The Difficult Daughter-in-Law
Eleanor, did you even read the list? I gave you a list, everythings written down, Mrs. Chapmans voice had that particular tone, as if she doubted Eleanors understanding. It says: jellied beef from three sorts of meat. From three. Not two. Not one. Three.
I did read it, Mrs. Chapman. But I wanted to discuss that one point The anniversary is a week away, and I thought
You thought. Her mother-in-law let the word hang in the air, a gentle rebuke. You thought, and yet Im telling you. Jellied beef with three meats, cabbage and mushroom pie, dressed herring, two saladsCoronation Chicken and a proper potato salad, the prawn and egg thing, devilled eggs, pancakes with clotted cream, roast goose with Bramley apples, potato rolls, cottage cheese bake, a Victoria Sponge and a lemon drizzle cake. Thats the bare minimum, Eleanor. Bare minimum. Were expecting forty guests.
Eleanor stood at the kitchen window, phone in hand, watching the slow drizzle trace the November glass. Rain, thick and heavy, as unwelcome as this conversation.
I understand, Mrs. Chapman. Let me call you back in a bit, all right?
Dont leave it too long. Weve got no time before Saturday.
She ended the call and stared for a moment at her phone, lying beside the neatly written listMrs. Chapmans tidy, assertive handwriting visible beneath the salt cellar holding it down. Eleanor read it through again. Fourteen items, each with fussy instructions: homemade only, not store-bought, better than last time.
Last time. That had been Marinas fifth wedding anniversary. Eleanor started cooking three days ahead. Three exhausting days of sleep-deprivation, her legs giving out and hands cracked from the ceaseless washing up. Tom came home, grabbed food steaming straight from the oven, and retreated to the living room to watch the telly. Once hed asked if she needed help. Eleanor said, Its all right, Ill cope. Hed nodded. He wasnt angry. He just left.
During the festivities, Mrs. Chapman had tasted the jellied beef, called Eleanor over, and whispered, A bit too much salt. Nothing else. The guests heaped on praise, asked for seconds, marvelled at the pies they hadnt tasted in years. Mrs. Chapman just nodded. Our family tradition, was all shed say, the word Eleanor never passing her lips.
Now, seated at the kitchen table in their terrace on Founders Laneher and Toms home these past nineteen yearsEleanor pondered the weight of that word, tradition, as it meant to Mrs. Chapman. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: the daughter-in-law cleans. Tradition: gratitude for being invited to the table.
Her phone buzzed; it was Marina.
Ellie, did you speak to Mum? She said you sounded odd.
I was all right. Just tired, thats all.
See? The anniversarys coming, weve got to start shopping. I can come with you on Wednesday, help carry the bagsoh, actually, no, I have my nails Wednesday. Thursday maybe?
Ill manage, Marina. The shoppings fine.
All right. Only, Mum says the goose must have Bramley apples, not any other sort. Bramleys give the right tangyou know that.
I know.
And the jellied beef must be clear. Last time it was a bit cloudy.
Eleanor closed her eyes. Clear jellied beef, Bramleys for the goose, two cakes, forty people.
Fine, Marina. Ive got it.
She slipped her phone in her pocket and stood up; time to start supper. Tom would be home at seven, hungry, and if dinner wasnt ready, shed get that long, unanswered look and the inevitable; Did you not cook today? Not a reproach. More an innocent confusion, like someone whos waited for a bus that never came.
Eleanor opened the fridge, took out a chicken, onions, carrots. She set the pot on the hob, her hands moving from rote and memory. Nineteen years of the same motions.
Shed met Tom at twenty-six. He was lively, boisterous, the life and soul. At their first meeting, Mrs. Chapman told her, Youre a sensible girl, Eleanor, I can see that. Eleanor had thought it a compliment. She learned soon enough sensible meant, above all, you dont argue.
They married when she was twenty-eight. The first year wasnt bad. Then Daniel was born. Then Daniel grew up and moved off to university in another city. And then there was this: a flat, a kitchen, a fourteen-item list.
As the broth started to bubble, Eleanor lowered the heat and wandered into the sitting room. She wanted to call her mum, just to hear a reassuring voice. But her phone rang first.
It was her mother.
Elly, her mums voice was quiet, but it sent a chill through Eleanors insides. Can you come today?
Whats happened?
Your fathers not well. Ive called the ambulance. Were at the hospital now.
