Here’s the Menu: Get Everything Ready by Five—It’s My Anniversary, and I Shouldn’t Be Stuck in the Kitchen!” commanded the Mother-in-Law, although she soon regretted it.

“It was the morning of a Saturday when Margaret Hargreaves awoke with a sense of festivity. Sixty years a round number worthy of celebration lay ahead, and she had spent months arranging guest lists, choosing outfits, and rehearsing the perfect smile in the mirror. She was accustomed to everything moving according to her design.

Mother, happy birthday! shouted Andrew as he entered the kitchen, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. From me and Eleanor.

Eleanor gave a quiet nod, coffee cup balanced on the stove. Mornings were never her time for chatter, especially when the matriarchs birthday was at stake.

Oh, Andrew dear, thank you! Margaret accepted the gift with a flourish. Have you had breakfast yet?

Yes, Mum, all fine, he replied, glancing at his wife.

Eleanor set her cup in the sink, already bracing for what lay ahead. In recent weeks the motherinlaw had been in an unusually lofty mood, a condition that only sharpened her tendency to issue commands. She seemed to believe that a celebratory atmosphere gave her licence to boss everyone about more vigorously than usual.

Eleanor, my dear, Margaret said, her tone the familiar blend of request and order, I have a little task for you.

Eleanor turned, trying to keep a neutral expression. After three years of sharing the flat she could read Margarets inflections as if they were an open book.

Here is the menu; have everything ready by five oclock. Id rather not be stuck in the kitchen on my own jubilee, Margaret thrust a doubledover sheet of paper toward her, the neat handwriting unmistakable.

Eleanor scanned the list, feeling the weight of twelve dishes collapse into a single breath. Twelve! From simple platters to elaborate salads and hot appetizers.

Margaret, but thats a whole days work

Of course! Margaret laughed, as if Eleanor had stated the obvious. What else would I be doing on such a grand occasion? Obviously, cooking for the birthday lady! You know the guests will be manymy friends, the neighbours I cant have the house left in a mess.

Andrew shifted his gaze between his mother and wife, tension building.

Mother, perhaps we could order something readymade? he ventured timidly.

What are you saying! Margaret snapped. Should I feed my guests with storebought food on my own jubilee? And what will people think of me? No, everything must be homemade, made with heart. She clutched her fists. With heart, of coursemy heart, which will be spent all day in the kitchen.

Fine, Eleanor said curtly and headed for the door.

Eleanor! Andrew called. Wait.

She paused in the hallway, breathing heavily. Andrew approached, eyes downcast.

Listen, Id love to help, honestly, but you know Im a hindrance in the kitchen My hands arent made for it.

Naturally, Eleanor smiled thinly. Is it normal that your mother treats me like a servant?

Come off it just think about it, cooking for Mum on her day isnt that hard. She does so much for usprovides a roof, never asks for money for the bills

Eleanor stared at him long enough to consider reminding him of all the times his mother nagged about the house, criticised his cooking, and praised herself for taking in a girl from the countryside. Yet what would it achieve? Andrew would still see his mother as a saint, and her demands as the whims of a pampered wife.

Alright, Eleanor said, and went back to the kitchen.

The next hours whirred by. Eleanor sliced, boiled, fried, and mixed. Her hands moved on autopilot while thoughts crowded her mind, each more insistent than the last. Then, while stirring a sauce, a spark of a simple yet elegant idea made her smile.

From a cupboard she retrieved a tiny box bought a month earlier from the chemist for personal usea mild laxative, its label promising effect within an hour.

She reviewed the menu once more: salads and cold starters could each take a few drops; the hot dishroast beef with potatoesshe would leave untouched, as even she and Andrew needed nourishment.

By five oclock the table overflowed with platters. Margaret, dressed in a new gown and a parade of jewellery, surveyed the kitchen like a general before battle.

Not bad, she said indulgently. Though the capital city salad could use a pinch more salt.

Eleanor fell silent, arranging the dishes. Inside, a chorus of anticipation sang.

Guests began arriving precisely at five. Margaret greeted each with broad embraces, accepting gifts and compliments. Her friendsLadies of the same age, equally festively attiredraved about the décor.

Margaret, youve outdone yourself! shouted Violet Harper from the landing. What a sight!

Oh, youre too kind, the birthday lady replied modestly. Eleanor and I did the work, though I must admit I handled the main tasks myself, and she lent a hand.

