mum let me light bonfires sometimes.”
Edith watched them, smiling. For the first time in ages, her son looked truly happy.
“You know,” she told Charlotte privately, “you’re good for him.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. He’s livelier now. Used to be so serious—laughs more these days.”
Warmth blossomed in Charlotte’s chest. Her first real approval.
Their cottage trips deepened the bond. Edith taughtThey all gathered under the same roof that Christmas, with Edith holding her grandchild and Charlotte beaming beside her, and in that moment, there was simply love.
