The Awkward Daughter-in-Law

– Emily, did you even read the list? I gave it to you, its all written down, – Margaret sounded as if she was talking to someone who couldnt really grasp things. – It says: jellied stock out of three sorts of meat. Three. Not two, not one. Three.

– I read it, Margaret, I just wanted to talk about that in particular. The partys a week away, and I thought…

– You thought. – Her mother-in-law let thought hang in the air like a warning. – Im telling you: three-meat jellied stock, pies with cabbage and mushrooms, poached salmon, Mimosa salad, potato salad, that one with crabsticks, stuffed eggs, pancakes with sour cream, duck with Bramley apples, potato roulades, cottage cheese bake, a layered sponge cake, and that Angels Delight cake. Thats the bare minimum, Emily. Forty people are coming.

Emily kept hold of the phone. Outside the window, November sleet slunk steadily down, just as heavy and out of place as this conversation.

– Understood, Margaret. Ill ring you later, alright?

– Best not delay. Theres no time before Saturday.

Emily set the phone down on the kitchen table and just sat, staring at it. The list, written in Margarets unmistakable, demanding handwriting, lay there pinned under the salt cellar. Emily picked it up and read it again. Fourteen items. By each, a note: homemade, not from a shop, like last time, only better.

Like last time. Last time was her sister-in-law Lauras fifth wedding anniversary. Emily had started prepping three days in advance. She barely slept. By the second night her legs went numb, her hands were cracked from endless washing of pans and boards. In those days, Tom would arrive home, grab something straight off the stove and head for a football match on the telly. Once hed offered a hand. Emily had said, No, Im alright. He nodded, left the kitchen. Pleasant enough, no resentment. He just went and that was that.

At the party itself, Margaret sampled the jellied stock, called Emily over and whispered, with barely any inflection, Bit too much salt. Then nothing more. Not a single comment for the rest of the night. The guests loved the food, asked for seconds, one or two claimed there hadnt been such good pies in ages. Margaret just nodded: We do have our traditions. She didnt mention Emily at all.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table in their flat on Spencer Road, where she and Tom had lived for nineteen years, Emily considered how tradition had a very particular meaning for Margaret. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: the daughter-in-law tidies. Tradition: shes grateful to have a seat at the table.

Her phone vibrated. Laura.

– Em, did you talk to Mum? She said you seemed a bit odd.

– I was fine. Just tired.

– Well, you see. The big birthdays next week, we should start buying. I could come to Tescos with you on Wednesday, help with bags. – Pause. – Mind you, not Wednesday, Ive a manicure. Thursday?

– Laura, Ill manage the shop myself.

– Alright. Just, Mum really wants the duck done with Bramleys, not another sort. Bramleys are sharp, you know that.

– I know.

– And the jellied stock needs to be clear. Last time it was a bit cloudy.

Emily closed her eyes. Clear jellied stock with three meats. Bramleys for the duck. Two cakes. Forty people.

– Fine, Laura. I heard you.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and stood up. She had to start dinner. Tom would be in at seven, hungry, and if dinner wasnt ready, thered be that long, puzzled look and: Nothing cooked today? Not a complaint, just genuine confusion, like someone waiting for a bus that never shows.

Emily opened the fridge. Out came a chicken, an onion, a carrot. Saucepan on the hob. Her movements were automatic. Nineteen years of the same routines.

Shed met Tom at twenty-six. He was funny, told a good story, made everyone laugh. At the very first meeting Margaret said, Youre clever, Emily, its obvious. Emily thought it was a compliment. Later she realised clever actually meant she didnt cause trouble.

She married at twenty-eight. The first year was fine. Then Ben was born. Then Ben grew up and moved to university in another city. And now it was just this: the flat, the kitchen, the list on a sheet of lined paper.

The stock began to boil. Emily turned down the heat and went into the lounge. She wanted to ring her mum, just to hear her voice, but her phone was already ringing.

It was her mum.

– Em, – her mums voice was quiet, but there was something in it that sank straight to Emilys stomach, cold and sharp. – Can you come over today?

– Whats happened?

– Your dads not well. The ambulance has come. Were at the hospital now.

