‘Here’s the menu, have everything ready by five—it’s not like I’ll be slaving in the kitchen on my own anniversary,’ snapped my mother-in-law—but she soon regretted it.

Margaret woke up that Saturday morning with a flutter of excitement. Sixty yearsa proper milestone, worthy of a proper celebration. Shed been planning this day for ages, jotting down guest lists, picking out her outfit. The mirror reflected the smug face of a woman used to everything going exactly her way.

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

Emily gave a silent nod, sipping her coffee by the stove. She was never much of a morning person, especially when it came to her mother-in-laws family gatherings.

“Oh, David, thank you!” Margaret accepted the gift with exaggerated delight. “Have you two had breakfast yet?”

“Yeah, Mum, were sorted,” David replied, glancing at Emily.

Emily set her mug in the sink, bracing herself. Margaret had been in high spirits latelywhich, oddly, only made her more domineering. As if the celebratory mood gave her free rein to boss everyone around even more than usual.

“Emily, love,” Margaret said in that sweet-but-deadly tone that always preceded a demand. “Ive got a little job for you.”

Emily turned, keeping her face neutral. Three years of living under this roof had taught her to read Margarets tones like a book.

“Heres the menu. Have it all ready by fiveits not like Ill be slaving away in the kitchen on my big day, is it?” Margaret handed over a neatly folded sheet of paper, her handwriting looping across the page.

Emily scanned the list, and her stomach dropped. Twelve dishes. Twelve! From simple nibbles to elaborate salads and hot starters.

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

“Well, of course!” Margaret laughed like Emily had stated the obvious. “What else would you be doing on such a grand occasion? Cooking for the birthday girl, naturally! You know well have loads of guestsmy book club, the neighbours Cant exactly serve them shop-bought rubbish, can we?”

David shifted uncomfortably between them.

“Mum, maybe we could just order in?” he suggested weakly.

“Dont be ridiculous!” Margaret scoffed. “Feed my guests ready meals on my sixtieth? What would people think? No, its got to be homemade, cooked with love.”

Emily clenched her fists. With love. Right. Someone elses lovehers, to be exact, while she slogged away in the kitchen all day.

“Fine,” she said curtly and turned to leave.

“Em!” David called after her. “Wait.”

She stopped in the hallway, breathing hard. David caught up, looking sheepish.

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

“Of course,” Emily said tightly. “And your mum treating me like hired help is just fine, is it?”

“Dont be daft,” David mumbled, shrugging. “Come on, cooking for Mum on her birthday isnt that big a deal. She does so much for uslets us live here, never asks for rent”

Emily gave him a long look. She could remind him how Margaret constantly held the flat over her head, nitpicked her cleaning, criticised her cooking. How she never missed a chance to mention shed “taken in a girl from the Midlands,” as if shed done Emily some great favour. But what was the point? David would never see it. To him, his mum was a saint, and Emilys complaints were just her being difficult.

“Right,” Emily said flatly and marched back to the kitchen.

The next few hours were a blur of chopping, boiling, frying, mixing. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind raced. Then, as she stirred a sauce, it hit her. The idea was so simple, so perfect, she nearly laughed out loud.

She dug out a small box from the cupboardsomething shed bought at the chemist weeks ago but never used. A mild laxative. The packet promised results within an hour.

Emily studied the menu. Salads, fancy starterseasy enough to spike. The hot dishesroast beef and potatoesshed leave untouched. Theyd need something to eat, after all.

By five, the table groaned under the spread. Margaret, draped in a new dress and dripping with jewellery, surveyed the kitchen like a general.

“Not bad,” she conceded. “Though the coronation chicken couldve done with more seasoning.”

Emily said nothing, arranging dishes. Inside, she was buzzing.

Guests arrived right on time. Margaret greeted each with open arms, basking in gifts and compliments. Her friendswomen of similar age, equally dressed upgushed over the table.

“Margaret, youve outdone yourself!” trilled Beatrice from next door. “What a spread!”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Margaret demurred. “Emily helped, of course. Though I did most of the heavy lifting.”

Emily, setting out plates, nearly snorted. Helped. Right.

“Dave,” she whispered, “dont touch the salads. Wait for the hot food.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

He shrugged but obeyed. Emily sat back, watching as guests piled their plates. Margaret held court, boasting about how shed planned the menu, handpicked ingredients, catered to every taste.

“This coronation chicken is my signature dish,” she declared. “Family recipe.”

“Divine!” cooed Beatrice. “Youve got the magic touch, Maggie!”

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

Beatrice clutched her stomach first. “Oh dear,” she groaned. “Im not feeling too clever”

“Me neither!” gasped another guest. “Maggie, are you sure everything was fresh?”

Margaret paled. “Of course! I bought it all yesterday!”

Then it hit her too. She excused herself hastily, beelining for the loo. A queue quickly formed.

“Em,” David hissed, “whats going on?”

“No idea,” Emily said calmly. “Mustve been something they ate. Thank goodness we skipped the salads.”

Chaos erupted. Guests vanished into the bathroom, then fled with mumbled apologies. Margaret flitted between them, desperate to salvage the evening, but it was too late.

By seven, only the three of them remained. Margaret slumped on the sofa, ashen.

“Go lie down,” Emily said sweetly. “Well clean up.”

“What did you put in the food?” Margaret snapped once shed recovered slightly.

Emily carved the roast beef, unbothered. “Laxative. Just in the salads and starters, though. The hot foods safe.”

Margaret opened her mouth, but another cramp sent her scurrying.

“Emily!” David scolded. “Was that really necessary?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Emily turned to him. “Youve no idea how she treats me when youre not here. Half the time I dont even tell you because I know youll just defend her. Mum means well, Mums helping us, Mum gave us a roof. But her treating me like a servant doesnt bother you, does it?”

David chewed his beef, silent.

“Maybe it was harsh,” Emily admitted. “But Im done. Done being nobody in this house. Done being used and then lectured about gratitude. Today, she got a lesson. Maybe next time shell think twice before dumping everything on me and taking all the credit.”

“But still” David started.

“Still what? No one died. They just spent a few hours on the loo. And shell remember this for a long time.”

And she did. After that disastrous birthday, Margaret softened. She wasnt exactly warm, but the sharp edges smoothed. No more orders, no more dumping chores on Emily.

Six months later, David surprised them both.

“Weve saved enough for a deposit,” he announced at dinner. “Time we got our own place.”

Margaret blinked. She hadnt seen that coming. But she only nodded.

“Probably for the best,” she said quietly. “Young couples need their own nest.”

On moving day, as they carried out the last boxes, Margaret stopped Emily.

“You know,” she said, “perhaps I wasnt always fair to you.”

Emily paused, arms full of dishes. “Maybe not. But it doesnt matter now. We understand each other.”

“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “Still that birthday. That was effective.”

They looked at each otherand for the first time, laughed. Really laughed.

In their new flat, Emily often thought back to that day. Not with guilt, but satisfaction. Sometimes, to get through to people, you have to speak their language. And Margaret, it turned out, only understood one.

The lesson stucknot just for Margaret, but for David too. He finally saw his wife wasnt just being difficult; shed been genuinely suffering. And though he still thought her methods extreme, he never again dismissed her complaints about his mother.

Margaret visited now and then, bringing cake, asking about their lives, even offering help. Never once did she try to boss Emily around.

“You