I could no longer endure my motherinlaws whims at the New Years dinner, so I slipped out to my friends flat.
Whos slicing the salad like that? Margaret swore, eyeing the carrots on the chopping board. Those cubes are the size of pigs snouts! They wont fit in a mouth. Ive told you a dozen times the pieces should be tiny and elegant, not hacked up with an axe, she shouted, drowning out the television where Danny Lukson was once again promising to head to the sauna.
Emily froze, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock read four oclock on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as if shed just unloaded a freight train, her legs swollen in houseslippers, and a fresh cut on her finger throbbed.
Margaret, Emily inhaled deeply, trying not to let hysteria tremble her voice, these are regular cubes, the usual size. If you dont like them, you can skip the salad. We have three other dishes.
Skip? Margaret flung her hands, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this talk about a sons wife? Ive come here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and youre giving me a piece of bread with a side of complaint? Victor! Do you hear how your wife is speaking to me?
Victor, Emilys husband, sat in the lounge untangling a tangled string of fairy lights. He exhaled in resignation; he hated conflict and had adopted a bury your head in the sand approach, hoping the storm would pass.
Ol mum, just cut it finer, will you? Shes only trying to help, Victor called from the sofa. Shes a former professional chef, she knows best.
I used to run a canteen! Margaret puffed, adjusting the heavy brooch at her throat. I knew every health code by heart. And you, Emily, your kitchen is a disaster. The dish towel is stained, yet you wipe your hands on it. Unsanitary!
Emily set the knife down. A slow, steady anger rose inside her, the kind that usually ends in regret. It wasnt her first New Year with Margaret, but it felt the toughest yet. Margaret had arrived two days earlier, promising assistance, but really inspecting every corner and passing judgment: daughterinlaw untidy, son underfed, no grandchildren (as if Emily were selfish), and a tastelessly furnished flat.
The towel is clean, I took it out this morning, a drop of beet juice fell on it, Emily replied calmly. Margaret, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose; its getting hot and cramped in here.
A goose? Margaret squinted. How did you marinate it? In mayo like last year? Thats vulgar! The goose should be soaked in cranberry sauce with juniper for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Didnt you read it?
I used my own recipeapples and honey. Victor loves it, Emily said.
Victor likes only what you feed him! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hell have gastritis, look how pale he sits. I used to make him steamed meatballs as a child
Emily felt the goose might fly out the window rather than into the oven, or perhaps straight at her second mother.
Enough, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. The goose goes into the oven. Salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and straighten ourselves up.
Straighten up? Margaret examined her daughterinlaw. Your hair looks like a mop, those bags under your eyesat least put on a cucumber mask. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Emily swallowed the rebuke for the sake of her husband, the holiday, and the desire not to start the year with a fight. She placed the heavy tray in the oven, set the timer, and retreated to the bathroom.
She turned the tap on and finally let the tears flow. For five minutes she sat on the tub edge, wailing, mascara running down her cheeks. She was thirtyfive, head of a logistics department with twenty staff, coowner of the flat, having invested her inheritance. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice inside whispered, sounding like her own mothers, you must be wiser, you must endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.
Emily washed her face, applied a cooling pad, forced a smile at her reflection. Alright. Six hours left. Well listen to the bells, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to see the Christmas lights, then Ill read a book.
She emerged from the bathroom, hoping for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat. It seemed things were settling.
In the bedroom lay her dressa deep navy velvet gown with a graceful back cut, bought especially for the occasion, half of her bonus spent on it.
Emily, are you really going to wear that? Margarets voice echoed above the door as she breezed into the room without knocking.
Its my party dress, Emily replied.
Honestly the velvet looks like a teapot cover. The colour is mournful. New Year should sparkle! I have a glittery sweater you could borrow if youd like, Margaret said, pursing her lips.
Thanks, but I like this dress. Victor does too, Emily answered.
Victor doesnt care; he just wants you not to ruin it. As a woman I tell you, it doesnt suit youit highlights every flaw. You should be at the gym, not polishing nighttime buns.
Emily began to dress in silence, her hands shaking, the zipper catching.
Let me help, youll tear it otherwise, Margaret tugged at the zipper, pulling Emily forward. There, see? I warned you. Dont complain later when Victors eyes wander to younger women.
By ten p.m. the table was set. Crystal glimmered, candles flickered, the goldenbrown goose took pride of place. Victor donned a shirt, Margaret slipped into the glittery sweater and piled on every gold piece of jewellery she owned, looking like a Christmas tree.