Emily was already putting on her coat before she remembered the stock. She went back, turned off the gas, texted Tom a quick: Dads poorly, gone to my parents. Dinners on the hob. Grabbed her bag and left.

It was dark and wet outside. She hailed a cab and spent the journey watching the smeary glow of oncoming headlights. Peter, her dad. Seventy-two and heart as strong as an ox, never complained once. He liked to say, Whats the use in complaining? Ill see you all out. Shed half believed him. She desperately wanted it to be true.

The hospital smelt of disinfectant, had those endless white corridors. Her mum was by a window in A&E, little, still in her coat clutching her bag.

– Mum.

Her mother turned. Eyes dry but something so raw in her face that Emilys throat tightened.

– They say his blood pressures sky high. And something isnt right in his head. He just collapsed in the hall. Id just stepped out of the kitchen, and there he was, on the floor.

– Hows he now?

– Theyre running tests. We have to wait.

They waited on hard plastic chairs. Her mum held her hand, small and cool. Emily kept thinking it had been nearly three weeks since shed last visited her parents. There was never time. Always shopping, cleaning, cooking, menu discussions with Margaret.

An hour and a half later, the doctor came out. Young, tired, with glasses.

– Weve stabilised him, – he said. – Might be a minor stroke. We need more tests, monitoring. At least a week here.

– Is he going to be ok? – her mum asked.

– Well see. Too early to tell.

Emily took her mum home, made tea, sat until her mum dozed off in her chair. Then Emily sat up in her childhood kitchen and listened to the soft, familiar silence. Her mums geraniums on the sill, the ones that never needed reminding to flower. On the wall, a photo little Emily, maybe seven, holding her dads hand and looking away, her dad looking at her.

She got home after midnight.

Tom was awake, on his phone, but put it down when she came in.

– How is he?

– Not great. They think its a minor stroke.

– Serious, – he said. He was quiet, then added, – You eaten?

– No.

– Theres chicken in the pot, I heated it up. Get yourself some.

Emily did. She ate standing at the sink. She hadnt the energy to lay the table. Then she went to bed. She didnt sleep for ages, just stared at the ceiling, thinking about her fathers face, her mothers hands, the particular scent of their kitchen.

In the morning, Margaret rang.

– Emily, I heard you went out last night. Tom said its your father? I trust you realise the party is in six days?

– Margaret, dads in hospital.

– I heard. But the hospitals near, isnt it? Youre not an in-patient. When are you planning on starting the cooking?

Something inside Emily went very slow, very sharp. Like water that has stopped running and now is just still.

– I I actually dont know.

– What do you mean dont know? – Margarets outrage was genuine, shocked at the unexpected, – Emily, its my seventieth! Thats only once in a lifetime. Do you understand?

– I do. But my dad hes only one person too.

Silence.

– Well, – Margaret eventually said, – Im sure youll manage everything. No need to actually be by his bedside all the time. You visit, then youre free.

Emily said nothing. She said goodbye and hung up.

Tom was in the kitchen with a coffee. He looked up.

– Mum call?

– Yes.

– And?

– She asked about the food.

He nodded, sipped his coffee, then said, – Look, Em, it is her big birthday. You see, right? Forty people. We cant exactly cancel now.

– Im not saying cancel.

– Well then. Youll manage. Visit your dad, sure, of course. But you could do the cooking too, couldnt you?

Emily looked at him. He was back to his phone, forehead faintly crinkled not by anything shed said, but by something on the screen.

– Tom, what if it was your mum in hospital?

He looked up.

– Whats that got to do with

– Nothing, just a question.

– Thats different.

– Why?

– Because its my mum, – he said it as if it explained everything.

Emily got dressed and went to the hospital.

Her dad was sharing a ward. He was asleep when she arrived, and her heart clenched at that. A nurse said he was just napping. Emily sat beside him, studied his face. The wrinkles, the greying stubble, big hands on the covers with knotted fingers. Those hands had carved her wooden birds when she was little. Those hands had once caught her when she fell off her bike.

He woke, saw her, managed a cautious smile, as though unsure he wasnt still dreaming.

– You came, – voice faint, not his. Usually, he had a street-shouting kind of voice.

– Of course I did. How are you?

