Dear Mother-in-law, I invite you to our divorce!
When her son flung open the door of his flat in Manchester, Eleanor Whitmore stepped inside, her voice trembling with unease.
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah…?” replied Oliver, bewildered.
“Where’s Charlotte?! Has she left already? Is it over?” His mother’s voice quivered with dread.
“Mum, what are you on about?” Oliver shrugged, utterly lost.
“Then I’m too late…” Eleanor sighed deeply, shuffling into the sitting room and perching on the edge of the sofa as if afraid to take up space. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s happened?” Oliver tensed, a knot forming in his chest.
“You’re telling me everything’s fine?!” She shot him a suspicious glare, as if he were hiding some dreadful secret.
“Is something not fine?” He floundered, unsure where this was headed.
“Oliver, explain this nonsense at once!” Eleanor rummaged in her handbag, pulled out a card with a withered rose on it, and thrust it at him. “Found it in my letterbox this morning. An invitation to your divorce!”
Oliver took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *Dear Mother-in-law, I invite you to our divorce! Your daughter-in-law, Charlotte.* He froze, disbelieving.
“Mum, you actually think this is real?” he asked, masking his shock.
“Are you saying I wrote it myself?!” She threw up her hands, her voice shaking with fury.
“No, it’s just… Charlotte? Really?”
“Who’s Charlotte?”
“Your daughter-in-law?”
“Oliver, stop dodging! Out with it—have you two split? You’ve barely been married a year! Where is she now?”
“Mum, relax, everything’s fine. Charlotte’s at work… probably. This is just a joke. Over soup, I reckon…”
“A joke? Over *soup*?!” Eleanor stared as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re saying soup justifies this?”
“Well, yeah,” Oliver scratched his neck awkwardly. “She cooked it for the first time yesterday. I said it wasn’t… great. Not like yours.”
“And then what?” His mother narrowed her eyes, sensing disaster.
“She got mad, threatened to bin it. Said she wouldn’t cook again unless I ate the lot. So I joked I’d file for divorce if she stopped. Just messing about…”
“A *joke*?! You brought up divorce—as a *joke*?!” Eleanor leapt up, righteous fury blazing in her eyes.
“I told her after I was kidding, but by then she was proper cross…”
“That’s it, you’re just like your father!” She stormed to the kitchen. “Where’s this soup? Fetch it!”
“Why?” Oliver trailed behind, baffled.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s vile…”
“I’ll show you *vile*! To the kitchen, now!”
Eleanor marched in, located the pot, slammed it on the hob, and lit the gas.
“Come here!” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Mum, honestly—” Oliver faltered under her glare.
“And bring your house keys!”
“What for?” He stalled, confused.
“Now!”
Defeated, he handed them over. She pocketed them in her weathered coat.
“Sit!” she ordered, ladling soup into two bowls.
She took the first spoonful, staring him down as he reluctantly followed.
“And *this* is what you called vile?” She arched a brow, finishing hers. “Perfectly decent!”
“Yours is still better…” Oliver mumbled, prodding his bowl.
“I’ve had thirty years’ practice! Your wife’s just learning! Eat up before it’s cold!”
Dead silence filled the room, broken only by clinking spoons. When he finished, Oliver held out his hand.
“Alright, Mum. Keys?”
“Not yet,” she smirked. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
“That book on the shelf—*Family Favourites: Simple Recipes*. Your father and I are visiting Sunday. And *you*, my dear, will personally cook three dishes from it!”
“*Me*?!” Oliver nearly choked. “I’ve got a wife for that!”
“Oh no, no. Your wife can chop onions. The rest is *your* job. And I’ll praise her soup. But you—threatening *divorce*?! If you want to lecture like me and your father, live twenty years married first, *then* we’ll talk!”
“Right…” he grumbled, eyes downcast.
“No arguments! Slack off, and your father will have your hide—you know how he loves a good meal.”
Eleanor rose, fixing him with one last stern look, her heart a storm of maternal resolve. How to shield this young marriage from foolish mistakes? How to teach her son that love wasn’t just jokes—but cherishing each other, even if the soup was a tad too salty?
