Here’s the menu, have everything ready by five—it’s not like I’ll be slaving in the kitchen on my own anniversary,” ordered the mother-in-law, but soon lived to regret it

Margaret woke that Saturday morning with the flutter of celebration in her chest. Sixty yearsa milestone worthy of grand observance. She had plotted this day for months, drafting guest lists and deliberating over her dress. The mirror reflected the smug satisfaction of a woman accustomed to her plans unfolding without a hitch.

“Happy birthday, Mum!” Charles was the first to appear in the kitchen, clutching a small velvet box. “From me and Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth offered a silent nod, cradling her morning tea by the stove. She was never one for chatter before noon, especially when it came to her mother-in-laws festivities.

“Oh, Charles, how lovely!” Margaret accepted the gift with theatrical delight. “Have you both eaten?”

“Yes, Mum, were quite alright,” Charles replied, glancing at his wife.

Elizabeth set her cup in the sink, steeling herself for what was coming. These past few days, Margaret had been in high spiritswhich, paradoxically, only sharpened her commanding edge. The festive air seemed to grant her permission to orchestrate everyones movements with even more vigor than usual.

“Elizabeth, darling,” Margaret addressed her in that particular tonea request wrapped in an order. “Ive a small favour to ask.”

Elizabeth turned, schooling her expression into neutrality. Three years of marriage in this house had taught her to read Margarets inflections like a well-worn book.

“Heres the menu. Have it all ready by fiveits hardly fitting for me to be slaving over a stove on my own birthday, is it?” Margaret extended a neatly folded sheet of paper, her looping script detailing every dish.

Elizabeth scanned the list. Twelve courses. Twelve! From finger sandwiches to elaborate terrines and hot hors d’oeuvres.

“Margaret,” she ventured carefully, “this will take all day.”

“Naturally!” Margaret laughed as if Elizabeth had stated the obvious. “What else would one do for such an occasion but cook for the guest of honour? You understand, dont you? All my friends are coming, the neighbourswe cant possibly serve them shop-bought rubbish!”

Charles shifted uncomfortably between them, the tension thickening like custard left too long on the hob.

“Mum, perhaps we could order in?” he offered weakly.

“Dont be absurd!” Margaret gasped. “Feed my guests supermarket slop on my sixtieth? What would people think? No, everything must be homemade, prepared with love.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists. Love. Of coursesomeone elses love. Hers, to be exact, while she slogged away in the kitchen.

“Fine,” she said curtly and turned to leave.

“Elizabeth!” Charles called after her. “Wait.”

She paused in the hallway, breathing through her nose. Charles approached, eyes downcast.

“Look, Id help, truly, but you know Im hopeless in the kitchen. All thumbs.”

“Naturally,” Elizabeth replied with a strained smile. “And your mother treating me like hired help is perfectly acceptable?”

“Dont be dramatic” Charles shrugged helplessly. “Its just cooking for her birthday. She does so much for uslets us live here rent-free, never asks for a penny towards bills…”

Elizabeth studied him. She could remind him how Margaret never missed a chance to hold their lodging over her head, to critique her housekeeping, to lament how shed “taken in a girl from the countryside” as though bestowing some divine mercy. But what was the point? To Charles, his mother was a saint, and Elizabeths grievances mere petulance.

“Right,” she said and marched to the kitchen.

The next hours blurred into a frenzy of chopping, boiling, frying. Her hands moved mechanically while her mind churneduntil, stirring a béchamel, she was struck by inspiration. The idea was so simple, so elegant, she nearly laughed aloud.

From the cupboard, she retrieved a small boxa mild laxative bought months prior but never used. The packaging promised effects within an hour.

She reviewed the menu. Salads, canapésall could be discreetly doctored. The roast and potatoes, however, shed leave untouched. After all, she and Charles had to eat too.

By five, the table groaned under the feast. Margaret, resplendent in a new dress and her finest pearls, surveyed the spread like a general reviewing troops.

“Not bad,” she conceded. “Though the coronation chicken couldve done with more salt.”

Elizabeth said nothing, arranging plates. Inside, she hummed with anticipation.