She was pulling on her coat before she remembered the broth. She switched the hob off, texted TomDads unwell, gone to Mums, theres soup on the hobgrabbed her bag, and left.
Outside, the rain was persistent, pattering in the dark. She flagged down a taxi and stared out the window at the blurred city lights. Nicholas Mason. Dad. Seventy-two, always healthy, never a word of complaint. Ill probably outlive you all, he used to say. Shed believed him. Needed to believe it.
The hospital smelt like disinfectant and anxiety. Her mother stood by the admissions window, coat still on, clutching her handbag to her chest.
Mum?
She turned, dry-eyed, her stare stopping Eleanors breath.
They say his pressures through the ceiling. Something in his head. He collapsed in the hall. I just stepped from the kitchenhe was there on the floor.
How is he now?
Theyre running tests. Were to wait.
They sat on the hard waiting room chairs, holding handsher mothers small, cool palm in hers. Eleanor thought guiltily that she hadnt visited in three weeksalways busy. Shopping, cooking, cleaning, endless calls about Mrs. Chapmans precious menu.
Ninety minutes later, a young doctor in glasses approached.
Weve stabilised him, he said. But it might be a stroke. We need more tests and hell have to stay in at least a week.
Will he be all right? her mother fretted.
We hope so. Too soon to tell.
Eleanor took her mother home, made her tea and sat there till she dozed off in her chair. Afterwards, Eleanor sat alone in the kitchen of her childhood, soaking up the familiar hush: not a silence, but a comfort, like a favourite old quilt. Her mothers geraniums bloomed in the window as ever, unbidden. A photo hung on the wall: Eleanor at seven, holding her fathers hand, gazing off, her father looking at her.
She didnt get home until after midnight.
Tom was awake, phone in hand, but he put it down when she entered.
How is he?
Not great. Possible stroke.
Serious, he said quietly. Have you eaten?
No.
Theres chicken in the pot, I warmed it for you. Help yourself.
She did, standing at the sink, too tired to set a table. Later in bed, she stared at the ceiling, thinking of her fathers face, her mothers hands, the scent of that kitchen back home.
The next morning, Mrs. Chapman called.
Eleanor, I heard you were out last night. Tom said it was something to do with your father. You do realise there are only six days till the anniversary?
Mrs. Chapman, my fathers in hospital.
Yes, well, I heard. But the hospitals nearby, isnt it? Its not as though youre admitted yourself. When are you planning to start the cooking?
Something in Eleanor calmed, slowed. It was like water that suddenly stops flowing: a cold, clear certainty.
I dont know yet.
What do you mean, dont know? That special incredulity crept into Mrs. Chapmans voice, the kind that met any unexpected reply. Eleanor, this is my seventieth. That happens once in a lifetime. Do you understand?
I understand. My father is also my only one.
Silence.
Well, Mrs. Chapman said at last, Im sure youll manage. You dont need to be at the hospital all the time. Visit and youre free.
Eleanor said nothing more. She said goodbye and put the phone down.
Tom, sipping coffee at the kitchen table, looked up.
Your mum?
Yeah.
And?
She wanted to know about the menu.
He nodded, took a sip. After a pause he said, Ellie, it is her big birthday. Forty people. We cant just cancel.
Im not saying to cancel.
Right. So youll manage. Of course, visit your dad, but you can cook as well, cant you?
Eleanor stared at him. Tom glanced at his phone, brow furrowed by something on the screen.
Tom, she said. If your mother was in hospital?
He looked up.
Whats that got to do with it?
Nothing. Im just asking.
Its not the same.
Why?
Because shes my mum, he said, as if that explained everything.
Eleanor dressed and headed for the hospital.
Her father was in a bay with three other men. When she entered, he was unconscious; her heart clenched. The nurse said he was only asleep. Eleanor sat by his side, watching his facelined, grey-stubbled chin, hands lying on top of the cover, large and knotty. Those were the hands that had carved her little wooden birds as a child. The hands that had caught her once, falling off her bike.
Her father opened his eyes, saw her, and smileda careful smile, as though he wasnt sure this wasnt a dream.
You made it, he whispered. A voice she barely knew, so quiet. He was always so robust, so sure.
Of course I did. How are you?
Not too bad. Heads fuzzy. Nothing to fuss over.
Its not nothing, Dad.
He shrugged as much as he could from his pillow. Well see.
