I Refused to Endure My Mother-in-Law’s Whims at the Christmas Dinner and Left for a Friend’s House

It is a memory that has lingered with me for years, a NewYears Eve that turned into a quiet rebellion. I had grown tired of my motherinlaws whims at the festive table, so I slipped away to my friends flat.

Whos chopping the Waldorf salad like that? Margaret blurted, her voice rising above the chatter of the television where Victors cousin was once more arguing about going to the sauna. Those cubes are the size of pigs trotters! Ive told you a hundred times the pieces should be dainty, elegant, letting the flavours shinenot hacked apart with a cleaver.

Emma stood frozen, a carving knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock read four in the afternoon on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as if she had just unloaded a coal wagon, and her feet ached in the worn slippers; a fresh cut on her finger throbbed.

MrsBennett, Emma breathed deeply, trying to keep her voice steady, these are normal, standard cubes. We always cut it this way. If you dont like it, you can simply skip the salad. We have three other dishes waiting.

Skip it? Margaret snapped, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this, a conversation with your husbands mother? Ive come here to celebrate, to bring the families together, and youre going to scold me over a slice of bread? Victor! Do you hear how your wife talks to me?

Victor, seated in the lounge untangling a string of fairy lights, sighed heavily. He dreaded conflict, so he adopted the ostrich method: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.

Mother, he called from the sofa, just cut it a little finer, will you? Shes only trying to help. Shes a former professional chef, after all.

Yes, I was head of a hospital kitchen! Margaret puffed, adjusting the heavy brooch on her chest. My sanitary standards were stricter than the law. And you, Emma, your kitchen is a disaster. The tea towel is stained, yet you wipe your hands on it. Unhygienic!

Emma set the knife down, feeling a slow, simmering anger that threatened to boil over. This wasnt her first NewYear with Margaret, but it felt the heaviest. Margaret had arrived two days earlier, claiming to help, but in truth she inspected every corner, issuing verdicts: daughterinlaw untidy, son underfed, no grandchildren (as if Emma were selfish), and the flat décor bland.

The towel is cleanI fetched it this morning, and a drop of beet juice fell on it, Emma replied calmly. MrsBennett, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose; its getting cramped in here.

A goose? Margaret narrowed her eyes. And youve marinated it in mayonnaise, I presume, like last year? Thats vulgar! A proper goose should soak in a lingonberryjuniper sauce for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Did you not read it?

I used my own recipeapples and honey. Victor loves that.

Victor loves only what you feed him! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hell have gastritis by now, look how pale he sits. I used to make him steamcooked meatballs as a child

Emma felt the goose might fly out the window any second, or worse, straight into Margarets face.

Enough, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. The goose goes into the oven. The salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and straighten ourselves up.

Straighten up? Margaret scoffed, eyeing Emma like a critic. Your hair looks like a mop, and you have circles under your eyes. You should at least put on a cucumber mask. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man ought to see a queen, not a kitchen maid.

Emma swallowed the rebuke for Victors sake, for the sake of the holiday, for the sake of not starting the new year with a quarrel. She slid the heavy tray into the oven, set the timer, and retreated to the bathroom.

Turning on the tap, she finally let the tears flow. For five minutes she sat on the edge of the tub, sobbing, mascara smearing down her cheeks. She was thirtyfive, a department manager at a large logistics firm, responsible for twenty staff. She and Victor had bought the flat together, putting in the inheritance shed received. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?

Because family, a voice in her head whispered, sounding like her mothers, you must be wiser, you must endure. A quiet peace is better than a loud quarrel.

She splashed her face, applied the soothing patches, forced a smile at her reflection. Alright. Six hours to go. Well listen to the chimes, eat, and shell retire early. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to see the Christmas tree, and Ill curl up with a book.

She emerged from the bathroom, hoping for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat; things seemed to settle.

In the bedroom lay her dressdeep navy, velvet, with a graceful back slit. She had bought it especially for the occasion, spending half her bonus.

Emma, are you really going to wear that? Margarets voice cut through the hallway as she entered unannounced. Its heavy velvet. Youll look like a ladyofthehouse at a tea party. And the colour is mournful. NewYear should be bright, sparkling! I have a sequined top you could borrow if you fit into it.

Thanks, but I like this dress. Victor likes it too.

