**A Weeks Worth of Sausage: When My Mother-in-Law Counted Our Bites**
That summers day in July, Margaret Whitmore was dusting the windowsills, plumping the cushions, and reminding her daughter it was high time to visit the countrysidethe garlic was ready to be pulled. Emily tried to explain: work, responsibilities, the children But her mother, as stubborn as ever, wouldnt relent.
“Summers nearly over, and youre all cooped up in your flat in London!” she snapped over the phone. “The strawberries wont wait, the potatoes will go to seed, and there you are, noses buried in your screens!”
In the end, they settled on a weekendjust long enough to help in the garden and enjoy a quiet evening.
Arthur, however, had no desire to make the trip. Their last visit had ended badly, leaving a bitter taste. Hed only asked for a bit of sausage to go with the roastbut his mother-in-law had flatly refused. So sharply, in fact, that hed been left speechless.
They set off early on Saturday. The work was done efficiently: the garlic was dug up, sorted, and stored. Then came the evening, the meal, the usual family chatter. Arthur showered and stepped into the kitchen. Emily and her mother were setting the table. The rich scent of roasted lamb filled the room. To pass the time, Arthur opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
“Leave that be!” Margarets voice cracked like a whip.
The sausage was returned at once. Arthur froze, baffled.
“Whats the matter, Mum?” Emily asked, confused.
“That sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not before. And dont spoil your appetite!” her mother cut in.
Arthur ate the roast, but not a scrap of meat was on his plate. He asked again for a bit of sausage. Another refusal.
“Why this fuss?” Margaret huffed. “Youve had half of it already! Do you know how much that costs? Its meant to last the week!”
Arthur pushed his plate away. His appetite gone, he stepped outside and lay on the garden bench, staring at the sky. Emily joined him later.
“Lets go home. I cant stand this. Every move is watched, as if Im a thief. Im even afraid to butter my toast too thick, lest she snatch it from my hands.”
“Theres not even a proper shop here,” Emily murmured, embarrassed. “Just the greengrocers van on Wednesdays.”
“We shouldve brought food instead of cherries and plums,” Arthur grumbled. “Im leaving tomorrow. Ill come back for you later. Because without meat, I wont last long.”
“Well leave together,” Emily said firmly.
The next morning, they drove back to London. Emily lied to her mother, claiming Arthur had a work emergency. Margaret watched them go, her expression dark.
A year passed. They hadnt set foot in Margarets house again. But she, oddly enough, visited them without hesitation. And stranger still, shed open their fridge as if it were her own, taking whatever she pleased without asking. Arthur even laughed about it:
“Look at thatthe sausage! Seems shes got all the rights here”
But when spring came, the calls began again:
“Well, when are you coming? The garden wont tend itself.”
Arthur resisted. Until Emily suggested a scheme:
“Lets bring our own supplies. That way, Mum cant count our portions.”
Arthur agreedon the condition they stopped at the grocers first. And so they found themselves back at the cottage, arms laden with bags.
“Whats all this? Plums?” Margaret pursed her lips. But as she rummaged through the bags, she found cheese, meat, sausage. And said nothing.
“Now you wont have to weigh every gram I eat,” Arthur smirked.
Margaret gave a disdainful sniff but stayed silent. Later, in the kitchen, she muttered to Emily:
“It would be nice if you brought provisions every time. Easier for me, quieter for you.”
Emily nodded, torn between irritation and amusement. But the heart of it was this: Arthur was willing to return. With groceries, true. But without quarrels or reproach. And that, when you thought about it, was its own kind of family happiness.
