Set My Father-in-Law Straight

28September2025

Dear Diary,

Today the house felt like a battlefield of ladles and accusations. Margaret Thompson, my motherinlaw, erupted in a tirade that could have been heard across the entire village of Ashford. What are you feeding my son with? Have you no conscience? she shouted, waving her wooden spoon like a baton. First you stole my only beloved grandson from his mothers heart, and now you plan to starve my husband!

I tried to keep my cool. Hes useless to me as it stands. I could feed my own husband and my children, I replied, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. Margaret, ever quick to defend her cooking, snapped, Since when have you stopped liking my meals?

Its not that I dont like them, I huffed, but after forty years of the same stew, Im craving something new. Perhaps a cookbook would help.

She snarled, Ill open a book for you that will make you rejoice like a schoolboy! Have you ever tried my broth? Even the neighbour Mrs. Clegg turned up her nose at it.

I managed a weak grin. Ive tasted it, indeed. I need to know what feeds my son and grandchildren.

Did you enjoy it? Now you want to argue with your daughterinlaw? she jabbed, pointing at Lily, my wifes sister who had just arrived from London. We lived peacefully, but perhaps you should have cleaned my pots better!

I should have tried a different style of cooking, I muttered, instead of sticking to the same old recipes. Maybe theres a pinch of ambrosia hidden somewhere.

Margaret frowned, You know nothing of cuisine! Thats why youre never invited to my sisters parties or the village halls tea. I wont let you eat my food any longer!

She threatened, Ill lock you in the attic and feed you only porridge with water, no salt, no sugar!

I laughed, You can try, but Ill still bring home the bacon. I promised, If I leave, Ill tell the whole village how poorly you feed me.

She snapped, Oh, go on then! Everyones waiting for you, especially Lucy, who cant wait to keep you away from my refrigerator!

Lucy came to stop me from getting near her fridge, I said dryly. Her family cant afford to keep feeding anyone else, so Ill keep quiet.

I declared I would still speak up. Shes here because I caused her a financial loss. If I side with my son, Ill pay Lucys wages, not yours, Margaret.

She knew my temper well. If youre going to split, youll do exactly as I say.

Finally she gave me a card and sent me to town to buy the cookbook she insisted I use. Take the card, go to London, buy the book and then help me with the cooking! she ordered. Within three minutes I was standing at the railway station, pocketing my £20 for the trip.

Lucy! I shouted, trying to rally the family on the other side of the house. Lets sort this out and then make peace.

Lily, stepping into the kitchen, asked, Can we just reconcile straight away?

Genre rules demand a little drama first, Margaret replied with a shrug.

The argument continued, each of us hurling the same old lines about feeding, finances, and loyalty. Lily retorted, If I had a pound for every time you blamed me for the empty fridge, Id be richer than you, Margaret!

I tried to explain, Im just trying to keep the household running, not to be a freeloader. But Margarets sharp tongue cut through my excuses. She claimed I was stealing from her pantry, that I didnt even buy my own groceries, and that I was a parasite.

Lily, ever the peacemaker, tried to soothe the tension, saying shed help teach a lesson to the meddlesome motherinlaw. Margaret promised to give Lily two million pounds to build a new house for us in a different village once her savings matured.

In the end, after weeks of petty fights over who stole the last biscuit, who should clean the kettle, and whose turn it was to buy the milk, we reached a truce. The family moved into a modest cottage on the outskirts of Ashford, sharing a single kitchen and a separate bathroom. We financed a secondhand fridge, a microwave, and a set of decent pots on credit, and somehow managed to keep the lights on.

Even now, when Lily returns from her shift at the village clinic, I hear her mutter about the empty pantry, and Margaret sighs over a cup of tea, wondering why her soninlaw cant simply cook a proper Sunday roast. Yet the house isnt in ruins, and the children still enjoy their school meals.

Looking back, I realise that my stubbornness and Margarets overbearing nature only fueled the fire. If we had both listened a little more, perhaps the quarrels would have never escalated to threats of exile and ancient curses.

Lesson learned: a good marriage, like a good stew, needs balanceenough patience, a dash of humility, and the willingness to share the ladle.