I Refused to Endure My Mother-in-Law’s Whims at the Christmas Dinner and Left for My Friend’s Place

Id had enough of my motherinlaws endless meddling at the New Years dinner, so I slipped out to my sisters flat.

Who cut the salad like that? she demanded, holding up a spoonful of the Olivier. Those cubes are the size of a pigs snout! They wont fit in a mouth. Ive told you a hundred times the dice has to be tiny and graceful so the flavours can shine, not hacked off with an axe, TamaraIgorovnas voice drowned out the television where Dan the builder was once again promising a sauna night.

Emily froze, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock read four oclock on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as if shed just lifted a coal wagon, not stood at the stove since dawn. Her feet were swollen in house slippers, and a fresh cut on her finger throbbed.

TamaraIgorovna, Emily inhaled sharply, trying not to let hysteria quiver in her voice, these are normal cubes, standard. Thats how we always cut them. If you dont like them, you can skip the salad. We have three other dishes.

Skip it? the motherinlaw flared, nearly sending the gravy boat flying. Whats this, a talk with my sons wife? I came here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and youre giving me a piece of stale bread? Victor! Do you hear how your wife talks to me?

Victor, my husband, sat in the lounge untangling a string of fairy lights, sighing in resignation. Hed always avoided conflict, preferring the ostrich method: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.

Olivia, love, mum, he called from the sofa. Can you cut them a bit smaller? Youre being a bit soft, arent you? Mums just trying to help. She used to be a professional chef, she knows best.

I used to run a hospital mess! TamaraIgorovna declared proudly, readjusting a hefty brooch on her chest. I had to meet strict hygiene standards. And you, Olivia, your kitchens a mess. Your towel is stained, yet you use it to dry your hands. Thats unsanitary!

Emily set the knife down without a word. A slow, steady rage began to boil inside her, the sort that usually ends in irreversible fallout. It wasnt the first New Year with the motherinlaw, but it felt the harshest. TamaraIgorovna had arrived two days earlier, ostensibly to help, but in reality to inspect every corner and hand down verdicts: daughterinlaw sloppy; son underfed; no grandchildren (apparently because the daughterinlaw was either ill or selfish); the flat tasteless.

The towel is clean, Emily replied calmly. I took it out this morning and a drop of beet juice fell on it. She turned to the motherinlaw. Could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose; its getting cramped in here.

A goose? TamaraIgorovna squinted suspiciously. How did you marinate it? In mayo, like last year? Thats vulgar! A proper goose should soak in lingonberry sauce with juniper for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. You didnt read it?

I used my own recipe, with apples and honey. Victor loves that.

Victor loves what you force him to eat! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hes probably got gastritis now, look how pale he looks. When he was a lad I made him steamed meatballs and clear broths

Emily felt the goose might fly straight out the window rather than into the oven, or perhaps straight into the head of the second mother.

Enough, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. The goose goes in the oven. The salads are done. All thats left is to set the table and pull ourselves together.

Pull yourself together? TamaraIgorovna gave her a assessing glance. You could at least put on a cucumber mask, dear. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.

Emily swallowed that jab for the sake of her husband, for the sake of the celebration, for the sake of not starting the year with a fight. She placed the heavy roasting tray in the oven, set the timer, and slipped into the bathroom.

She turned the tap on and finally let the tears flow. For five minutes she sat on the edge of the tub, sobbing into the suds. She was thirtyfive, a department head at a major logistics firm, overseeing twenty staff. Shed bought the flat with Victor, putting in her inheritance. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?

Because family, a voice inside whispered, sounding just like her own mothers, you have to be wise, you have to endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.

She washed her face, applied a patch, forced a smile at her reflection. Right. Six hours left. Well listen to the chimes, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to the Christmas market, and Ill curl up with a book.

She emerged from the bathroom hopeful for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat; things seemed to be falling back into place.

In the bedroom lay her dress a dark sapphire velvet gown with a delicate back cut, bought especially for the holiday at half her bonus.

Olivia, are you really going to wear that? TamaraIgorovnas voice floated over the hallway as she entered without knocking.

Its my festive dress, Emily said.

Honestly the velvet will make you look like a teapot. The colour is mournful. New Year is about joy, sparkle! You need something light and bright. I have a sequined sweater I can lend you if you want.

No, thanks. I like this dress, and Victor does too.

