Oh, youve got to hear this storyits one of those classic mother-in-law sagas. So, picture this: Its peak summer, and Margaret Whitmores scrubbing the windows, fluffing the cushions, and nagging her daughter to come down to the countrysidethe garlics ready to be picked. Emilys making excuseswork, the kids, lifebut Margarets having none of it.
Summerll be over before you know it, and youre all cooped up in that flat in London! she snaps over the phone. The strawberriesll go to waste, the potatoesll sprout, and there you are, glued to your screens!
Eventually, they settle on a weekendjust long enough to help in the garden and enjoy a quiet evening.
Now, Thomas? Hes dreading the trip. Last time didnt end well, and hes still sore about it. All hed asked for was a bit of sausage to go with the Sunday roastbut Margaret outright refused. So bluntly it left him speechless.
Saturday rolls around, and they set off early. They work like trooperspulling up garlic, sorting it, packing it away. Then comes the evening, dinner, family small talk. Thomas showers and wanders into the kitchen. Emily and her mum are setting the table, the smell of roast filling the room. To tide himself over, he opens the fridge and grabs a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
Leave that! Margarets voice cracks like a whip.
The sausage goes straight back in. Thomas freezes, baffled.
Whats the matter, Mum? Emily asks, confused.
That sausage is for breakfast, with toast! Not now. And dont ruin your appetite! Margaret says sharply.
Thomas tries the roast, but theres barely a scrap of meat in sight. He asks for a bit of sausage. Another no.
Why the fuss? Margaret huffs. Youve already had half of it! Do you know how much this costs? Its meant to last the week!
Thomas pushes his plate away. Appetite gone, he storms out to the garden sofa, staring at the sky. Emily joins him later.
Lets go. I cant stand this. Every moves watched like Im a thief. Im scared to butter my toast too thick in case she snatches it off me.
Theres not even a shop here, Emily murmurs. Just the greengrocers van on Wednesdays.
Shouldve brought food instead of cherries and plums, Thomas grumbles. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill come back for you later. Because without proper food, I wont last.
Were leaving together, Emily says firmly.
Next morning, they drive back to London. Emily fibs to her mum, saying Thomas has a work emergency. Margaret watches them go, lips pursed.
A year passes. They havent set foot in Margarets house since. But she? Oh, she drops by theirs no problem. And weirdly, she raids their fridge like its hers, taking whatever she fancies. Thomas even laughs about it:
Look at thatthe sausage! Apparently, here, shes got free rein
But come spring, the calls start again:
So, when are you coming? The garden wont tend itself.
Thomas digs his heels in. Until Emily suggests a plan:
Lets bring supplies. That way, Mum cant ration us.
Thomas agreeson one condition: a detour to the supermarket. And there they are, back at the cottage, arms full of bags.
Whats all this? Plums? Margaret says, eyebrows raised. But as she rummages, she finds cheese, meat, sausage. And stays quiet.
Now you wont have to count how many grams Im eating, Thomas smirks.
Margaret sniffs but says nothing. Later, in the kitchen, she mutters to Emily:
Itd be nice if you brought supplies every time. Easier for me, less hassle for you.
Emily nods, torn between irritation and amusement. But the main thing? Thomas is willing to come back. With groceries, sure. But no rows, no lectures. And honestly? Thats its own kind of family happiness.
