Here’s the menu, prepare everything by five; it’s not my place to be slaving away in the kitchen on my anniversary,” commanded the mother-in-law, but she deeply regretted it.

Heres the menu, have everything ready by five; Im not going to spend my jubilee standing in the kitchen, the motherinlaw commands, though she immediately regrets it.

Margaret Smith wakes up this Saturday morning with a sense of celebration. Sixty years a round number worth marking. She has been planning the day for weeks, compiling guest lists, choosing an outfit. In the mirror she sees a satisfied woman who expects everything to run according to her schedule.

Mum, happy birthday! Andrew is the first to appear in the kitchen, holding a small box. This is from us and Emily.

Emily nods silently, standing by the stove with a coffee mug in her hand. She never says much in the morning, especially when the motherinlaws family celebrations are at stake.

Oh, Andrew dear, thank you! Margaret takes the gift with exaggerated delight. Have you had breakfast yet?

Yes, Mum, all good, Andrew replies, glancing at his wife.

Emily sets the mug in the sink, already bracing herself for whats to come. Lately her motherinlaw has been in an unusually buoyant mood, which, oddly enough, only intensifies her commanding tendencies. She seems to believe that a festive atmosphere gives her extra licence to order everyone around more aggressively than usual.

Emily, dear, Margaret says in that particular tone that always precedes a demand. I have a little task for you.

Emily turns, trying to keep a neutral expression. After three years sharing this flat, she has learned to read her motherinlaws inflections like an open book.

Heres the menu, have everything ready by five; Im not going to stand in the kitchen on my own jubilee, Margaret hands over a sheet of paper, doubled over, the list written in her neat hand.

Emily scans the sheet, feeling the weight of twelve dishes compressing the space. Twelve! From simple platters to elaborate salads and hot starters.

Margaret, she begins cautiously, but thats a full days work

Of course! the motherinlaw laughs as if Emily had said something obvious. What else would I do on such a grand occasion? Obviously Im cooking for the birthday lady! You understand there will be many guests all my friends, the neighbours I cant afford to look like a mess.

Andrew shifts his gaze between his mother and his wife, clearly sensing the rising tension.

Mum, should we order something premade? he suggests hesitantly.

What are you talking about! Margaret snaps. Feeding guests with storebought food on my jubilee? What will people think of me! No, everything must be homemade, made with heart.

Emily clenches her fists. With heart, she thinks, but with someone elses heart yours, spent all day in the kitchen.

Fine, she says shortly and heads for the door.

Emily! Andrew shouts. Wait.

She pauses in the hallway, breathing heavily. Andrew approaches, eyes downcast.

Listen, Id love to help, honestly, but you know I just get in the way in the kitchen Im useless with my hands.

Of course, Emily forces a smile. And its normal for your mother to treat me like a servant?

Oh, come off it Andrew shrugs awkwardly. Think about it, cooking for your mother on her special day isnt that hard. She does so much for us, gives us a roof, never asks for money for the bills

Emily looks at him for a long moment. She could remind him how his mother constantly nags about the house, the cleanliness, her cooking, how she boasts about taking a girl from the countryside into the family as if it were a great favour. But what would that achieve? Andrew would still see his mother as a saint, and her complaints as the whims of a pampered wife.

Alright, Emily says, heading to the kitchen.

The next hours fly by in a frantic rhythm. Emily chops, boils, fries, mixes. Her hands move automatically while thoughts swirl faster than the pots. Then, while stirring a sauce, a simple yet elegant idea flashes in her mind and she cant help but grin.

She pulls a small box from the cupboard a mild laxative she bought at the chemist a month ago and never used. The label promises effect within an hour.

Emily studies the menu again: salads, intricate starters she could slip a few drops into those unnoticed. The hot main meat with potatoes shell leave untouched, since even she and Andrew still need something to eat.

By five the table is overflowing with dishes. Margaret, dressed in a new dress and a parade of jewellery, surveys the kitchen like a general before battle.

Not bad, she says approvingly. Though the capitalcity salad could be a touch saltier.

Emily remains silent, arranging the plates. Inside she feels a strange satisfaction.

Guests start arriving exactly at five. Margaret greets each with wide hugs, accepts gifts and compliments. Her friends ladies of the same age, equally festive in their attire gush over the décor.

Margaret, youve outdone yourself! shouts Virginia Thompson, the neighbour from the flat above. How lovely!