Victor doesnt care what you wear, just that you dont ruin his appetite. Im telling you as a woman to another woman: it doesnt suit you. It highlights all your flaws. Youd be better off hitting the gym than eating your weight in biscuits at night.

Emily began to dress in silence. Her hands shook, the zipper on the gown snagged.

Let me help, or youll tear it. Its expensive, even if its rubbish, TamaraIgorovna tugged at the zipper, causing Emily to sway. There, see? I warned you. Dont complain later when Victor starts eyeing younger women.

By ten at night the table was set. Crystal glittered, candles flickered, a goldenbrown goose took centre stage. Victor slipped on a shirt, TamaraIgorovna donned that sequined festive top and piled on every piece of gold jewellery she owned, looking more like a Christmas tree than a guest.

Emily felt like a squeezed lemon. She had neither appetite nor spirit; she just wanted the night to end.

Lets toast the old year! Victor announced cheerfully, pouring champagne. Its been a tough one, but we made it. The important thing is were together!

Indeed, a tough year, TamaraIgorovna echoed, raising her glass. Especially for me. My health is shot, blood pressure spikes, no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness

Mum, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.

Calls once a week just to tick a box. Fine, lets not dwell on gloom. Lets drink to better housewives next year, remembering our proper feminine duties.

Emily took a sip, feeling the bitterness of the champagne.

Try the salad, she offered, pushing a herring dress towards her motherinlaw. Made with homemade mayo, as you like.

TamaraIgorovna speared a piece, sniffed, grimaced, and chewed deliberately, eyes rolling.

Well the herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, crunchy on the teeth. And the mayo Olivia, did you drown it in vinegar? Its a milelong sourness.

Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Emily murmured.

Lemon in a herring coat! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, God forbid, wasnt a chef. You live on premade stuff, thats why youre such a lazy cook.

That cut deep. Emilys mother had died three years earlier; shed never fully come to terms with the loss. Her mother had been a hardworking woman who held two jobs to raise her daughter, never making fancy marinades, but always keeping the home warm and welcoming.

Dont insult my mother, Emily whispered, anger flashing across her face.

What did I say? Im just telling the truth. Victor, pass the bread, this salad is impossible to eat.

Victor handed the bread without looking at his wife, chewing silently as if he could become invisible.

Then something switched inside Emily, like a light flicked on. All the anger, hurt, exhaustion melted into a cold calm. She looked at Victor, the man whod promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, now watching his mother trample her mothers memory and belittle her effort.

Victor, does it taste okay? she asked.

Uh fine, I guess. Emily, lets not argue at the table. Mums just giving her opinion, he replied, trying to smooth things over.

Opinion, right, Emily said, standing slowly.

Where are you off to? For more heat? TamaraIgorovna barked. Sit down, its early.

Im not after the roast.

Emily left the lounge, stripped off the velvet gown, folded it neatly into the wardrobe, and slipped into jeans, a cosy sweater, and a warm coat with hat and boots. She grabbed a small sports bag, tossed in her toiletries, a change of underpants, pajamas, and her phone charger.

In the hallway, TamaraIgorovnas voice drifted from the living room: I told Mrs. Patel: why do you need that multicooker? Food in it is lifeless! It belongs in a pot over a proper British stove Victor, wheres Olivia? Shes been quiet too long. Is she upset? Shes acting strange, you should take her to a doctor.

Emily peeked into the doorway. Im not upset, Margaret. Ive just drawn my conclusions.

Victor dropped his fork. Emily, where are you going? In jeans?

Im leaving, Victor.

Going to the shop? Need something? Ill run!

No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate. Eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so sorry. Toss the salads, theyre dreadful.

Emily, stop making a scene! TamaraIgorovna snapped. Sit down now! Guests are at the door, the chimes are an hour away!

I have no guests, Emily replied calmly. I have two strangers in this house: one who hates me, and one who doesnt give a toss. Happy New Year to you both.

She turned and headed for the front door.

Emily! Emily, stop! Victor lunged, toppling a chair, and chased after her. Are you mad? Its night out there! Where are you going?

To someone who values me.

She flung the door open.

If you walk out now, Victor shouted, his voice trembling with fear and anger, Mum will be utterly hurt! Youll break the family!

The family broke when you let her trample over me, Emily said, slamming the door shut.

Snow fell softly, a gentle blanket covering the street. The world was quiet, save for distant fireworks. Emily breathed in the crisp air; it didnt chill her. It felt freeing.

She dialled her friend Sarah.