Emily felt like a squeezed lemon. She had no appetite, no spirit, only a desire for the night to end.
Lets toast the old year! Victor announced cheerfully, pouring champagne. Its been a tough year, but weve made it. The important thing is were together!
A tough year indeed, Margaret added, raising her glass. Especially for memy health is poor, blood pressure spikes, no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy, no grandchildren, just loneliness
Mom, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.
Calls once a week just to check a box. Lets not get sad. Lets drink to better housewives next year, to remembering our feminine purpose.
Emily took a sip, the champagne bitter on her tongue.
Try the salad, she offered, pushing a plate of herring salad toward Margaret. Made with homemade mayo, just as you like.
Margaret speared a bite, sniffed, grimaced, and chewed deliberately, eyes rolling.
This herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, crunching like gravel. And the mayodid you drown it in vinegar? Its sour enough to turn a lemon green.
Just lemon juice, as the recipe says, Emily murmured.
Lemon juice in a herring salad? Who taught you to cook? Your mother, bless her soul, wasnt a chef either. She fed you processed foods, thats why youre such a mess.
The comment struck a nerve. Emilys mother had died three years ago, a hardworking woman who juggled two jobs to raise her daughter. She never made juniper marinades, but their home was always warm.
Dont insult my mother, Emily whispered, blood pounding in her ears.
What did I say? Im just telling the truth, Margaret snapped. Victor, pass the breadthis salad is impossible to eat.
Victor handed the bread silently, eyes fixed on his plate, trying to become invisible.
Then something clicked inside Emily. All the anger, hurt, and exhaustion melted into a cool calm. She looked at Victor, the man whod promised to stand by her in joy and sorrow, now watching his mother trample her mothers memory.
Victor, does it taste good? she asked.
What? he startled. Its fine. Emily, can we stop fighting at the table? Moms just sharing her opinion.
Just an opinion, right, he replied, shrugging.
Emily rose slowly.
Where are you off to? For more heat? Margaret barked. Sit, its early yet.
No, Im not going for anything hot, Emily said, heading toward the hallway.
She stripped off the velvet dress, folded it neatly, slipped into jeans and a warm sweater, packed a small gym bag with toiletries, a change of clothes, and a phone charger. She threw on a coat, hat, and boots.
From the living room, Margarets voice floated: I told my neighbour that a multicooker is uselessfoods dead in it! Real cooking belongs in a pot over a woodfire Victor, wheres Emily? Shes taking forever. Is she upset? She seems nervous, maybe we should see a doctor.
Emily paused at the doorway. Im not upset, Margaret. Ive just made my decision.
Victor dropped his fork. Emily, where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor, he said.
Going to the shop? Need something? he offered.
No. Im leaving this house. Celebrate without me. The goose is with apples, not juniper, so enjoy it. Toss the salads if theyre that awful.
Emily, stop this drama! Margaret cried. Sit down! Guests are at the door, the bells will ring in an hour!
I have no guests, Emily replied calmly. I have two strangers in this house: one who hates me, and another who couldnt care less. Happy New Year to you both.
She turned and walked to the front door.
Emily! Emily, wait! Victor leapt up, knocking a chair over, lunging after her. What are you doing? Its night!
To someone who values me, she said, opening the door.
If you go now, Mum will be furious! Youll break the family! Victor shouted, halffear, halfanger.
The family fell apart when you let her trample my feet, Emily replied, slamming the door.
Outside, soft snow fell, quiet except for distant fireworks. The cold air was sharp, yet she felt warm inside. She dialed her friend.
Sophie, you up?
Emily? Whats happening? Were all dancing here! Are you coming to wish us?
Sophie, can I crash at yours? Right now.
There was a pause, then Sophies voice steadied: Whats wrong? Did Victor do something?
Ive left. Probably for good. Im standing at the building entrance with my bag.
Ill be waiting. Bring your boots, weve got a feast, the rice is ready, and theres champagne everywhere. Remember the intercom code?
Got it.
She hailed a cab. The fare was steepNew Years night prices, but she didnt mind. When the bright yellow cab pulled up, she slipped into the back seat and finally allowed herself a genuine smile.
Sophies flat was a jumble of people, laughter, and the scent of mandarins and fried rice. Sophie, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned sweater, hugged Emily so tightly her ribs ached.
Come in, love! Youre freezing! Sophie shouted. Misha, pour another!
