“Darling mother-in-law, I’d like to invite you to our divorce!”
When James swung open the door to his flat in Manchester, Margaret stepped inside, her voice trembling with worry. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah…?” James replied, confused.
“Where’s Emily?! Has she left already? Is it over?” Her hands shook as she clutched her purse.
“Mum, what are you on about?” James shrugged, completely lost.
“So, I’m too late then…” Margaret sighed heavily, shuffling into the living room and perching on the edge of the sofa. “Should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s happened?” James frowned, feeling unease creep in.
“You mean to tell me everything’s fine?!” She shot him a look, sharp as a knife, like he was hiding some awful secret.
“Well, is something wrong?” He rubbed his neck, baffled.
“James Thomas Whitmore, explain this nonsense right now!” She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a card with a wilted rose on it, and shoved it at him. “Found it in my letterbox this morning. An invitation—to your divorce!”
James took the card, skimming the neat handwriting: *Dearest mother-in-law, do join us for our divorce! Your daughter-in-law, Emily.* He froze. “Mum, you actually think this is real?”
“You saying I wrote it myself?!” She threw her hands up, voice cracking with anger.
“No, but—Emily? Really?”
“Who’s Emily?”
“Your daughter-in-law?!”
“Stop dodging, James! What’s going on? Have you really split already? You’ve not even been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, relax, everything’s fine. Emily’s at work… I think. Things were normal this morning. Must be a joke. Probably over the stew.”
“A *joke*? Over *stew*?!” She glared like he’d lost his mind. “You’re telling me stew’s worth this?!”
“Well, yeah. She made it for the first time last night. I… might’ve said it wasn’t great. Not like yours.”
“And then?” She narrowed her eyes, sensing disaster.
“She got furious, threatened to bin it. Said she wouldn’t cook again till I finished every bite. So I joked, ‘Guess I’ll file for divorce if you quit cooking.’ Just banter!”
“*Banter*?! You threatened *divorce* as *banter*?!” Margaret shot up, eyes blazing.
“I explained after, but she was already cross—”
“Oh, you’re just like your father!” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this stew? Bring it here.”
“Why?” He trailed after her, bewildered.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s *bad*—”
“I’ll show you *bad*! Kitchen, now!”
She stormed in, found the pot, and slammed it on the hob.
“Come here!” Her tone left no room for argument.
“But—” He wilted under her glare.
“And fetch your spare keys!”
“Why?!”
“Just do it!”
Defeated, James handed them over. She promptly pocketed them in her worn cardigan.
“Sit. Eat.” She ladled stew into bowls, eyes pinned on him.
She took the first spoonful, chewing deliberately. James hesitantly followed.
“And *this* is ‘bad’?” She arched a brow, scraping her bowl”Then you’ll be making Sunday roast for us next week—from scratch—or those keys stay in my pocket.”