Eleanor, setting plates, almost laughed out loud. She was indeed helpingthough it felt more like a chore.

Andrew, dont eat the salads yet. Wait for the hot food, she whispered to her husband.

Why? he asked, puzzled.

Just wait, alright? she said.

He shrugged but obeyed. Eleanor took a seat nearby, watching guests pile onto the appetizers. Margaret regaled them with stories of how she had painstakingly planned the menu, selected the produce, and tried to please every palate.

And this saladmy signature, she boasted, pointing to the capital city creation. A recipe from my grandmother.

Divine! exclaimed Tabitha Sinclair. You have golden hands, Margaret!

An hour slipped by. Eleanor checked the clock, counting down. Finally, the first guest, Violet, clutched her stomach.

Oh dear, I feel ill

Me too! chimed her neighbour across the table. Margaret, are you sure the ingredients were fresh?

Margarets face went pale.

Of course! I bought everything just yesterday!

But then the birthday lady herself was seized by nausea. She hurried to the bathroom, a line of guests trailing behind her.

Eleanor, Andrew whispered, whats happening?

I dont know, she replied calmly. Probably something we ate. Thank heavens we left the salads untouched.

A commotion spread through the flat. Guests slipped off to the loo, returned briefly, muttering apologies and complaints about feeling poorly. Margaret flitted between the bathroom and the dining room, trying in vain to salvage the evening.

By seven oclock only the three of them remained. Margaret sat on the settee, pale and bewildered.

Go lie down, Eleanor said kindly, and well clean everything up.

What did you put in the food? Margaret demanded, recovering enough to speak.

Eleanor, still slicing the roast, replied calmly, The laxative only went into the salads and cold starters. I didnt touch the hot dishes, so youre safe to eat them.

Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but another wave of sickness forced her to dash to the bathroom.

Eleanor! Andrew glared at his wife. Why would you do that?

What else can I do? Eleanor turned back to him. You cant imagine how your mother treats me when youre not home. Half the time I dont even tell you, because I know youll defend her. Mum tries, Mum helps, Mum gave us shelter. Her treating me like a servant never seems to trouble you.

Andrew chewed his meat in silence.

Maybe its harsh, Eleanor went on, but Im tiredtired of being invisible in this house, of being used and then rebuked for my lack of gratitude. Today she got a lesson. Perhaps now shell think twice before dumping all the work on me and taking the credit.’

But its still Andrew began.

Too what? No one was seriously harmed. Just a few hours in the bathroom. The lesson will stick.

And it did. After that illfated birthday, Margarets tone toward Eleanor softened. She remained stern, but the sharp edges dulled. Arrogant commands faded, and there were no more attempts to shift all domestic duties onto her daughterinlaw.

Six months later Andrew announced, over dinner, that they were moving into their own flat.

Weve saved enough for the deposit, he said. I think its time we live independently.

Margaret stared, surprised. She had not expected such a step, but she simply nodded.

Perhaps it is time, she agreed. Young people need their own nest.

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

You know, she said quietly, perhaps I wasnt entirely fair to you

Eleanor paused, a box of dishes in her hands.

Perhaps, she replied. But it doesnt matter now. The important thing is weve found common ground.

Indeed, Margaret said, and that birthday it was unforgettable.

They looked at each other and, for the first time in years, they both laughedgenuinely, without a hint of resentment.

In their new flat, Eleanor often recalled that day, not with regret but with a sort of satisfied nostalgia. Sometimes, to be heard, you must speak the language people understand. Margaret, it turned out, only understood the language of force.

The real triumph, however, was that the lesson benefited not just the matriarch but also Andrew. He finally saw that his wifes outbursts were not mere whims but cries against injustice. Though he still thought her methods extreme, he never again ignored her complaints about his mothers behaviour.

From time to time Margaret visited their new home, bringing cakes, inquiring after their lives, even offering assistance. She never again tried to boss Eleanor around.

You know, Eleanor told Andrew one evening in their own kitchen, Ive grown a tiny affection for her now, after she stopped acting like a general.

And I think you overstepped a bit, Andrew smiled.

Maybe, Eleanor conceded. But the result was worth it. Sometimes the most radical tactics work best.

And she was right. At last there was peace in the family, built on mutual respect and clear boundaries. After all, isnt that the essence of any lasting relationship?