The living room was crowded with friends, their children, a dog, and a couple of neighbours. No crystal, no fine chinajust paper napkins, a massive pot of pilaf, a tower of toast with caviar, and a bucket of mandarins.
Emily, youre just in time! Were about to make wishes at midnight! Misha bellowed, handing her a glass.
She took a plate of steaming pilaf and ate. It was heavenly, free of sanitary standards and juniper, simply tasty and made with love.
What happened? Sophie asked as the clock struck twelve and everyone shouted Happy New Year! while popping champagne.
Emily gave a brief account of the goose, the oversalad, the mophair, and Victors silence.
Honestly, you did the right thing, Sophie said. Your mum was a witch. Dont waste your life on them. Youre beautiful and smart; youll find a decent man wholl carry you and love his mother.
Emilys phone buzzed with twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Margaret, and a slew of messages: Emily, wheres the corkscrew?, Emily, where are the napkins?, Mom, my blood pressures through the roof!, Youre selfish, how could you abandon us on New Years?.
She read them and laughed, a liberating, almost tearful laugh.
The corkscrew they cant find she muttered, wiping tears. Two grown adults cant open a bottle or locate napkins. Pathetic.
Sophie snatched the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They danced until three in the morning. Emily forgot her fatigue, the sore back, the grievances. She felt alive.
The next morning, she woke on Sophies couch, head a little throbbing but spirits high. She knew she had to return homenot to apologise, but to close the chapter.
She arrived at her flat around noon. The hallway was dim, smelling faintly of stale alcohol and burnt toast. On the floor lay the very corkscrew everyone had lost.
The living room was a mess. The table uncleaned, food remnants scattered. The goose sat untouched, one wing torn off. It seemed without the housemaid the appetite had vanished.
Victor slept on the sofa, a blanket draped over him. Margaret was nowhere in sight; the door to the guest room was shut.
Emily strode into the kitchen, heels clicking loudly, flung open a window, letting the crisp winter air rush in, and started the coffee grinder. The whirring sounded like a cannon blast in the quiet.
Victor shuffled in, hair dishevelled, a guilty look on his face.
Came? Thanks for the party. Mom spent the night on valerian, he rasped. Did you enjoy the goose?
Did I enjoy it? You know what youve done? Youve embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes leaving now. She says she wont set foot here again.
Thats the best news this year, Emily replied.
Youve become a stranger, Victor. Cold.
Ive become myself, Emily. Im done being convenient. I want to be happy.
At that moment Margaret burst into the room, eyes wet, hand clutching a towel to her forehead.
Finally! Shes back after I drove her to a heart attack! she cried. Victor, Im calling a cab. I cant stay in the same room as that woman. Shes a monster!
Emily faced her. Margaret, a cab is fine. Please take your recipes, advice, and complaints with you. Next time you visit, it should be by invitation, and you should act like a guest, not a health inspector. Otherwise, the door stays shut.
Margaret choked on her words, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Victor! Shes kicking me out!
Victor looked at Emily, who stood by the window, bathed in the pale winter light, composed and untouchable. He recalled the nights ranting, the terrible dinner, the feeling that something vital had been lost. He realised that if he didnt choose a side now, Emily would vanish from his life forever.
Mom, youve gone too far, Victor whispered. Emilys right.
What? You traitor! Margaret shrieked. Im taking you to the station!
The packing was loudMargaret flinging clothes, slamming drawers, cursing the house. Emily watched, sipping coffee, the snow drifting outside.
When Margaret finally left, the front door closed with a final thud. Victor sank back into the kitchen chair, his head in his hands.
Sorry, Emily, he said, voice breaking. I was scared to hurt you, so I kept listening to her.
Emily placed a hand on his shoulder. Youre an idiot, Victor, but you have a chance to make things right.
What chance?
Get up. Grab the rubbish bags. Well clean this mess together. Then well roast the gooseby hand, no fancy saucesand watch a film. And if I hear even a whisper about the house being dusty, youll be the one to leave.
Victor lifted his gaze, hope flickering.
I get it. No dust, just goose and Potter, he said, a grin forming.
They cleaned in silence, efficiently. They tossed the ruined salads, scrubbed the mountain of dishes. By evening the flat shone anew. They curled up on the sofa under a single blanket, eating cold goose that turned out surprisingly delicious, and laughing at the antics of the Weasley twins.
Emilys phone buzzed again. A message from Margaret: Arrived. Heart hurts. God help you. She showed it to Victor.
What should we reply? she asked.
Victor typed,We both smiled, knowing that the true feast was the peace we had finally reclaimed.
