**The Wife and Her Ultimatum**
This morning, my daughter-in-law, Emily, looked me straight in the eye and declared: Margaret, starting today, dear mother-in-law, you wont be eating any more of my meals. Do as you pleasetheres a shelf in the fridge for you, cook for yourself. Preferably before I wake up or get home from work. I stood frozen, as if Id been struck by lightning, unable to believe what Id just heard. So, after all these years of cooking for the family, Ithe mother-in-lawam now banished from the kitchen and denied a proper home-cooked meal? Im still simmering with anger, and I need to vent, or I might explode from sheer indignation.
My husband, William, and I have lived in the same house as our son, James, and his wife, Emily, for two years now. When they married, we suggested they move inthe house is large, theres room for everyone, and I thought I could help the young couple. At first, Emily seemed delightful: she smiled, thanked me for dinners, even asked for the recipe to my shepherds pie. Naively, I was overjoyed that James had found such a woman. I cooked for everyone, cleaned, did my best to make them comfortable. And now she says this to me! As if I were an intruder in my own home, as if my roasts and puddings were beneath her.
It all started a few months ago, when Emily began complaining that I cooked too much. She claimed she was on a diet and that my dishes were too rich. I found it oddwho was forcing her to eat my steak and kidney pie? Want a salad? Boil your own greens, I wont stop you. But instead, she nitpicked everything: the gravy was too salty, the chips undercooked, why so much butter? I bit my tongue, not wanting arguments. James, my son, would say, Mum, dont take it to heart, Emilys stressed with work. But I knew better. Shed decided the kitchen was now her domain, and I was in the way.
Then yesterday was the final straw. As usual, I made pancakes for breakfastthin, crispy at the edges, just as James loved them since he was a boy. I set the table, called everyone down. Emily came in, glared at the pancakes as if they were public enemies, and said, Margaret, Ive asked you not to cook so much. James and I have porridge in the mornings. I wanted to say porridge wasnt forbidden, but then came the ultimatum. A shelf in the fridge! Cooking for myself! In my own home, where Ive ruled for 40 years, where every corner holds the sweat of my labour!
I tried talking to James. Son, am I to cook just for myself now, like Im in barracks? This is your home, but Im not a servant. But as always, he played peacemaker: Mum, Emily just wants her space. Try to understand. Space? And wheres mine? Ive devoted my life to family, and now Im relegated to a shelf? William, my husband, didnt back me either. Margaret, dont overreact, he said. Emilys young, she wants to run the house. Run it? Then what am I?
Honestly, I dont know how to respond. Part of me wants to pack my bags and stay with my sister in another town, let them fend for themselves. But this is my home, my kitchen, my son! Why should I be the one to give in? Ive always tried to be a good mother-in-lawnever interfered, never criticised Emilys quinoa experiments, even washed up when she was too tired. And now shes erasing me from the family table, as if Im a stranger.
Last night, I went to the kitchen and made my own dinnermushrooms on toast, just how I like it. Emily huffed when she saw: Well, Margaret, isnt this better? I stayed silent, but inside, I was boiling. Better? Is it better to split a family into your meals and mine? Ive always believed food brings people together, that problems are solved over shared plates. Now were at war over pancakes and a fridge shelf.
Im weighing my options. Maybe I should talk openly with Emily? Tell her how much it hurts to feel like a guest in my own home? But I fear shell twist it, accuse me of overstepping or ignoring her boundaries. Or perhaps Ill stop cooking altogether. Let James and Emily have their porridge while I order fish and chips. Well see how long they last without my shepherds pie.
What hurts most is James. Hes caught between a rock and a hard placehis mother and his wife, whos clearly forcing him to choose. I dont want to see him 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 like this.
For now, Ill stay neutral. Ill cook for myself, as she ordered, but I wont surrender. Maybe shell reflect when she sees I wont beg for forgiveness. Or maybe Ill need to sit William and James down for a serious talk. I dont want war, but I wont stay silent anymore. This is my house, and I have a right to my place at the table. Emily should think twice before tearing a family apart over boundaries.
*Sometimes, the hardest battles arent fought with words, but over who gets to set the table.*