Oh, stop it, the birthday lady replies modestly, Emily helped a lot. Actually I did most of the work myself, and she gave me a hand.

Emily, placing plates, nearly laughs out loud. She did help. Of course.

Andrew, she whispers to her husband, dont eat the salads yet. Wait for the hot dishes.

Why? he asks, puzzled.

Just wait, okay?

He shrugs but complies. Emily sits nearby, watching guests dive into the appetizers. Margaret boasts about how long shes been planning the menu, how she chose the ingredients, how she tried to please every palate.

This salad is my signature, she declares, pointing to the capitalcity one. Recipe from my grandmother.

Divine! chimes in Susan Harper. You have golden hands, Margaret!

An hour passes. Emily checks the clock, counting down. At last the first guest collapses, clutching her stomach.

Oh, she gasps, I feel terrible

Me too! another guest at the table cries out. Margaret, are you sure all the ingredients were fresh?

Margaret turns pale.

Of course! I bought everything just yesterday!

But then she too feels dizzy. She rushes to the bathroom, leaving a line of guests behind her.

Emily, Andrew whispers, whats happening?

I dont know, she replies steadily. Must be something we ate. Thank God we didnt touch the salads.

A scramble erupts. Guests disappear one by one into the bathroom, then return hurriedly, apologising and complaining about feeling ill. Margaret darts between guests and the loo, trying to salvage the situation, but its too late.

By seven in the evening only the three of them remain in the flat. Margaret sits on the sofa, pale and bewildered.

Go lie down, Emily says kindly, well clean everything up.

What did you put in the food? Margaret asks, her voice sharp as she regains composure.

Emily slices the meat with potatoes calmly.

Laxative. Only in the salads and starters. I left the hot dishes untouched, so you can safely eat those.

Margaret wants to protest, but another wave of nausea hits and she hurries to the bathroom.

Emily! Andrew looks at his wife scoldingly. Why would you do that?

What else can I do? Emily replies, turning to him. You cant imagine how your mother treats me when youre not home. I hardly ever tell you because I know youll side with her. Mum tries, mum helps, mum gave us a roof. Her treating me like a servant doesnt bother you.

Andrew remains silent, chewing his meat slowly.

Maybe its harsh, Emily continues, but Im exhausted. Im tired of being nobody in this house, of being used and then blamed for ingratitude. Today she got a lesson. Perhaps shell think twice before dumping all the work on me and taking the credit.

Still, its a bit Andrew begins.

Too much? No ones hurt. Just a few hours in the bathroom. The lesson will stick.

And it does. After that disastrous birthday, Margarets tone towards Emily softens. Shes still not overly friendly, but the sharp edges smooth out. No more condescending commands, no attempts to shift all the housework onto her.

Six months later Andrew suddenly announces theyre moving into their own flat.

Weve saved enough for the deposit, he says over dinner. I think its time we live on our own.

Margaret looks at her son, surprised. She hadnt expected such a decision. She remains silent, merely nodding.

Perhaps it really is time, she agrees. Young people need their own nest.

On moving day, as they haul the last boxes, Margaret walks over to Emily.

You know, she says quietly, maybe I wasnt entirely fair to you

Emily stops, a box of dishes in her hands.

Perhaps, she replies. It doesnt matter now. The important thing is weve found common ground.

Yes, Margaret nods. And that birthday it was spectacular.

They look at each other and burst into unexpected laughter the first genuine, unguarded laugh theyve shared in years.

In the new flat, Emily often remembers that day, not with regret but with a strange satisfaction. Sometimes, to get through to people, you have to speak their language. Margaret, it turns out, only understood the language of power.

The real lesson, however, benefits not just the motherinlaw but also Andrew. He finally sees that his wife isnt merely being difficult; shes suffering from injustice. Though he still thinks her methods are extreme, he never again ignores her complaints about his mothers behaviour.

From time to time Margaret drops by the new flat, bringing cake, checking in, even offering a hand. She never again tries to command her daughterinlaw.

You know, Emily tells Andrew one evening in their own kitchen, I actually grew a bit fond of her after she stopped acting like a general.

And I think you went a little overboard, he jokes.

Perhaps, Emily agrees. But the result was worth it. Sometimes the most radical tactics work best.

And shes right. At last the family enjoys peace built on mutual respect and clear boundaries. After all, isnt that the most important thing in any relationship?