Victor doesnt care, as long as you dont carve him up. Im telling you, it doesnt suit youhighlights every flaw. Youd be better off hitting the gym than stuffing yourself with cake at night.

Emma began to dress in silence, her hands trembling as the zipper caught. Margaret tugged at the zipper, pulling Emma forward.

Let me help, before you tear it, she said, pulling the dress with a sudden jerk. There, see? I warned you. Dont whine later that Victor is looking at younger women.

By ten oclock the table was set. Crystal glimmered, candles flickered, the goosegolden and fragrantsat proudly in the centre. Victor donned a smart shirt, Margaret arrived in that sequined festive top, dripping in gold jewellery, looking like a Christmas tree.

Emma felt like a squeezed lemon. She had neither appetite nor mood; she merely wanted the night to end.

Lets welcome the old year! Victor announced cheerily, popping the cork on the champagne. Its been a rough one, but we made it. The important thing is were together.

Indeed, a rough one, Margaret agreed, raising her glass. Especially for memy health is failing, my blood pressure spikes, and theres no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness…

Mother, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.

Calls once a week just for the sake of it. Lets not dwell on the sad. Lets toast to everyone becoming better homemakers and remembering their proper place.

Emma took a sip, feeling the sharp bite of the champagne.

Try the salad, she offered, pushing a plate of herring salad toward her motherinlaw. I made it with homemade mayo, as you like.

Margaret speared a piece, sniffed it, grimaced, and swallowed slowly, eyes rolling.

Well she finally said. The herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, it crunches. And the mayo Emma, did you drown it in vinegar? Its as sour as a lemon.

Its lemon juice, per the recipe, Emma whispered.

Lemon in a herring salad! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest in peace, was not a chef eithershe fed you readymade stuff. No wonder youre such a kitchen disaster.

The remark cut deep. Emmas own mother had died three years earlier, a hardworking woman who held two jobs to raise her daughter, never tinkering with juniper marinades, but always keeping the house warm and welcoming.

Dont mention my mother, Emma hissed, cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and grief. What did I say? Im just telling the truth. Victor, pass the breadthis salad is impossible to eat.

Victor handed over the bread without meeting Emmas eyes, chewing silently, trying to become invisible.

Then something shifted inside Emma, as if a switch had been flicked. The fury, the hurt, the exhaustion melted into a cold calm. She looked at Victor, the man who had promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, the man now allowing his mother to trample her mothers memory and demean her efforts.

Victor, does it taste alright? she asked.

Um decent enough. Emma, lets not fight at the table. Mothers just voicing her opinion.

Opinion, indeed. Fine then.

She rose slowly.

You going for the hot dish? Not yet, sit down, Margaret commanded.

No, Im not after the hot food.

Emma left the sitting room. In the bedroom she slipped off the velvet dress, hung it neatly, and changed into jeans and a warm sweater. She packed a small sports bag with toiletries, spare underwear, a nightgown, and her phone charger.

In the hallway she pulled on a down jacket, hat, and boots. Margarets voice drifted from the living room:

I told the neighbour why you need that slow cooker, it makes lifeless food! A proper pot on a woodfired stove is what you need. Victor, wheres Emma? Shes been gone a while, seems upset. Maybe she needs a doctor.

Emma peered into the doorway.

Im not upset, MrsBennett. Ive just drawn some conclusions.

Victor dropped his fork.

Emma, what are you doing? Where are you going? In jeans?

Im leaving, Victor.

Going shopping? Need anything? Ill run ahead!

No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate the goose without me. Its with apples, not juniper, so forgive me. Toss the salads if theyre that terrible.

Emma, stop making a scene! Margaret snapped. Get back to the table at once! Guests are at the door, the clock will strike in an hour!

I have no guests, Emma replied calmly. There are two strangers in my house. One hates me, the other doesnt give a toss. Happy NewYear to you both.

She turned and walked toward the front door.

Emma! Emma, stop! Victor leapt up, overturned a chair, and chased after her. Are you mad? Its night! Where will you go?

To someone who values me.

She opened the door.

If you go now, Victor shouted, fear mixing with anger, Mother will be devastated! Youll tear the family apart!

The family fell apart when you let her trample my feet, Emma said, slamming the door.

