**The Wife and Her Ultimatum**
This morning, my daughter-in-law, Emily, looked me dead in the eye and announced: Margaret, starting today, dear mother-in-law, you wont be eating any more of my meals. Do as you pleaseIll give you a shelf in the fridge, cook for yourself. Preferably before I wake up or get home from work. I stood there, stunned, as if Id been zapped by a faulty toaster. So, after all these years of cooking for the family, Ithe mother-in-lawam now banned from the kitchen and stripped of my right to a homemade meal? Im still simmering with outrage. If I dont vent, I might just boil over from sheer audacity.
My husband, Albert, and I have lived in the same house as our son, William, and his wife, Emily, for two years. When they got married, we suggested they move inthe house is spacious, theres room for everyone, and I thought I could help the young couple. At first, Emily seemed delightful: all smiles, thanking me for dinners, even asking for the recipe to my shepherds pie. Naively, I was thrilled William had found such a wife. I cooked, cleaned, bent over backwards to make them comfortable. And now this! As if Im some intruder in my own home, as if my roasts and puddings are beneath her ladyship.
It started months ago, when Emily began muttering that I cooked too much. Said she was on a diet, claimed my dishes were too rich. Oddsince when was she forced to eat my steak and kidney pie? Want a salad? Boil your own kale, I wont stop you. But instead, she picked at everything: the gravy was too thick, the roast potatoes underdone, why must you drown everything in butter? I bit my tongue, avoiding conflict. William, ever the peacekeeper, would say, Mum, dont take it to heartEmilys just stressed at work. But I knew better. Shed decided the kitchen was now *her* domain, and I was surplus to requirements.
Yesterday was the final straw. As usual, I made pancakes for breakfastthin, crispy-edged, just how Williams loved them since he was a boy. I set the table, called everyone down. Emily took one look at them, as if theyd personally offended her, and said, Margaret, Ive asked you not to cook so much. William and I have porridge in the mornings. I nearly retorted that porridge wasnt outlawed, but then came the ultimatum. A shelf in the fridge! Cooking for myself! In *my* house, where Ive ruled the kitchen for 40 years, where every corner bears the sweat of my labour!
I tried talking to William. Son, am I to cook just for myself now, like some lodger? This is your home, but Im not the hired help. But he, predictably, played mediator: Mum, Emily just wants her own space. Try to understand. *Space?* And wheres mine? Ive devoted my life to this family, and now Im relegated to a fridge shelf? Even Albert, my own husband, didnt back me up. Margaret, dont overreact, he said. Emilys youngshe wants to run the house. *Run it?* And what am I, then?
Honestly, I dont know what to do. Part of me wants to pack my bags and visit my sister in York, let them fend for themselves. But this is *my* home, *my* kitchen, *my* son! Why should I be the one to back down? Ive tried to be a good mother-in-law: never intruded, never mocked Emilys quinoa experiments, even did her washing-up when she was too tired. And now shes erased me from the family table like some unwanted guest.
Last night, I cooked my own dinnermushrooms on toast, just how I like it. Emily huffed, There, Margaret, isnt this better? I stayed silent, but inside, I was fuming. *Better?* Is it better to split a family over yours and mine meals? Ive always believed food brings people together, that problems are solved over supper. Now weve got a full-blown war over pancakes and a fridge shelf.
Im weighing my options. Maybe talk to Emily properly? Tell her it hurts, that I wont live like a guest in my own home? But I worry shell twist it, accuse me of overstepping or ignoring her boundaries. Or I could stop cooking altogether. Let William and Emily survive on granolawell see how long they last without my shepherds pie.
But what stings most is William. Hes caught between a rock and a hard place: me, his mother, and his wife, whos clearly forcing him to choose. I dont want him to suffer, but I wont grovel either. Ive worked my whole life, raised him, built this home. And now some girl dictates which shelf is mine? No, Emily, not this way.
For now, Im playing it cool. Cooking for myself, as orderedbut I wont surrender. Maybe shell rethink when she sees Im not begging for forgiveness. Or maybe Ill drag Albert and William into a proper talk. I dont want a war, but Im done biting my tongue. This house is mine, and Ive earned my place at the table. Emily ought to consider whether her boundaries are worth tearing a family apart.
