Mother-in-law Helped Herself to My Gourmet Foods from the Fridge—Stuffing Them All into Her Bag Before Saying Goodbye

The mother-in-law slipped the delicacies from my fridge into her handbag before heading home.

“Are you sure we need all this sliced meat? This is smoked ham, Mary, it’s as pricey as a round of drinks at The Ritz,” Tom turned the vacuum-packed hunk of meat over in his hands, staring at the label as if it were a tombstone.

Mary didn’t pause, setting her shopping bags on the kitchen table. Shiny red peppers gleamed next to a pot of caviar with a golden lid, a solid wedge of mature cheddar, bottles of burgundy and sauvignon lined up. The kitchen was thick with the aroma of fresh sourdough and smoked meats.

“Tom, it’s your birthday,” she replied evenly, slotting milk into the fridge. “Thirty-five. Your mates are coming, your mother will be here. Do you really want to serve just boiled spuds and supermarket mackerel? I got a good bonus at work, just once in a year I’d like to throw a proper spread without being embarrassed.”

“I wouldn’t be embarrassed with just potatoes,” Tom grumbled, but didn’t put the ham away, instead nestling it at the back of the fridge. “Mum will just start on about us throwing money away. You know how she is: ‘You should’ve saved it, paid the mortgage off early.'”

“She’ll complain anyway,” Mary sighed, pulling out a salad bowl. “We buy the posh stuff we’re spendthrifts. We buy basics we’re tight, feeding her son rubbish. I stopped caring what Susan Parker thinks ages ago. I just want you and our guests to enjoy themselves. And I hunted for this prosciutto for ages its exactly what you had in Spain that time. Remember?”

Tom smiled, his face softening. “I do. It was gorgeous. Youre right, lets just go big tonight. But maybe lets take off the price tags so Mum doesnt faint in horror.”

Preparations for the party were in full swing. Mary loved cooking, but only when nobody hovered. Today, of course, Susan Parker had promised to arrive early, “to help the girl.” That phrase always set Marys eyelid twitching. Susans help consisted of perching on the best chair, blocking the way, issuing ‘valuable’ advice, critiquing everything, from how Mary sliced onions to the colour of the curtains.

The doorbell sounded, precisely at two. Tom went to open the door. Mary, taking a deep breath, forced on the obligatory smile.

“And theres the birthday boy!” Susan boomed, filling the hall with her voice. “Give your mum a kiss, love! Youve lost weight, you look all skin and bone. Well, you wont plump up if you live off frozen pies, will you?”

“Mum, what frozen pies? Mary cooks brilliantly,” Tom tried to defend, helping Susan with her heavy wool coat.

“Oh, dont argue! I can see for myself, your eyes have sunk in. Hello, Mary!”

She swept into the kitchen like HMS Queen Elizabeth into Portsmouth. As always, she bore her cavernous shopping bag.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Parker, lovely to see you. Come through, the kettles just boiled.”

“Tea later,” Susan waved her off, parking her bag on a stool. “I brought some treats for you two. I know you youngsters, your fridge is always bare as a church mouse.”

She began laying out her offerings: a two-litre jar of homemade pickled onions in cloudy brine, a sack of bruised apples from her allotment, a tattered bag of old toffees, probably relics from the Jubilee.

“Here, proper onions, none of that chemical stuff,” she declared. “The apples are full of vitamins. Snip off the bruises, make a crumble. Waste not, want not.”

“Thank you,” Mary nodded, avoiding the brine. “Well try them soon.”

But Susan was already at the fridge her customary ritual, framed as “checking for space,” though Mary knew: it was her inspection.

“My word” Susan gasped, spotting the array of treats. “Caviar? Red caviar? Two pots? Tom, did you strike oil? Or did Mary rob a bank?”

“Got a bonus, Mum,” Tom muttered, swiping some cheese from the board.

“A bonus, hmm…” Susan pursed her lips. “Of course. Instead of helping your mother, with her fence collapsing at the allotment, youd rather fish for caviar. Well, its your business. Im a simple person, dont need much.”

She slammed the fridge shut, camped herself on her favourite seat, blocking access to the sink.