– Oh, alright. Bit dizzy. Nothing much.

– Not nothing, Dad.

– Well, – he shrugged, as much as he could lying down. – Well see.

She sat for two hours with him. Afterwards, she rang her mum: Dads awake, hes talking. Her mum said, Oh thank God, and Emily had to swallow down tears.

She took the bus home, staring at the steamed-up window. She thought: right now, this is what matters. Dad in hospital, mum at home alone. Thats important. Margarets list, the cakes, the ducks and jellied stock – that doesnt matter, not in the least. The thought was so obvious, she almost wondered why she hadnt allowed herself to believe it before.

Tom came home in a good mood that night, with bread from M&S, chatting about work. Emily nodded along and then said:

– Tom, Im not cooking for the party.

He stopped, glass in hand.

– Not cooking?

– Not cooking. Dads in hospital. Mum needs help. I cant spend three days in the kitchen.

– Emily. – He used her full name, only ever did that when annoyed. – There are forty guests. Mum wants people round. Its her birthday.

– My fathers had a stroke.

– I know. Its serious. But there are doctors there all the time. Doesnt mean you have to be at his bedside non-stop.

– No. It means Im not making twelve dishes for forty people while my dads in hospital.

He started to pace the kitchen.

– You realise Mum cant just cancel? Shes already invited everyone. Lauras already told them all.

– Get catering in.

– Catering? – He looked at her like shed sworn. – Mum wants homemade. You know what shes like.

– I do, – said Emily. – All too well.

He stared at her. There was something there she couldnt name. Not anger. Something closer to the confusion of someone whose favourite gadget just stopped working.

– Em, think about it. Its just once. Yes, Dads in hospital, but youre still visiting every day. But you could do the cooking too?

– No.

– No?

– No, Tom.

He left for the lounge. A few minutes later, Laura called.

– Emily, whats this Im hearing? Tom says youre refusing to cook? There are forty guests, you realise?

– I do.

– Its Mums seventieth! Doesnt that count for anything?

– It does. And my dad being so ill counts too.

– But the party cant be moved!

– Laura, – said Emily, – you can order food, or make it yourselves. I can send you recipes.

Silence. Then:

– We dont know how to make all that.

– Youll learn.

She put the phone down. Her hands didnt shake, which surprised her. Shed expected fear. Or guilt. But she felt the same clear, still calm that had arrived that morning.

The next day, back at the hospital, Dad was a bit better. Sat up, ate sloppy porridge, wrinkled his nose, but ate. They feed us as if its nursery school, he grumbled. Emily laughed. She brought him homemade broth in a flask, her mums recipe, and he finished it all. Thats more like it.

Later, she and her mum sat in the little kitchen. Old curtains with faded flowers, a fridge with a wobbly handle. The air smelt of bread and the dried mint her mum gathered every summer on the allotment. Emily thought: this smell shes known her whole life. This was hers. Not the smell of someone elses kitchen where she toils for three days, makes food thats never recognised.

– Are you ok, Em? – her mum asked.

– Managing.

– And Tom? Anything up?

– His mums birthday. Saturday.

– Will you go?

– Maybe. But Im not cooking.

Her mum was quiet, then asked softly, as if shed held the thought for ages:

– Emily, are you happy there?

Emily looked at her.

– What do you mean?

– I just see youre always tired, always in a rush. Never seem at ease. Even now, you keep glancing at your phone.

Emily looked at her phone. It was true.

– Habit.

– I understand, – said her mum, and poured more tea.

On Wednesday Margaret rang. Her voice was oddly brittle, the tone she reserved for real dramas.

– Emily, lets speak as adults.

– Im listening, Margaret.

– I do feel sorry about your father. I do, honestly. But you see, Ive waited twenty years for this birthday. Im seventy. There wont be another.

Emily said nothing.

– Im not telling you to abandon your dad, – Margaret pushed on, – Just do what youre good at. Youre the best cook. You know you are. Thats your way of contributing to the family, isnt it?

– Margaret, – Emily said slowly, – I realised this week that my contribution to this family isnt jellied stock or pies. My dad is in hospital, and I want to be with him.

– So be with him. Whats stopping you? Visit in the morning, cook in the evening. Im not asking the impossible.

