If you call my dinner slop again, you’ll be eating on the street!” snapped Jane to her mother-in-law.

“Call my cooking slop one more time, and you’ll be eating out of bins!” Emily snapped at her mother-in-law.

She glanced at the clockhalf six. Daniel would be home from work in thirty minutes, and Margaret was already camped out in the living room, flipping through a magazine while shooting disapproving looks toward the kitchen. The autumn dusk settled over London, and the flat grew chilly.

Emily flicked on the hob and set down the frying pan. Tonights menu was chicken burgers with roasted potatoes and a fresh saladnothing fancy, but hearty and tasty. Five years of marriage had taught her to cook quickly and efficiently, especially after long shifts at the salon.

“At it again with the frying, are we?” came the voice from the living room. “The whole place stinks of grease.”

Emily silently flipped the burgers. Margaret had moved in six months ago after selling her one-bed flat in Croydon. Officially, it was to help with the mortgage, but in reality, she hadnt contributed a pennyinstead blowing the cash on a spa holiday and new furniture for *her* room.

The key turned in the lock, and Daniel walked in, exhausted but cheerful as usual after his engineering job.

“Evening, love,” he said, kissing Emily on the cheek. “Smells brilliant in here.”

“Dinners nearly ready,” Emily smiled. “Go wash up, Ill set the table.”

Daniel headed to the bathroom, while Margaret materialised in the kitchen. She was a formidable woman with a blunt bob and a habit of saying exactly what she thought, regardless of feelings.

“Daniel needs proper meals, not this nonsense,” Margaret tutted, eyeing the pan. “Works all day, and you feed him scraps.”

Emily laid out the plates, cutlery, breadthe usual. Six months of this had taught her to let the comments slide.

“Mum, come on,” Daniel said, sitting down. “Emilys cooking is great.”

“You only say that because youve never known a proper homemaker,” Margaret sniffed, taking her seat. “My mother-in-lawGod rest hercould feed ten with one pot of stew. And *this*…”

Emily served the burgers. Daniel took a bite.

“Lovely, thanks.”

Margaret inspected her plate, cut a tiny piece of burger, chewed, then grimaced.

“What *slop* you serve!”

The words hung in the air. Emily froze, salad bowl in hand, glaring at her mother-in-law. Margaret kept chewing, oblivious.

Daniel set down his fork, glancing between them. The flat was so quiet, the ticking clock sounded deafening.

Slowly, Emily placed the salad bowl down. She collected her plate and Danielsuntouchedand carried them to the sink. Then she returned for the bread.

“Em, what are you doing?” Daniel protested. “I havent eaten yet.”

“Youll eat tomorrow,” she said, clearing the table. “Kitchens closed.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Oh, dont be childish. Throwing a tantrum over one little comment?”

Emily turned to face her. Her voice was calm, but steel-edged.

“Call my cooking slop one more time, and youll be eating on the pavement.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Margaret waved her off. “Youre too sensitive.”

Emily didnt reply. She washed up, dried her hands, and went to the bedroom. Daniel sat at the empty table while Margaret sipped tea, muttering about spoiled millennials.

In bed, Emily stared out the window. The streetlights glowed, rain drizzling. Five years ago, marrying Daniel, shed imagined a different life. Back then, Margaret had seemed sharp but harmless. Daniel was kind, attentiveshed assumed things with his mum would smooth out.

Six months of cohabitation had revealed the truth. The nitpicking was relentless. Her cooking, cleaning, clothes, jobnothing was right. Daniel tried mediating, but always sided with Margaret when push came to shove.

“Em,” he peeked in. “Dont take it to heart. You know how Mum is blunt. But she means well.”

“Means well?” Emily turned. “Daniel, your mother hasnt said one kind word in six months. Not one *thank you*. Just criticism and insults.”

“She calls it like she sees it. Not everyone appreciates honesty.”

“Calling my food *slop* is honesty?”

Daniel sat on the bed. “Alright, fine, shes harsh sometimes. But you could ignore her.”