“Lets see what youve made, Mary. Ill just sit a spell. My feet are killing me, blood pressure’s through the roof, but I came anyway. Had to be here for my son’s birthday. Showed true grit, I did.”

The next three hours went as usual. Mary darted between stove and worktop, slicing, mixing, roasting, while Susan offered commentary on each move.

“Too much mayo. Bad for you.”
“Why buy such expensive bread? Tescos basic is just as good, half the price.”
“You didnt tenderise the meat enough, it’ll be tough.”

Mary didnt respond. She let her mind drift into white noise, letting Susan’s monologue wash past. Survival till evening was all that mattered.

By six, Toms friends arrived, boisterous and full of banter, filling the flat with laughter and the scent of aftershave. The table groaned beneath roast pork, aubergine rolls stuffed with nuts, caviar canapés, the special smoked ham and assorted cheeses, salads, and hot dishes.

Once everyone was seated and the first toast for Toms health was raised, Susan Parker took the spotlight.

“Tommy, love,” she began, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I remember when you were born. Such agony, two days solid”

Guests politely endured the fifteenth retelling of Tom’s birth. Mary took the opportunity to serve herself some salad.

“And now youre grown, married Well, as it happened, it happened,” she shot Mary a glance. “Main thing is, youre happy. Foods not important. Marys gone all out, threw money at posh stuff. Id have done a humbler table, more heart. But these days, everyone shows off.”

She speared a massive chunk of smoked eel, bought from a specialist fishmonger at eye-watering expense, and popped it in her mouth.

“Mm,” she chewed, loud. “Fish is fish. Quite salty, quite fatty. In my day sprats were tastier.”

Yet, despite her complaints, Susan ate voraciously. The feast disappeared quickly from her plate. Ham vanished as if down a black hole. Canapés went the way of popcorn, with her muttering:

“Odd, the caviar’s tiny. Probably fake! Can’t get real stuff these days. Show me the jar later, Mary, Ill check the ingredients. Dont want us poisoned.”

Mary only smiled and kept pouring the wine. She saw Tom blush but remain silent he never challenged his mother in public, or in private.

The evening rolled on. The friends praised the food, especially the fish and meats, cracked jokes and reminisced about uni days. Susan sprinkled her woes about pensioner life and ungrateful children, but the chatter drowned her out.

By ten, guests began departing. Work tomorrow, plus a hefty meal behind them.

“Mary, youre a magician!” said Pete, Toms best mate, giving her a warm handshake at the door. “That eel knockout. Thanks a million!”

“So glad you liked it,” she smiled sincerely.

After the last guest left, the flat grew silent, broken only by plates clattering as Susan began clearing the table.

“Ill help tidy up, or youll be here all night,” she announced. “Tom, take the rubbish out, bins are full. Mary, get the containers for the leftovers.”

Mary felt exhaustion blanket her. Her head throbbed.

“Mrs Parker, it’s fine, Ill do it all. You rest, should I call you a taxi?”

“Taxi? What for? Just throwing away money! The bus is still running. Dont argue, Ill help. You look done in, pale as a ghost. Go splash your face, take a pill. Ill be done quickly.”

Mary truly did feel rough the migraine rising with nausea.

“Alright,” she conceded. “Five minutes. Tom will walk you to the stop when he gets back.”

She retreated to the bedroom, found headache tablets, then splashed cool water on her face in the bathroom. The din in her ears subsided a little. “I cant leave her in the kitchen,” she thought. “Shell wash the dishes with my face cream, or rearrange all the pans.”

Mary tiptoed back, her slippers silent, pausing at the kitchen doorand stopped dead.

Susan Parker stood with her back to Mary, rummaging inside the fridge. On the stool beside her sat her cavernous bag. Susan worked quickly, deftly.

She scooped up the leftover meat platterstill enough ham, roast pork, smoked sausagedumping it all in an old plastic bag, tying it off and dropping it into her bags depths.

Mary blinked. Was she seeing things? No.

Susan reached into the fridge, pulled out the container of smoked salmon Mary had saved for breakfast a thick chunk, easily enough for two. Bag handbag.