– For you, not impossible. For me – it is. I cant pretend everythings alright when it isnt.

Long pause.

– Youve always been a little difficult, – Margaret finally concluded. Not meanly, just stating a fact, like the weather.

– Perhaps.

– Tom is very upset.

– I know.

– He says youve changed.

– Maybe I have.

She said her goodbyes and hung up. Her hands were steady.

Thursday morning, Emily packed a small bag. Fresh clothes, charger, toiletries, passport. She hadnt really thought about it she just did it. Sent Ben a text: Grandads doing better. Im staying at your grandparents for a few days. All fine. Ben replied: Mum, Ill call tonight. Are you sure youre ok? She sent back: Promise. Love you.

When Tom left for work, she left a note on the kitchen table. Just: Ill be at my parents. Will ring.

She stood a moment in their kitchen. Nineteen years. That table. That oven. That particular sad, borrowed morning smell.

She shut the door, ran down the stairs, and out.

No more snow. Cold and clear. The sky over town was that blue-grey you only get in late autumn. Emily walked to the bus stop and thought, nineteen years. Half her life. And for half her life, shed quietly accepted whatever scraps were offered. Never more.

Home, she was greeted by mint and a warm glow in the hallway. Her mum opened the door, saw the bag and didnt ask, just stepped aside and hugged her tightly. Emily stood there feeling something inside that had been crumpled and tight start to uncurl.

– Are you staying? – her mum asked.

– For a few days. If thats alright.

– What dyou mean, if? – her mum gave her a reproachful look. – This is your home.

She stayed four days. Each morning she and her mum went to the hospital. Dad improved slowly. Chatting more, grumbling at his drip, demanding proper food. Doctor had hope; rehab would come. Emily slept long for the first time in years, no alarm, no obligations. Ate plain food her mums food. Stew, shepherds pie, spiced apple crumble from Bramleys her mum had brought home in September. Simple stuff, but it made Emilys eyes prickle.

– You alright? – her mum asked when she saw.

– Delicious, thats all.

Her mum nodded, knowing not to push.

Tom rang. First time Friday evening, tense voice.

– Any idea when youre coming back?

– Not yet.

– Em, the partys tomorrow. All the familyll be there.

– I know.

– Mums panicking. Lauras trying to cook, its burning.

– Get the food delivered. I said before.

– You know Mums upset?

– I do. Im sorry too. But Im staying.

Long pause.

– Youve changed, – he said. Almost what Margaret had said, but with more confusion than blame.

– Maybe I have.

She didnt go to the party.

That morning she delivered broth and a bun to her dad, who smiled, praised the bun, joked hed soon be home and have to take charge of the kitchen. Her mum laughed: Well see about that! Emily just listened to their teasing, which was really the familiar banter of two people completely themselves together. Both well into their seventies and still managed this.

Saturday, she sat reading in her old armchair. Not really reading, just holding the book. Her mum sat knitting opposite. The evening snow fell quietly, properly, December snow. The phone buzzed a few times: Laura texted, It was a disaster, guests came, barely any food, mortifying. Margaret said nothing. Tom texted a single word: Well?

Emily put her phone aside and picked up her book.

Tom and Emilys talk happened days later when she came back, mainly to pick up said things, documents, all the bits of her life. Her dad was in a shared ward by then, steadily improving, and her mum was coping.

Tom was in the kitchen. Something about him had changed in her absence, as if old routines had shifted for him too.

– Can we talk? he asked.

– We can.

They spoke for ages. Not a row, just spoke. For the first time in years, actually spoke not him about work, her about dinner. Emily told him she was exhausted, tired of being just a function. Nineteen years of being handy, never quite knowing how much it had cost her. Tom listened. Now and then hed try to explain: he never thought it was her job, things just drifted that way, his mum had always organised things. Emily didnt argue. She just explained how it looked to her.

– Are you after a divorce? he asked eventually. Quite calm.

She paused.

– I want my life to look different, – she said. – What that means, Im not sure.

He nodded, poured himself some water.

– Ill ring Ben.

– Good.

Ben arrived two weeks later, unannounced, big bag in hand, his face with that serious-little-boy expression he always got during important chats.