She stayed a couple of hours. Then she called her mother: Dads awake and talking. Her mother replied, Thank God, her tone making Eleanors eyes sting.
On the bus home, Eleanor watched the fog on the window. She thought: this matters. Dad in hospital. Mum alone. The list with the Bramley apples and crystal-clear jellied beef doesnt matter at all. It was so blindingly obvious, she was ashamed shed not thought it sooner, or had always cut herself off from it.
That evening Tom came home cheerful, brought back a loaf from the shop, told stories about work. Eleanor nodded along, and at last said:
Tom, I wont be doing the anniversary cooking.
He stopped, glass in hand.
What do you mean, you wont?
I mean I wont. My fathers in hospital. My mum needs help. I cant spend three days chained to the stove.
Eleanor. He used her name in fulla sign he was cross. There are forty guests. Mums counting on you. Its her seventieth.
Tom, my father had a possible stroke.
I get that, I do. But the doctors are there. It doesnt mean you need to camp by his bedside.
No. But it means I wont be cooking twelve dishes for forty people while my fathers ill.
He stood, paced the kitchen.
Do you have any idea the embarrassment if Mum cancels? Everyones invited. Marinas told them all. You cant just leave us.
Order in the food.
Order in? It was as if shed suggested something indecent. You know Mum wants it all homemade.
I know, Eleanor said. Only too well.
Tom stared at her, a baffled suspicion in his eyesa man discovering a trusted thing no longer worked as it should.
Ellie, think about it. Its only once in a lifetime. Yes, your dads in hospital. But you can cook, cant you?
No.
No?
No, Tom.
He left the room. Within minutes, Marina called.
Eleanor, whats this about not cooking? Tom says youre refusingthere are forty people, do you understand?
I do.
Mums seventy! Does that mean nothing to you?
It means something. But my father is ill and that means even more to me right now.
But we cant just shift the party!
Marina, you can order food. Or cook yourselves. Ill give you every recipe.
Silence, then:
We cant cook like you.
Youll learn.
She pocketed her phone. Her hands didnt shake; that surprised her. She had expected fear or regret. But all she felt was that same cold, still certainty.
She went to the hospital next day. Dad was better, upright, eating sloppy porridge without enjoying it. S like nursery, he grumbled. Eleanor laughed. She brought in homemade broth in a flask, her mothers recipe. He drank it in one go and said, Now, thats proper food.
Later, she and her mother sat in the tiny kitchen, with its faded flowery curtains and fridge held together by sheer luck. The kitchen smelt of bread and dried mint her mother gathered every summer. Eleanor knew that scent like the back of her hand, as if it had settled in her bones.
How are you, El? her mother asked.
Im managing.
And Toms lot?
Mrs. Chapmans big celebration is on Saturday.
And will you go?
Maybe. But Im not cooking.
Her mother was quiet for a moment, then asked, very gently:
El, are you happy there?
Eleanor looked at her.
What do you mean?
Well. Its just, whenever you visit, youre tired. In a rush. Never still. This is the first time you havent looked at your phone every three minutes.
She glanced at her phone. It was true.
Just a force of habit, Mum.
I know, her mother said. Nothing more, just poured another cup of tea.
On Wednesday, Mrs. Chapman called again, her voice pitched just so, wavering slightly.
Eleanor, Id like to speak adult to adult.
Im listening, Mrs. Chapman.
I realise your fathers ill, and Im truly sorry. But you see, Ive looked forward to this for twenty years. Seventy is a rare age. I shant be seventy again.
Eleanor was silent.
Im not asking you to abandon your father, Mrs. Chapman pressed on, But you arebe honestthe best cook we have. You know it. This is your contribution to the family. Isnt that so?
Mrs. Chapman, Eleanor replied steadily, Ive realised something this week. My contribution to the family isnt just jellied beef or pies. My father is ill, and I want to be with him.
Then be with him. Whos stopping you? Hospital visits in the morning, then cooking in the eveningsnot impossible.
To you, perhaps. To me, it is impossible. I cant pretend everythings fine when it isnt.
There was a long pause.
You always have been a bit difficult, Mrs. Chapman pronounced at last. Not unkind. Simply stating a fact, like a weather report.
Perhaps.
Toms very upset.
I know.
He says youve changed.
Maybe I have.
They said goodbye. She ended the call, steady as ever.
