Here’s the Menu, Have Everything Ready by Five—It’s Not Like I’ll Be Stuck in the Kitchen on My Anniversary,” My Mother-in-Law Demanded, But Soon Regretted It

Margaret woke that Saturday morning with the peculiar lightness of a dream. Sixty yearsa milestone worthy of celebration. She had planned this day for months, curating guest lists and deliberating over her finest dress. The mirror reflected the satisfied face of a woman accustomed to everything unfolding exactly as she envisioned.

“Happy birthday, Mum!” James was the first to appear in the kitchen, clutching a small velvet box. “This is from me and Emily.”

Emily nodded silently by the stove, cradling a mug of tea. Mornings were never her forte, especially when it came to her mother-in-laws festivities.

“Oh, darling, thank you!” Margaret accepted the gift with practiced delight. “Have you both eaten?”

“Yes, Mum, were fine,” James replied, glancing at his wife.

Emily set down her mug, bracing herself. Margaret had been in high spirits lately, which only sharpened her commanding tendencies. The celebratory mood seemed to grant her permission to orchestrate everyones movements with even more fervour than usual.

“Emily, dear,” Margaret began in that particular tone that heralded a request thinly veiled as an order. “Ive a little task for you.”

Emily turned, schooling her expression into neutrality. Three years in this house had taught her to read her mother-in-laws inflections like a well-worn book.

“Heres the menu. Have it all ready by fiveits hardly fitting for the birthday girl to labour in the kitchen, is it?” Margaret extended a neatly folded sheet of paper, her immaculate cursive sprawling across it.

Emily scanned the list. Twelve dishes. Twelve. From simple canapés to elaborate terrines and hot hors d’oeuvres.

“Margaret,” she began cautiously, “this is an entire days work.”

“Of course it is!” Margaret laughed as if Emily had stated the obvious. “What else does one do on such an occasion but cook for the guest of honour? You understand, dont you? All my friends are coming, the neighbourswe cant possibly cut corners.”

James shifted uncomfortably between them, sensing the tension.

“Mum, perhaps we could order something?” he ventured weakly.

“Dont be absurd!” Margaret gasped. “Serve shop-bought food at my birthday? What would people think? No, everything must be homemade, prepared with love.”

Emily clenched her fists. Love. Someone elses lovehers, to be exact, as she slaved away in the kitchen.

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

“Emily!” James called after her. “Wait.”

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

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

“Of course,” Emily said with a tight smile. “And your mother treating me like hired help is perfectly acceptable?”

“Dont be like that,” James muttered, shrugging. “Its just cooking for her birthday. She does so much for uslets us live here, never asks for rent”

Emily studied him. She could remind him how Margaret weaponised their living arrangement, how she critiqued every speck of dust, every under-seasoned meal. She could recount the endless jibes about “taking in a girl from the countryside,” as if it were some grand charity. But what was the point? James would never see it. To him, his mother was a saint, and Emilys grievances were mere petulance.

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

The next hours blurred into a whirlwind of chopping, boiling, frying. Her hands moved mechanically while her mind churned. Then, as she stirred a sauce, it struck heran idea so simple yet elegant that she nearly laughed aloud.

From the cupboard, she retrieved a small box, purchased a month prior and forgotten. A mild laxative. The label promised effects within an hour.

Emily scrutinised the menu. Salads, delicate starterseach could discreetly accommodate a few drops. The hot dishesroast beef with potatoesshe left untouched. Theyd need something to eat, after all.

By five, the table groaned under the feast. Margaret, resplendent in a new dress and heirloom pearls, surveyed the spread like a general inspecting troops.

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

Emily said nothing, arranging the last platter. Inside, she hummed with anticipation.

Guests arrived promptly. Margaret welcomed each with open arms, basking in compliments. Her friendswomen of similar age, equally bedeckedmarvelled at the spread.

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

“Oh, it was nothing,” Margaret demurred. “Emily lent a hand, though I did most of the work.”

Emily, setting out plates, nearly snorted. Lent a hand.

“James,” she whispered, “dont touch the starters. Wait for the roast.”

“Why?”

“Just wait.”

He shrugged but obeyed. Emily sat back, watching as guests piled their plates. Margaret held court, detailing her meticulous menu planning, her quest for perfect ingredients.

“This trifle is my signature,” she declared. “A family recipe.”

“Divine!” cooed Patricia. “Youve a gift, darling!”

An hour passed. Emily checked her watch. Then it began.

Beatrice clutched her stomach first. “Oh dear,” she groaned. “Im not feeling quite right…”

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

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

Then she, too, doubled over. With a hurried excuse, she fled to the loo. A queue formed.

“Emily,” James hissed, “whats happening?”

“No idea,” she said blandly. “Thank goodness we skipped the starters.”

Chaos ensued. Guests vanished into the bathroom, then made hurried exits, muttering apologies. Margaret darted between them, desperate to salvage the evening, but it was too late.

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

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

“What did you put in the food?” Margaret demanded weakly.

Emily calmly sliced the roast. “A laxative. Only in the starters. The hot dishes are safe.”

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

“Emily!” James scowled. “Was that necessary?”

“What alternative did I have?” She 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 defend her. Mum means well, Mums helping us. Meanwhile, Im her unpaid housekeeper.”

James chewed his beef in silence.

“Maybe it was cruel,” Emily continued. “But Im tired. Tired of being nobody in this house. Today, she learned a lesson. Perhaps next time, shell think twice before dumping everything on me and taking credit.”

“Still, it was a bit…”

“A bit what? No one was harmed. A few hours in the loo. But shell remember.”

And remember she did. After that ill-fated birthday, Margaret softened. The barbs grew fewer, the demands less frequent.

Six months later, James announced they were moving out.

“Weve saved enough for a deposit,” he said at dinner. “Time we stood on our own feet.”

Margaret stared, then nodded. “Yes. Young people need their own nest.”

On moving day, as they hauled out the last boxes, Margaret approached Emily.

“Perhaps I was… unfair to you,” she admitted quietly.

Emily paused, a box of crockery in her arms. “Perhaps. But it doesnt matter now. We understand each other.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. Then, almost smiling: “That birthday was… memorable.”

They caught each others eyesand laughed, genuinely, for the first time in years.

In their new flat, Emily often revisited that day. Not with guilt, but satisfaction. Sometimes, to be understood, one must speak a language the other comprehends. Margaret, it turned out, only understood force.

The lesson benefited James, too. He finally saw his wifes grievances as more than whims. Though he still deemed her methods extreme, he never again dismissed her complaints.

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

“You know,” Emily told James one evening in their own kitchen, “Ive grown rather fond of her. Now that shes stopped acting like a drill sergeant.”

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

“Maybe,” Emily conceded. “But it worked. Sometimes the bluntest tools are the most effective.”

And she was right. Peace settled over thembuilt on mutual respect and boundaries. And wasnt that what mattered most?