Half a leftover homemade Victoria sponge joined it, the box discarded in favour of a hasty wrap in foil, flattening the pillowy cake layers.

“Lets see whats left” Susan muttered. “Cheese. Bit of cheddar. Well, theyll just let it go dry.”

The expensive slab of mature cheddar, worth a pretty penny, landed in the bag. In went a jar of olives and to Marys horror a nearly full bottle of fine brandy, Toms birthday present from colleagues, which nobody had touched.

Mary stood leaning on the doorway, frozen. Scream? Cause a scene? Accuse her of stealing? She couldn’t make herself call her husband’s mother a thief yet thats exactly what she was.

Then the front door banged Tom was back.

“Brr, it’s freezing outside,” he called. “Ready, Mum? Not taking my jacket off, Ill see you to the stop.”

Susan jumped, snapped the bag shut and turned. Seeing Mary in the doorway, a flicker of discomfort flashed in her face then disappeared.

“Oh, Mary, youre back? Im just tidying up, helping out. Toms here? Good! Im leaving.”

She heaved her bag, which now seemed to weigh a ton.

“Mum, let me help whatve you got in there, bricks?” Tom peered into the kitchen.

“Dont touch!” Susan yelped, clutching the bag to her chest. “Ill manage. Just empty jars I brought I transferred my onions, took the jars back. Personal things. Leave them alone!”

Mary glanced at Tom. He looked at Susan, baffled.

“Mum, what jars? You only brought one, and its still full on the windowsill.”

“Other jars! Why are you going on? I want to go home! I slaved all day for you!”

Mary stepped forward, now icy calm.

“Mrs Parker,” she said quietly but clearly. “Please, set your bag on the table.”

“What?” Susan’s eyes bulged. “How dare you? You want to search me now? Tom, did you hearyour wife thinks Im a thief!”

“Mary, what are you?” Tom glanced between them, confused.

“Tom,” Mary interrupted, never taking her eyes off Susan. “In that bag is our breakfast. And lunch. And dinner for the next two days. Theres the salmon I paid fifty quid for. Your favourite ham. The brandy you were gifted. And cake.”

“Youre talking nonsense!” Susan shouted, backing towards the door. “How could you say such a thing? Im a retired teacher, Ive never taken a crumb that wasn’t mine! Choke on your own food!”

She tried to dash past Tom, but the bag caught the tables edge. The handles snapped under the weight of ’empty jars’, and everything spilled out onto the kitchen floor.

The scene was pure theatre.

Sausages spread across the linoleum. The bag of salmon untied, a greasy chunk slapped down on Toms slipper. The foil unfolded, exposing the squashed Victoria sponge, brandy bottle rattling but not smashing. Cheddar and a handful of toffees rolled on top.

The silence was absolute interrupted only by the fridge humming and Susans heavy breathing.

Tom stared at the scattered food, then at the eel lying on his foot, then at his now lobster-red mother. His face slowly changed: first confusion, then realisation, then deep, sticky shame.

“Mum?” he croaked. “Whats this?”

Susan straightened, switching to attack.

“So what? Yes, I took it! Youve got more than enough! Youd just throw it out! Spoilt, the lot of you, fridge bursting while your mother scrapes by on a pension! Ive only seen ham like this on telly! Am I not allowed a proper meal, after raising you, pausing my life for you and now you begrudge me some sausage?”

Mary waited for Tom’s response. This was the moment of truth. He usually just placated: “Take it, Mum, of course, its no bother,” just to avoid an argument.

Tom slowly picked up the chunk of salmon, placed it on the table, retrieved the brandy.

“Mum,” he said, very quietly. “It isnt the sausage. If youd asked, wed have packed a bag for you we always do.”

“So I’m supposed to beg? As your own mother? You ought to offer without asking! Selfish!”

“You never asked,” Tom shook his head. “Instead, you waited for Mary to leave and shoved everything in your bag. Likelike a sneak thief.”

“How dare you!” Susan clutched her chest. “Im fainting! Heart medicine! Youll be the death of me!”

“Enough theatrics, Mrs Parker,” Mary said coldly. “Your heart pills are in your left coat pocket. I saw when you took it off.”