On Thursday, Eleanor packed a small bagclothes, charger, essentials, passport. She didnt debate it; just did it. She messaged Daniel: Grandads improving. Ill be at Grans for a few days. Dont worry. Daniel replied almost at once: Mum, call tonight? Are you sure youre all right? Im fine. Love you, she sent back.
When Tom left for work, she left a brief note in the kitchen: Staying at Mum and Dads for now. Ill call soon.
She paused at the door to her kitchen for a momentnineteen years of that table, that oven, that familiar smell. Then she closed the door and left.
The rain had stopped; the air was cold, the sky a steely blue only found in late autumn. As she headed for the bus stop, Eleanor considered those nineteen yearsalmost half her lifespent accepting whatever she was given, nothing more.
At her parents, she was greeted by mint and light. Her mother opened the door, saw the bag and didnt ask anything, just hugged her tightly. In that embrace, something inside Eleanor started, gently, to come unbound.
Youll stay? her mother asked.
For a few days, if thats all right.
What do you mean, if thats all right? her mother chided quietly. This is your home.
Eleanor stayed four days. Each morning, she and her mother went to the hospital. Dad grew stronger; he could converse, sulk about the drip, demand real food. The doctor said the outlook was cautiously good: hed need monitoring and rest.
During those days, Eleanor slept deeplyher first real sleep in years. She ate her mothers simple food: buttered barley, stew, apple pie made from autumn Bramleys her mother had brought home in September. The pie was nothing fancy; ordinary, but with a scent that made Eleanors eyes sting at the table.
What is it? her mother asked gently.
Nothing. Its just delicious.
Her mother understood, and pressed no further.
Tom called, once, Friday evening. His voice was tense.
When are you coming back?
I dont know yet.
Ellie, Mums in pieces. Marinas burning everything in the kitchen.
Just order the food. Ive said already.
You know Mums hurt?
I do. Im sorry. But Im needed here.
A long pause.
Youve changed, he said. The same words as Mrs. Chapman, but in a different voicea blend of accusation and uncertainty.
Perhaps, Eleanor replied.
She didnt go to the anniversary.
On Saturday morning, she and her mother carried broth and a fresh bunher mother woke early to baketo Dad at the hospital. He polished off both, declared hed soon be home cooking himself, if Mum kept baking like this. Mum laughedthey bickered gently, the way people do when theyve shared a life. Eleanor sat beside them, listening. Dad was over seventy, Mum just the same, and they still knew how to do this.
That evening, Eleanor sat reading. Or rather, holding a book. Her mother knitted in the opposite chair. Outside, snow started to fallsoft, proper December snow. Her phone buzzed several times. Marina texted: It was a disaster. Guests came, barely any food, so embarrassing. Mrs. Chapman wrote nothing. Tom sent a one-word message: Well?
Eleanor put the phone down and returned to her book.
She and Tom talked days later when she returned to Founders Lane for her things. Her practical life was theredocuments, clothes. Dad was doing better; Mum was managing.
Tom sat in the kitchen. Something about him had shifted during the week, as though life itself had nudged him off-centre.
Shall we talk? he said.
They talked properly for the first time in years. No shouting, just talking. Eleanor said she was worn out, tired of being an accessory, of nineteen years of convenience. Tom tried, now and then, to explain: he hadnt meant to take her for granted, it just happened that waythat family came first. Eleanor didnt argue, merely explained her side.
Do you want a divorce? he asked eventually, without hesitation.
She was quiet.
I want to live differently. What that means, Im not sure yet.
He nodded, rose and poured himself some water.
Ill call Daniel.
All right.
Daniel turned up two weeks later, unannounced. He stood at the door, serious, intent as he always was before a difficult conversation.
Mum, how are you?
Im all right, Danny. Honestly.
Dad said well, he said its all a bit much.
Im just being honest, thats all.
He stayed three days. There was tensionat her, at his fatherthen calm. As he left, he hugged her at the door and said, First time in years you dont look drained.
Is it really that obvious?
It is.
The divorce came quietly, respectfully, like people whod long since ceased to share a life. Tom stayed on Founders Lane. Eleanor packed her things and moved back with her parents for a while, until she worked out something else. Her mother said nothing; she simply made up the spare room and left, as a quiet gift on the bedside table, that wooden bird her father made for her as a child. Eleanor picked it upthe bird smooth and warm, still marked by her fathers patient hands.
By early December, her father was dischargedwalking, though slower, with a stick. At their flat, he paused in the hallway.