Outside, soft snow fell, muffling the world. Somewhere distant fireworks crackled. Emma breathed in the crisp air; oddly, she did not feel cold. It felt oddly freeing.

She dialed her old school friend, Claire.

Claire, are you awake? she whispered.

Emma? Whats happening? Were in the middle of a party! Should I be joining?

Can I come over? Right now.

A pause, then Claires tone grew serious: Whats wrong? Victor gave you a hard time?

Ive left. Probably forever. Im at the doorstep with my bag.

Im waiting! Bring your boots, come quick! Were having a feastMisha made a massive pilaf, champagne flowing! You know the flatcode?

I remember it.

Emma hailed a cab. The fare was steepNewYears night, after allbut she didnt care. When the bright yellow taxi stopped, she slid into the back seat and, for the first time that night, smiled.

Claires flat was bustling, cramped, and warm. The hallway smelled of mandarins and rice. Claire, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned sweater, hugged Emma so tightly her knuckles clicked.

Come in, love! You look chilled! Misha, pour a dram!

Inside, a motley crew of friends, their children, a dog, and a couple of neighbours gathered around a low table covered with paper napkins, a huge pot of pilaf, stacks of toast with smoked salmon, and a bucket of mandarins.

Emma, youre right on time! Misha shouted. Were about to make wishes! Sit down!

They handed Emma a glass and a steaming plate of pilaf.

Eat! You must be starving, Claire whispered. You never get a bite while youre busy cooking, do you?

Emma tasted the pilaf. It was divineno sanitising standards, no juniper, just simple, hearty flavour made with love.

The goose? Claire asked as the clock struck midnight and the hall burst into cheers, Ura! and champagne popped.

Emma recounted the nights dramagoose, salad, the mophair comment, Victors silence.

Blimey, what a goat, Claire concluded. And your mum shes a witch, isnt she? You did right leaving. Dont waste your life on them. Youre gorgeous, youll find a proper man wholl carry you on his shoulders and actually love his mother.

Emmas phone, set to silent, lit up like a Christmas tree: twenty missed calls from Victor, five from MrsBennett, and a slew of WhatsApp messagesEmma, wheres the corkscrew?, Emma, where are the napkins?, Mums blood pressure is through the roof!, You selfishhow could you abandon us on the holiday?.

She read them and laughed, tears of absurdity spilling over.

The corkscrew they cant find she muttered, wiping her eyes. Two adults cant open a bottle of wine and locate a napkin. Pathetic.

Enough of that, Claire snatched the phone. Tonight is yours. Lets dance!

They twirled until three in the morning. Emma forgot her tired back, her sore shoulders, her grievances. She felt alive.

The first of January, Emma awoke on Claires sofa, head slightly fuzzy, spirits high. She knew she had to return homenot to apologise, but to put a full stop on the chapter. She would not linger in a house where she was treated as a servant.

She arrived back around noon. The hallway was dim, the air thick with stale smoke and burnt stuff. On the floor lay the very corkscrew Claires friends had lost. The living room was a messtables uncleared, remnants of food scattered. The goose sat untouched, a single wing torn off, as if hunger had simply vanished.

Victor slept on the couch, a blanket draped over him, the motherinlaw nowhere in sight, the door to the spare room shut.

Emma stomped into the kitchen, boots clacking, flung open a window, letting the frosty air rush in. She set the kettle, the grind of the coffee beans sounding like a gunshot in the quiet.

Victor appeared a minute later, hair dishevelled, eyes guilty and bruised.

Did you come back? he rasped. Well, thanks for the show. Mother spent the night on sedatives.

Youre welcome, Emma said calmly, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?

We didnt eat it. No appetite. Emma, do you realise what youve done? Youve embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes now thinking of leaving. She says she wont stay here any longer.

Thats the best news of the year, Victor.

Youve become a stranger, a cruel one.

Ive become myself, Victor. I wont be a convenience any longer. I want happiness.

At that moment Margaret burst in, hand on her chest, a damp towel on her brow.

There she is, the troublemaker! she shrieked. Back already, after you gave mother a heart attack! Victor, Ill call a taxi. I cant stay in the same room as this woman. Shes a monster!

MrsBennettEmma stepped out into the quiet, snowladen night, feeling for the first time in years that she was truly free.