Susan froze curtain dropped on her grand performance.

“Tom,” Mary addressed him, “Put everything back in a bag, please.”

“Why?” he frowned.

“Give it all to Mum. Let her have it.”

“Mary?” Tom was taken aback.

“Let her take it,” Mary repeated, steely. “The salmons been on the floor, I wont eat it. Cakes destroyed. Sausage too. Let her have the lot. Thats your birthday gift, and payment for her not coming here for a month.”

Susan stood gasping, like a stranded fish.

Tom silently bagged everything salmon, cheddar, crushed cake. He left the brandy on the table.

“Well keep the brandy,” he said. “I need a drink more than ever.”

He handed the bag to his mother.

“Take it, Mum. Please leave. Ive called you a taxi while you were yelling here in two minutes.”

“Yourekicking me out? Your own mother? Over food?”

“Over lying, Mum. And disrespect. For my home and my wife.”

Susan snatched the bag, eyes brimming with hot tears.

“I wont step foot here again! Live as you please, you stuck-up pair! May that sausage stick in your throat!”

She whirled and stormed down the hall. The door slammed so hard, plaster dust fell.

Mary sank into a chair, face buried in her hands, shaking.

Tom fetched two glasses, splashed them both with brandy, put one before Mary.

“Drink,” he murmured. “You need it.”

Mary looked up. Tom looked a decade older. He sat across from her and squeezed her hand.

“Im sorry, Maz.”

“For what? You didnt know.”

“For not seeing it before. For letting her act like that. I always thought, shes Mum, shes eccentric, but kindhearted. Now I feel ashamed. Like I was the one stealing that blasted sausage.”

Mary sipped the brandy. It burned, but brought strange comfort.

“Funny thing,” she said, smiling bitterly, “I actually bought an extra stick of salami and a chunk of cheddar, just for her to take home. They’re sitting in the crisper drawer. She just didnt find them.”

Tom gave a half-hysterical laugh.

“Really?”

“Really. I knew shed moan about poverty. Wanted to just do it kindly.”

“Guess kindness doesnt quite work with her,” he drained his brandy. “You know what? Tomorrow, Im changing the locks. Shes got a key she begged off us ‘for emergencies.’ I dont want to come home one day to find the TV gone because ‘Vera from next door has a bigger screen.'”

Mary stared at Tom, respect growing. For the first time in seven years, he spoke of his mother without excuse or guilt. The whole disaster with the food had finally broken even his patience.

“So what will we eat tomorrow?” Mary eyed the bare table. “She took nearly everything.”

Tom opened the fridge.

“There’s still a pot of caviar. The second one she missed it. Eggs and milk, too. So, caviar omelette. Like lords.”

Mary laughed, tension finally draining away.

“And those bruised apples are still here,” she noted. “Could make a crumble.”

“Or they go in the bin,” Tom pulled a face. “The pickled onions too. Had enough of her ‘humanitarian aid.'”

They sat long into the night, finishing the brandy and talking about things neglected for years: boundaries, and how loving your parents doesnt mean letting them walk all over you; that family, first and foremost, meant the two of them.

In the morning, Mary woke to the scent of coffee. Tom was already busy in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he kissed her head. “I was thinking that bonus from work, still got some left?”

“A bit. Why?”

“Lets get away this weekend? Country manor, or just to Bath for a couple of days. Switch off our phones.”

“What about Mum? Shell call and tell every relative how we mistreated her.”

“Let her. Thats her choice. Our choice is an omelette with caviar. Breakfast is ready.”

Mary gazed at the plate, fluffy yellow omelette studded with red caviar and thought, this might be the tastiest breakfast ever. Not for the extravagance, but for the absence of guilt and claims.

Susan Parker did call two days later. Tom saw her name, sighed, and turned his phone face down.

“Youre not answering?” Mary asked.

“Nope. Let her eat her sausage and calm down. Maybe in a month. Right now, Ive got better things to do Im taking my wife to the cinema.”

Mary smiled and went to get dressed. The fridge was bare, but her heart was astonishingly light. And that feeling was worth all the missing treats in the world.