There we are, he said. The familys all here.
New Year came: just the four of themEleanor, Mum, Dad and Daniel, who came home especially. They decorated the tree, watched old comedies, ate Mums potato salad and cabbage pie. Nothing too fancy. Eleanor helped with the baking, stood by her mother at the floury board, and thought: this is what it means to cook for people. Not for a list. Not for tradition. For people.
In February, she rented a small flata single room on the top floor, the window overlooking a quiet court ringed with birches. Bare but fresh, it still smelt of paint and possibility. Eleanor carried her first box in, stood a long time in the middle of the empty room, then walked to the window to look at the garden below.
Marina rang once in March, both put out and faintly sheepish.
Ellie, how are things? You knowMum, she worries. Though she wouldnt say, you know what shes like.
I do.
Do you think youd come over now and then? For the holidays maybe? Were struggling a bit here.
Eleanor smiledMarina couldnt see but she smiled anyway.
Ill think about it, Marina. If it works out.
All right. Youre the only one who can make proper jellied beef. Ours came out cloudy.
Ill send you the recipe. The tricks in straining the stock, twice if you must. Youll manage.
Are you sure?
I am. It just has to be yours.
She sent the recipe over. Marina replied with a shocked face emoji and didnt call again.
Her father improved slowly but steadily. By spring, the stick was gone and he clamoured for a ride to the allotment. Doctors advised cautionhe insisted. She took him herself in May. They sat on the veranda with mugs edged in blue, while the blackthorn bloomed beyond the garden.
Dad, she said, Do you remember making me wooden birds?
I do. You always lost them.
I didnt lose one. Still got it.
I know, he said. Mum told me. He was quiet. Im proud of you, Ellie.
What for?
For being you. He set his mug down and looked out across the garden. Lifes long. No point spending it pleasing everyone but yourself.
Eleanor nodded. In the distance, the blackthorn sent out its scentdamp and sweetwhile a cuckoo called.
That spring Eleanor returned to workbookkeeping, as once she had, part-time at first, then more regularly. Mrs. Chapman would have said family should come first; Tom used to agree. Now Eleanor found a job at a quiet small firm. It was strange at first, settling into a different routine, but she settled. For the first time, her days belonged to her.
Weekends, she visited her parents. Sometimes she stayed over. She and her mother baked piesnot to order, or for any crowd, but just one, for whoever was home. Her father hovered, dispensing unwanted advice; her mother batted him off. The little bird sat quietly on her bedside table.
Daniel called one summer evening, just to chat.
Mum, you all right?
I am, Dan. Better than all right, really.
You sound it. Im glad. Youre completely yourself again.
Different, she agreed.
I mean better.
She laughed.
Hows things with you?
Not bad. Im with the ladsoh, meant to say, Im coming down in August. Will you cook borscht?
Good old British borscht?
Your way, Mum. Theres nothing better.
Deal.She bought the beets the day before Daniel arrived, weighing each one in her palm, sniffing the earthy scent with a grin she didnt have to hide. It was hot for August, the garden trembling with bees, and her mother brought in dill fresh from the pot by the door. Eleanor chopped, stirred, tasted, letting the bright broth simmer just sono longer mindful of anyones critical eye hovering over her shoulder.
Daniel and her father set the garden table under the birches, chattering about cricket and weather, her mother setting out chipped bowls and thick slices of rye bread. When the soup was ladled, and the four of them sat crowded close in the green hush, Eleanor raised her spoon for a toast, to no one in particular and to everyone at once.
To us, she said.
They atethe sunlight broken in leaves dappling their faces, the soup red as memory in their bowls. Nobody spoke of what had passed, or asked what would be next. There was only the quiet, and laughter, and the long stretch of an afternoon unhurried by obligation.
Later, long after the table was cleared, Daniel wandered into the kitchen and found her rinsing the last pot. He hugged her, suddenly and fiercely.
Glad youre home, Mum.
She held him tight, feeling all the brittle years slip away like skin from boiled beets.
I am too, she murmured.
Night fell, gentle and deep. In her little flat, Eleanor set her wooden bird in the window, and as dusk gathered in the garden below, she breathed in the cool air, free and sure. From the darkness sprang the softest song; a thrush, or perhaps only her own heart, newly unburdened.
Eleanor smiledcontent, at last, to belong not to expectation, but to herself.