“I cant. And I wont. Either your mum learns respect, or she finds another place to live.”

“Wheres she supposed to go? Sold her flat!”

“Not my problem. I wont be insulted in my own home.”

Daniel paced. “Em, be reasonable. Shes got nowhere else”

“Daniel,” Emily cut in. “I *am* being reasonable. Tomorrow, Im seeing a solicitor about evicting ungrateful relatives. Until then, your mum cooks for herself.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Emily turned away. Conversation over.

The next morning, Emily got ready as usual, dropped two-year-old Oliver at nursery, and breezed past the kitchen without stopping. Margaret scowled at the table while Daniel rummaged in the fridge.

“Em, what about breakfast?” he asked.

“The café down the road does cracking croissants,” Emily said, grabbing her bag. “Have a nice day.”

Margaret slapped the table. “Since when do I cook for myself?”

Emily paused at the door. “Since I stopped tolerating insults. You get what you give.”

She left. At the salon, her coworkers noticed the shift.

“You seem different today,” the nail tech, Sophie, remarked. “More sure of yourself.”

“Just drew a line in the sand,” Emily said, setting up her station.

Meanwhile, chaos unfolded at home. Margaret stomped around the kitchen, opening cupboards.

“Wheres the porridge? Wheres the tea?” she grumbled. “This is *humiliating*!”

Daniel stood helpless. Breakfast had always just *appeared*first by his mum, then Emily. The idea of making it himself felt absurd.

“Mum, lets just have toast,” he suggested.

“I *refuse* to eat dry bread!” Margaret snapped. “Wheres the *wife*? Why isnt she doing her job?”

“Mum, Emily *works*”

“So? Everyone works! Someones got to feed the family!”

Daniel hacked uneven slices of bread and cheese. Margaret eyed the lopsided sandwiches with disdain and launched into a lecture on knife skills.

Dinner was a repeat. Emily came home, fed Oliver his baby food, bathed him, read a story. Daniel returned, starving.

“Em, whats for dinner?” he ventured.

“Dunno. What did *you* make?”

“*Me*? Youre the wife!”

Emily kept tidying toys. “Wives cook for people who respect them. Those who call their food *slop* can fend for themselves.”

Daniel scratched his head. The fridge was full, but turning ingredients into a meal baffled him. In the end, he caved and bought ready meals.

“Got some frozen lasagne,” he announced, returning with bags. “And a pre-made salad.”

Margaret scoffed. “Ready meals! Whats nextpot noodles?”

“Mum, why dont *you* cook something?” Daniel asked carefully.

“*Me*? Ive done my time! Thirty years of slaving over a stoveits *her* turn now!”

But Emily stood firm. The next day, same story. And the day after. Margaret ranted about her rights to three square meals, but Emily didnt so much as glance her way.

After a week, the fridge had designated shelves. Emily shopped for herself and Oliver, making his meals. Daniel and Margaret scrambled to feed themselves.

“This is *madness*!” Margaret shrieked during another row. “A wife *must* cook for her family!”

“For family? Sure,” Emily said, feeding Oliver mashed carrots. “For people who insult me? Hard pass.”

“It was *one* comment!”

Emily set down the spoon. “You called my cooking *slop*. Thats not feedbackthats disrespect.”

“*I* never complained about my mother-in-laws cooking!”

Emily looked up. “Then *you* keep tolerating it. But youll do it hungry.”

Daniel tried playing peacemaker, but Emily was unmoved. She cooked for herself and Oliver, cleaned only her things, washed just her laundry.

“Em, enough,” he pleaded. “Mums learned her lesson.”

“Learned? When did she *apologise*?”

“Well she doesnt *do* apologies. But shes stopped calling it slop.”

“Because Im not cooking. Start again, and the insults will too.”

Two weeks in, Margaret grudgingly learned the hob. Basic soups, sausages and mash. Daniel lived off microwave meals.

“A grown woman shouldnt *have* to cook for herself!” Margaret grumbled, cho