Guests arrived promptly. Margaret greeted each with open arms, accepting gifts and compliments in equal measure. Her friendswomen of similar age, equally bedeckedgushed over the lavish display.

“Maggie, youve outdone yourself!” cried Beatrice from next door.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Margaret demurred. “Elizabeth helped, of coursethough I did most of the work.”

Elizabeth, setting out cutlery, nearly snorted. Helped. Naturally.

“Charles,” she murmured, “dont touch the salads. Wait for the roast.”

“Why?”

“Just wait.”

He shrugged but obeyed. Elizabeth watched as the guests devoured the starters. Margaret held court, boasting of her meticulous menu planning, her discerning ingredient selection.

“This trifle is my signature,” she declared. “A family recipe.”

“Divine!” cooed Marjorie. “Youve a gift, darling!”

An hour passed. Elizabeth checked her watch. Thenit began.

Beatrice clutched her stomach first. “Oh dear,” she groaned. “I feel rather off…”

“Me too!” another guest gasped. “Maggie, are you sure everything was fresh?”

Margaret paled. “Of course! I bought it all yesterday!”

Then it took her too. She excused herself hastily, fleeing toward the loo. A queue formed behind her.

“Elizabeth,” Charles hissed, “whats happening?”

“No idea,” she said blandly. “Mustve been something they ate. Thank goodness we skipped the starters.”

Chaos ensued. Guests vanished into the bathroom, then made hurried, sheepish exits. Margaret flitted between them, desperate to salvage the eveningbut it was too late.

By seven, only the three of them remained. Margaret slumped on the sofa, ashen.

“Go rest,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Well clear up.”

“What did you put in the food?” Margaret demanded weakly.

Elizabeth carved the roast. “A mild laxative. Only in the starters, though. The mains perfectly safe.”

Margaret opened her mouthbut another cramp sent her scurrying.

“Elizabeth!” Charles scolded. “Was that really necessary?”

“What alternative did I have?” She met his gaze. “Youve no idea how she treats me when youre not here. Half the time, I dont even tell you because I know youll defend her. ‘Mum means well, Mums done so much.’ Meanwhile, Im her unpaid housekeeper.”

Charles chewed his roast in silence.

“Perhaps it was cruel,” Elizabeth admitted. “But Im exhausted. Exhausted of being nobody in this house. Today, she learned a lesson. Maybe next time, shell think twice before dumping everything on me and taking credit.”

“But still”

“But what? No one was harmed. A few hours in the loo. Shell remember this.”

And she did. After that ill-fated birthday, Margarets manner shifted. She was never warm, but the barbs dulled. No more orders, no more dumping chores on Elizabeth.

Six months later, Charles announced they were moving out.

“Weve saved enough for a deposit,” he said at dinner. “Time we had our own place.”

Margaret blinked. She hadnt expected this. But she only nodded.

“Quite right,” she conceded. “Young people need their own nest.”

On moving day, as they hauled out the last boxes, Margaret approached Elizabeth.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I may have been… unfair to you.”

Elizabeth paused, arms full of crockery.

“Perhaps. But it doesnt matter now. Weve found our footing.”

“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “Still… that birthday. That was… effective.”

They locked eyesand unexpectedly, both laughed. For the first time in years, it was genuine.

In their new flat, Elizabeth often recalled that day. Not with guilt, but satisfaction. Sometimes, to be understood, one must speak the language the listener knows. And Margaret, it turned out, only understood strength.

The lesson benefited Charles too. He finally saw that his wife wasnt being pettyshed been suffering. Though he still deemed her methods extreme, he never again dismissed her grievances.

Margaret visited occasionally, bearing cake and offers of help. Never another command.

“You know,” Elizabeth told Charles one evening in their own kitchen, “Ive even grown a bit fond of her. Now that shes stopped acting like a field marshal.”

“You still went too far,” he chuckled.

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But it worked. Sometimes, the most radical solutions are the most effective.”

She was right. Peace settled over thembuilt on mutual respect and clear boundaries. And wasnt that, after all, what mattered most?