“I wont eat that,” said the mother-in-law, eyeing the dish with disgust.
“What is it?” Eleanor wrinkled her nose as if a bucket of rubbish had been served.
“Beef stew,” explained her daughter-in-law, Sophie, with a smile. She lifted the lid of a ceramic tureen and began ladling out the rich, steaming broth. “Its a joy cooking with vegetables from our own garden.”
“I see no difference,” Eleanor sniffed dismissively. “Though I suppose digging in the dirt takes effort.”
“Absolutely,” Sophie chuckled warmly. “But when its a hobby, its always pleasant.”
“*Your* hobby, not an obligation,” Eleanor muttered, pursing her lips. “Who exactly did you cook this for?”
“For us. Its just enough for two meals.”
“I wont eat this slop,” the older woman snapped, waving her hands and stepping back. “Its just… incomprehensible!” She gagged theatrically, covering her mouth and turning away.
Sophie rolled her eyes and sighed.
She had met Oliver, Eleanors son, a year and a half ago. Their whirlwind romance led to a quiet wedding just a month later, saving money for their dreama countryside cottage they were slowly turning into a home.
In that time, Sophie had only seen Eleanor four timesthe same as Oliver. Three of those visits were ones shed persuaded her husband to make for the holidays.
Eleanor had always seen her sons marriage as reckless. But Oliver was grown and independent, so she could only wait for what she assumed was inevitable: the relationship crumbling.
Yet it hadnt. And it was starting to grate on her.
She couldnt fathom what Oliver saw in this “utterly plain girl” or how Sophie had won him over. He was handsome, always surrounded by more polished, sophisticated women.
Besides, Eleanor was a city woman through and through and had raised Oliver the same way. Her motherly instinct told her hed grow tired of rural life; all he needed was a little nudge to return to his senses.
After this bitter experience, hed surely find a proper wifeone whod actually bond with *her*.
But she had to act fast before clever Sophie trapped him with a baby!
So Eleanor devised a plan. She called Sophie, insisting on visiting, claiming shed never been invited to their housewarming.
Sophie reminded her shed extended two invitations, both declined with excuses of being busy. Eleanor brushed this off and demanded to see her son.
Two days later, she stood in their bright, airy living room, barely hiding her outrage.
Her sonjust like her and his late fatherhated soups! Their family only ate dishes with clear, identifiable ingredients.
How had Oliver let his wife take over so easily? Was she a witch?
A shiver ran down Eleanors spine. She dismissed the crude thought of Sophie keeping him through other means.
Sophie? Impossible!
It had to be a *spell*.
Otherwise, why would her son eat this mush?
She glared daggers at Sophie. The girl played saint while slowly *poisoning* her husband!
“Whats so incomprehensible?” Sophie asked evenly, ignoring the dramatics as she filled a second bowl and handed it to Eleanor. “Its simple. Cabbage, onions, carrots, and a bit of grated beetrootmy grans recipe. I forgot the potatoes this time, but Ill add them next. Then fresh herbs from the garden, and a dollop of cream!”
“Ugh, eat your gruel if you must!” Eleanor scoffed, flapping her hands.
“You could use it at your ageplenty of fibre helps digestion. A happy gut means a happy person!”
Eleanor flushed at the boldness but bit her tongue. “And why are you forcing Oliver to eat this?”
Sophie blinked. “He seems to enjoy it.”
“What choice does a man have if theres nothing else?”
“Cook what he likes? Order takeaway? Visit a neighbour? Or his mother?” Sophie listed with a smile.
At the last suggestion, Eleanor reddened further. “Dont be cheeky! You could at least *ask* me what he likesout of politeness.”
“Eleanor, I asked *him*. Hes grown. He says he likes everything.”
“Hes lying! Cant you tell? First, he didnt want to upset you. Now hes just enduring it!”
“Oh!” Sophie sighed dramatically. “The stews madewe wont waste it. Hell manage. Will you support him too?”
“*What?*” Eleanor gaped.
“No? Pity. Im sure your son would appreciate the solidarity.”
“You”
“Sophie! Were back!” Olivers cheerful voice rang from the hallway.
A fluffy white blur shot into the room, barking excitedly.
“Ahh!” Eleanor shrieked, ducking behind Sophie.
“Dont worry, its Daisy. She doesnt bite. Well-trained too,” Sophie soothed, raising a hand. The dog instantly sat, tail wagging. “Good girl.”
“Why are you letting the neighbours dog in?” Eleanor hissed, shaken.
“Not neighbours. Shes ours. Indoor pets are quite normal here.”
“*Indoors?!* Thats unhygienic!” Eleanor shrieked. “And Oliver *hates* dogs!”
“No, *Mum*, *you* hate dogs. Hello,” Oliver said, striding in. “Perfect timing for lunch.”
“Hello, darling!” Eleanor stood expectantly, waiting for a cheek kiss, but Oliver only gave her a brief hug before planting a proper one on Sophies lips.
“Shall we eat?” He inhaled deeply, grinning.
“Gladly, but theres nothing *decent*,” Eleanor snipped.
“Nothing?”
“Youve made pig slop! And you never mentioned getting pigshow dreadful the smell must be!”
Oliver frowned at his mother, then at Sophie, then at the steaming pot. His jaw tightened, and when he looked back at Eleanor, his earlier cheer was gone.
“Honestly, Id forgotten these habits,” he said flatly.
“What *habits*? These are our *tastes*! Our *standards*! You never complained!”
“Me? As a boy, I feared your temper. As a man, I avoided conflict. Dad once said, If you dislike whats ours, make your own. So I did. Here, *my* tastes rule. And the lady of this house is my wife. Unhappy? You still have your place.”
“Oliver! Shes turned you against me!” Eleanor wailed. “Shes *enchanted* you!”
Done, Oliver took her arm, guided her to the hall, grabbed her suitcase, opened the door, and led her silently to the gate.
“Sophie actually defended you. She couldnt fathom families like ours. The stew was a test. You failed.” He gestured to the waiting taxi.
“Youhow did you *plan* this?!”
“I told Sophie not to send it away. Smart of her.”
“You*you*!”
“*Me*, Mum. The man of the housejust as you wanted.” He signalled the driver, set her bag down, and shut the gate behind him.
“A spell,” Eleanor muttered, convinced as she fumbled for her phone. There *had* to be a way to break it.
Sometimes, the ones who claim to love us most refuse to see us for who we truly areand lose us because of it.
