‘Have the entire menu ready by five—it’s not like I’ll be slaving in the kitchen on my own anniversary,’ my mother-in-law demanded—but she lived to regret it

Margaret Whitmore woke that Saturday morning with the flutter of celebration in her chest. Sixty yearsa milestone worthy of pomp. Shed spent months plotting the day, drafting guest lists, deliberating over her dress. The mirror reflected the face of a woman accustomed to life bending to her will.

“Mum, happy birthday!” Andrew was first to appear in the kitchen, clutching a small velvet box. “From me and Emily.”

Emily offered a silent nod, cradling her coffee by the stove. Morningsespecially those involving her mother-in-laws festivitieswere not her time for chatter.

“Oh, Andrew, darling!” Margaret accepted the gift with theatrical delight. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, Mum, were fine,” he said, glancing at his wife.

Emily set her cup in the sink, steeling herself. Margaret had been in high spirits all week, which, paradoxically, only sharpened her commanding edge. As if joy granted her greater license to orchestrate everyones lives.

“Emily, love,” Margaret began in that saccharine tone that never preceded a requestonly a decree. “Ive a little task for you.”

Emily turned, schooling her face blank. Three years in this house had taught her to read her mother-in-laws inflections like a weather forecast.

“Heres the menu. Have it all ready by five. Its my jubilee, after allhardly my place to slave in the kitchen.” Margaret extended a crisply folded sheet, her cursive looping like barbed wire.

Emily skimmed the list. Twelve dishes. Twelve. From finger sandwiches to elaborate terrines.

“Margaret,” she ventured carefully, “this is a full days work.”

“Obviously!” Margaret laughed, as if Emily had remarked on the sky being blue. “What else would one do on such an occasion but cook for the guest of honour? You understandall my bridge clubs coming, the neighbours We cant exactly serve shop-bought slop, can we?”

Andrews gaze darted between them, tension thickening like custard.

“Mum, maybe we could order something in?” he offered weakly.

“Dont be absurd!” Margaret recoiled. “Feed my guests supermarket muck at my birthday? What would people think? No, it must be homemade. Prepared with love.”

Emily clenched her fists. Love. Yessomeone elses love. Hers, to be exact, while she minced and blanched and whisked her way through the day.

“Fine,” she said curtly, turning toward the hall.

“Em!” Andrew called after her. “Wait.”

She halted in the corridor, breathing hard. He approached, eyes downcast.

“Look, Id help, honestly, but you know Im hopeless in the kitchen. All thumbs.”

“Of course,” Emily smiled thinly. “And your mother treating me like staff is perfectly acceptable?”

“Dont be dramatic. Cooking for Mums birthday isnt so bad. She does so much for usletting us live here, never charging rent”

Emily studied him. She could remind him how Margaret endlessly held the house over her head, nitpicked her cleaning, critiqued her meals. How she never missed a chance to mention shed “welcomed a country mouse into the family,” as if bestowing divine favour. But what was the use? Andrew would never see it. To him, his mother was saintly; Emilys grievances, mere petulance.

“Right,” she said, and returned to the kitchen.

The hours dissolved in a blur of chopping, boiling, frying. Her hands moved mechanically while her mind churneduntil, mid-sauce, inspiration struck. The idea was so elegantly simple she nearly laughed aloud.

From the cupboard, she retrieved a small boxlaxatives, bought for herself months prior but never used. Mild action, the label promised. Effective within an hour.

She reviewed the menu. Salads, canapésall perfect vessels. The hot dishesroast beef with Yorkshire puddingsshed leave untouched. Theyd need something to eat, after all.

By five, the table groaned under silver platters. Margaret, resplendent in new silk and heirloom pearls, surveyed the spread like a general.

“Acceptable,” she conceded. “Though the coronation chicken couldve done with more seasoning.”

Emily said nothing, arranging cutlery. Inside, she hummed with anticipation.