Sarah, you awake?

Emma? Whats up? Were in the middle of a party! Need a shout?

Can I come over? Right now.

A pause, then Sarahs tone turned serious. Whats happened? Did Victor?

Ive left. Probably for good. Im standing by the lift.

Im waiting! Get here quick! Bring your coat, weve got mulled wine, a massive pilaf, and bottles of prosecco! You know the code?

I do.

Emily flagged a cab. The fare was steep New Years night always is but she didnt mind. When the bright yellow cab pulled up, she slipped into the back seat and, for the first time all day, let herself grin.

Sarahs flat was noisy, cramped, and warm with a homely vibe. The hallway smelled of mandarins and rice. Sarah, in a goofy reindeer sweater, hugged her so hard her bones cracked.

Come in, love! Youre freezing! Michael, pour another, will you?

Sarahs husband Michael, their kids, a Labrador, and a couple of friends crowded the living room. No one sat at a table with stonecold faces; everyone moved, laughed, music played. The table was simple paper napkins, a huge pot of pilaf, stacks of toast with caviar, a bucket of mandarins.

Emma, perfect timing! Were about to make wishes! Michael shouted. Sit down!

Sarah handed her a glass, a steaming plate of pilaf.

Eat! You must be starving, she whispered. You never let a crumb fall when youre cooking, do you?

Emma took a bite. The pilaf was divine no sanitary standards or juniper, just honest, loving flavour.

When the clock struck midnight and everyone shouted Happy New Year! Emma gave Sarah a quick rundown of the goose, the salad, the headscarf shed been forced to wear, and Victors silence.

Ugh, what a wretch, Sarah sighed. And that mum of yours a proper witch. You did right walking out. Dont waste your life on them. Youre stunning, clever; youll find a decent bloke wholl carry you and actually love his mother.

Emmas phone, on silent, lit up like a Christmas tree. Twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Mum, WhatsApp blips: Emma, wheres the corkscrew?, Emma, where are the napkins?, Mums blood pressures through the roof!, You selfish, how could you ditch us on a holiday!. She read them and laughed, a hysterical, liberating laugh.

The corkscrew they cant find, she muttered, wiping tears. Two grown adults cant open a bottle of wine and locate a napkin. Pathetic.

Forget it, Sarah snatched the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!

They danced until three in the morning. Emma forgot her aching back, the lingering grudges, the cold winter. She felt alive.

The next morning, January first, she woke on Sarahs sofa. Her head throbbed, but her spirit was buoyant. She knew she had to go home not to apologise, but to close the chapter.

She arrived at the flat around noon. The hallway was dark, reeking of stale smoke and burnt toast. The corkscrew they’d been hunting for lay on the floor.

The living room was a mess. The table was strewn with leftovers; the goose sat untouched, one wing missing. Victor lay on the couch, a pillow under his head, the motherinlaw nowhere in sight; the guest room door was shut.

Emma stomped into the kitchen, heels clacking, flung the window open, letting the icy air rush in. The coffee grinder whirred like a cannon blast in the quiet.

Victor shuffled in, looking dishevelled, guilty yet defensive.

Whats this, Emma? he croaked. Thanks for the celebration. Mum spent the night on sedatives.

Youre welcome, Emma said, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?

We didnt eat it. No appetite. Emma, do you realise what youve done? Youve embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes now thinking of leaving. She says her feet wont stay here.

Thats the best news of the year, Victor, Emma replied.

Youre a stranger now. Cold.

Im myself, Victor. I wont be a convenient housewife any longer. I want to be happy.

At that moment the guestroom door swung open and Margaret stormed in, hand over her heart, a damp towel on her forehead.

Look whos back! she cried. Youve returned after making my mother have a heart attack! Victor, Im calling a cab. I cant stay in the same room as that woman. Shes a monster!

Margaret, Emma said, meeting her eyes, a cab is a fine idea. Just please take with you all your recipes, advice, and complaints. Next time, only come here if invited, and behave like a guest, not a health inspector, or the door stays shut.

Margaret opened her mouth, gasping like a fish.

Victor! Do you hear? Shes kicking me out!

Victor glanced at Emma, who stood by the window, bathed in winter sunlight, calm and untouchable. He recalled the previous night: the mothers nagging, the terrible cold dinner, the feeling that something vital had been lostShe stepped out into the snow, the cold wind sealing the past behind her, and whispered that the new year would belong to the life she finally chose for herself.