– Mum, you ok?

– I am, Ben. Honestly.

– Dad said its complicated.

– No, Ben its honest. Thats the word.

He stayed three days. They talked a lot. He got a bit cross, first at her then at his dad, then calmed, then just stayed near. When he left, he gave her a hug at the door and said, You dont look tired for the first time in ages.

– That obvious?

– Very.

They sorted the paperwork with no fuss, no drama, like two people whod lived side by side, not really together, for years. Tom kept the Spencer Road flat. Emily packed her things a few boxes and stayed at her parents till she found somewhere new. Her mum never made a comment, just readied the spare room, put on fresh sheets, placed her old wooden bird on the bedside table, the one Dad had made. Emily saw it her first night. Picked it up. It was light and polished, all patterned with tiny knife marks.

Dad came home at the start of December. He walked in under his own steam, a bit slow, leaning on a stick, but walking. He paused on the doorstep and looked at Emily.

– There, he said. Were all home.

That Christmas, it was just four: Emily, her mum, her dad and Ben who came home specially. They decorated the tree, watched old comedies, had her mums potato salad, her cabbage pie. Simple, nothing fancy. Emily helped make it, standing beside her mum at the floured board, and she thought: this is what it means to cook for people. Not for a list, not for tradition for people you love.

By February shed found a simple flat a one-bed on the fifth floor, window looking out at a gentle cul-de-sac edged with silver birches. Basic, barely furnished, faint scent of paint and that new home emptiness. She stood with her boxes in the front room, then wandered over to the big window to gaze at the trees.

Laura rang once in March. Her voice was a mix of irritation and awkwardness, a weird blend.

– Em, how are you? Were all well, Mums worried, though shed never admit it, you know her.

– I do.

– And hows it all now?

– Fine, Laura. Just living.

– Could you maybe pop over now and then? For special occasions at least? Were a bit at sea here.

Emily smiled. Laura couldnt see, but she smiled anyway.

– Ill think about it, – she said. – See how things are.

– Right. To be fair, youre the only one who turns out a proper jellied stock. Weve tried, its always cloudy.

– Laura, Ill send you the recipe. The tricks to strain through a double layer of muslin. Give it a go.

– Really?

– Really. Its easy. You just have to try it yourself.

She texted the recipe. Laura replied with a surprised emoji, then left her in peace.

Her dad recovered slowly. By spring, hed ditched the stick, was grumbling at the doctors, demanding permission for the allotment. They said, Well see. He replied, Watch me. Off she took him in May, once the ground had warmed. She helped open up the shed, air it out. They sat on the verandah with enamel mugs and strong tea, bird cherry in full blossom behind them.

– Dad, – she said, – do you remember making me those little wooden birds?

– I do. You usually lost them.

– Not all of them. Ones still with me.

– I know, – he said. – Your mum told me. – He paused. – Youre doing well, Em.

– Whys that?

– Just are. – He set his cup on the rail, watching the birds. – Lifes long. Just so long as you dont waste it where you shouldnt.

She nodded. The bird cherry was thick with blossom, the air sweet and damp, quiet except for a distant cuckoo.

That spring, Emily returned to work. Shed been an accountant before but cut down in recent years: Margaret always insisted family came first, Tom never objected. Now she found a post at a small company calm people, manageable work. The routine was odd at first, then she found herself enjoying the days for what they were: hers.

Some weekends she visited her parents. Occasionally stayed over. She and her mum baked pies, not for a list, not for forty people just because. One pie, with whatever filling. Her dad sat in, offering advice nobody asked for. Her mum would tell him to let them get on with it. The little bird waited on her bedside, shades of sunlight on its wings.

One summer evening, Ben rang for a chat.

– Mum, hows things?

– Genuinely good, Ben. Really.

– Im happy for you, you know. Youre different now.

– Different?

– In a good way.

She laughed.

– How about you, Ben?

– Not bad. Bit busy with work, – he told her about his job, summer plans, maybe coming in August. She listened to his voice, gazing out her window. The birches outside in full leaf, everything smothered in green.

– Come visit, – she said. – Ill make stew.

– Your stew?

– The usual. Mums recipe.

– Theres none better, – Ben replied. – Its a deal.