Guests arrived precisely on the hour. Margaret embraced each, accepting gifts and flattery. Her bridge partnerswomen of equal grandeurfawned over the tableau.

“Margaret, youve outdone yourself!” trilled Patricia from number twelve. “Such artistry!”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Margaret demurred. “Emily lent a hand, though naturally, I oversaw everything.”

Emily, placing napkins, bit back a laugh. Lent a hand. Naturally.

“Andrew,” she murmured, “dont touch the starters. Wait for the roast.”

“Why?”

“Just wait.”

He shrugged but obeyed. Emily watched as guests piled their plates. Margaret held court, detailing her meticulous planning, her discerning ingredient selections.

“This trifle is my signature,” she boasted. “Great-grandmamas recipe.”

“Heavenly!” cooed Beatrice. “Youve the magic touch, darling!”

An hour passed. Emily checked the clock. Thenit began.

Patricia clutched her stomach first. “Oh dear,” she gasped. “I feel rather off”

“Me as well!” another chimed in. “Margaret, are you certain the prawns were fresh?”

Margaret paled. “Of course! I bought everything yesterday!”

Then it took her too. She excused herself hastily, guests queueing behind her like a conga line to the loo.

“Em,” Andrew hissed, “whats happening?”

“No idea,” she said evenly. “Lucky we skipped the starters.”

Chaos ensued. Guests vanished, reappeared, then fled with murmured apologies. Margaret ricocheted between hosting and the WC, but the party was unsalvageable.

By seven, only the three remained. Margaret sat shell-shocked on the sofa.

“Rest,” Emily said sweetly. “Well tidy.”

“What did you put in the food?” Margaret hissed when strength returned.

Emily carved the untouched roast. “Laxatives. Only in the cold dishes. The hots perfectly safe.”

Margaret opened her mouththen fled again.

“Emily!” Andrew groaned. “Was that necessary?”

“Was it ever,” she said. “Youve no idea how she treats me when youre not here. Half the jabs I dont even tell youknowing youd defend her. Mum means well, Mums generous, Mum took us in. Meanwhile, Im her scullery maid, and youre blind to it.”

Andrew chewed silently.

“Perhaps it was cruel,” she admitted. “But Im tired. Tired of being no one in this house. Today was her lesson. Maybe next time, shell think twice before dumping her labour on me and claiming credit.”

“But still”

“Still what? No one died. A few hours on the loo, and shell remember this for years.”

Remember she did. Post-birthday, Margaret softenednever warm, but the barbs dulled. No more edicts, no more chore-dumping.

Six months later, Andrew announced theyd bought a flat.

“Saved up the deposit,” he said at supper. “Time we stood on our own feet.”

Margaret stared. She hadnt expected this. But she only nodded.

“Quite right. Young birds need their own nest.”

Moving day, as they carried the last boxes, Margaret approached Emily.

“You know,” she said quietly, “perhaps I was unfair.”

Emily paused, arms full of crockery. “Perhaps. But it doesnt matter now.”

“No,” Margaret agreed. “Still that birthday. Rather inventive.”

They locked eyesand laughed. Properly, for the first time ever.

In their new flat, Emily often recalled that day. Not with guilt, but satisfaction. Sometimes, to be understood, one must speak the listeners language. And Margaret, it turned out, only comprehended force.

The lesson benefited Andrew, too. He finally saw his wife wasnt simply peevishshed been enduring genuine injustice. Though he still deemed her methods extreme, he never again dismissed her grievances.

Margaret visited occasionally, bearing cake, asking after their lives, even offering help. Never again did she command.

“You know,” Emily told Andrew one evening in their own kitchen, “Ive rather grown fond of her. Now shes stopped acting like a field marshal.”

“I still think you went too far,” he smiled.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But it worked. Sometimes the bluntest tools are the sharpest.”

And she was right. Peace, at lastbuilt on mutual respect and boundaries. And isnt that what matters most?