“Ellen, they’re arriving in two hours!” The man’s voice crackled through the phone, tense with urgency. “Did you manage everything?”
“Nicholas, I—” Ellen glanced at little Alice, finally asleep after a restless night, and nearly burst into tears. “I was just about to go to the shop. Alice cried all night—I haven’t even sat down.”
“How could this happen? Mother loves everything posh. Should we order takeaway?” The man sounded deflated.
“On a Sunday? Everything takes ages. I’ll dash to Tesco—pick up some ready-made bits,” Ellen offered.
“Mother won’t like that,” Nicholas sighed. “She rang yesterday, said she’s bringing her famous pork pie. You know how she prides herself on her cooking.”
Ellen knew. Margaret Elizabeth never missed a chance to remind everyone how she’d fed the entire extended family at holidays, how her fridge was always stocked with homemade meals, how she “lived for family.”
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t stand by the stove right now. Alice just nodded off in her cot.”
“Fine, pop to the shop while she’s out. I’ll try to leave work early,” he conceded.
Ellen carefully tucked the blanket around Alice and began readying herself. The mirror showed a gaunt face, shadows etched beneath her eyes. She hastily combed her hair, threw on a jacket, and rushed to the supermarket.
“Right—potato salad, prawn cocktail, smoked salmon blinis,” she muttered, tossing pre-made trays into the basket. “Sausage rolls, bread, tea, biscuits.”
Her phone buzzed incessantly.
“Ellen, we’re nearly there!” sang Victoria, her seventeen-year-old sister-in-law, down the line. “I can’t wait to see my niece! Did you make something yummy?” she asked, as though on cue.
“Of course, Vicky,” Ellen lied, tapping her card at the till. “It’s all sorted.”
She’d barely set down the bags when the doorbell rang. Margaret Elizabeth stood in the doorway, arms laden with a massive carrier bag, her husband Arthur trailing behind with a suitcase, and Victoria clutching a gift-wrapped box.
“Where’s my granddaughter?” Margaret trilled, scanning the hallway. “And why is everything in such a state?”
“Please, come in,” Ellen forced a smile, taking their coats. “Alice is asleep.”
“What do you mean, *asleep*?” Margaret huffed.
“Mum, *shush*,” Victoria hissed. “You’ll wake her!”
Too late. A cry leaked from the nursery.
“Oh, I’ll go to her myself!” Margaret declared, marching off.
“Wait, I—” Ellen began, but her mother-in-law had already scooped up the baby.
“Good heavens, she’s soaked! When did you last change her?” Margaret frowned, disapproval thick in her voice.
“About an hour ago,” Ellen mumbled.
“In my day, we didn’t have posh nappies—just muslin squares, and the children were just fine!” Margaret sniffed.
“I’ll set the table,” Ellen tried. “You must be famished after the drive.”
“And what exactly is there to set?” Margaret peered into the kitchen, Alice still in her arms. “Is this *shop-bought* food? Arthur, look—the youth today are hopeless! Everything from a packet!”
Arthur only grunted, settling at the table.
“I’d eat,” Victoria ventured, eyeing the salads.
“Wait!” Margaret cut in. “We’ll have my pie warmed up. Ellen, does your oven even work?”
“It works,” Ellen exhaled, the room spinning from exhaustion.
“Ugh, this salad’s vinegary!” Victoria grimaced, poking at the potato dish. “And the sausage rolls are *salty*!”
“I *told* you!” Margaret crowed. “This is what happens when you don’t cook properly. I’d never serve guests something I didn’t make myself.”
The front door slammed.
“Hello, everyone!” Nicholas called, fresh off his night shift at the hospital. “How’s it going?”
“Nicholas, darling!” Margaret threw up her hands. “Imagine—after all that travel, we can’t even get a proper meal in your own home! Everything’s from the *shops*!”
“Mum,” Nicholas sank into a chair. “Ellen hasn’t slept all night. Cooking wasn’t exactly a priority.”
“*I* never slept at your age! Worked, cooked, raised you—somehow managed it all!” Margaret retorted.
“You had Gran living with us,” Arthur muttered, earning a sharp glare.
“We’ve not visited in a *year*. Ellen’s home all day—could’ve at least prepped a proper meal for family. Am I wrong?” Margaret challenged.
Silence fell.
Ellen’s lips trembled. The final straw came when Alice, still in Margaret’s arms, wailed again.
“Give her to me,” Ellen said quietly. “It’s time to feed her.”
“I’ll settle her,” Margaret insisted. “In *my* day, we fed babies on the hour, and look—perfectly healthy!”
“Mum, *give her back*,” Nicholas said firmly. “Ellen, go feed Alice. We’ll order pizza or something.”
“*Pizza*?” Margaret gasped. “I brought a *pie*!” Reluctantly, she handed the baby over.
“Then we’ll have both,” Nicholas shut her down. “And no lectures. Ellen’s a wonderful mother—she’s doing her best.”
“But—” Margaret started.
“No *buts*. Either you respect our home, or you stay at a hotel.”
The room froze. He wasn’t joking.
“Son—” Margaret began, then faltered at his expression.
“Tea, anyone?” Arthur interjected peaceably. “With the pie?”
“I’d take sushi,” Victoria chimed in. “Mum, *you* said the first month’s the hardest. Remember?”
Margaret sighed. “Fine. Order your sushi.” She waved a hand and followed Ellen into the nursery.
“Ellen, don’t take it to heart,” she said awkwardly.
“I’m trying,” Ellen whispered, tears welling. “It’s just… a lot right now.”
“What if I cook tomorrow?” Margaret offered suddenly. “I’ll teach you my steak-and-ale pie. Those shop salads are *dreadful*.”
“Margaret,” Ellen murmured, rocking Alice, “I’m exhausted. Maybe not today?”
Margaret sank onto the bed, stroking Alice’s head. “You know, I remember when Nicholas was small. Never slept—woke the whole house. My mother-in-law—bless her—said I’d spoiled him. Felt awful.”
“Really?” Ellen blinked.
“Course! My Arthur was always away, and between laundry and cooking… Well. She’d go on about *her* time, how *she*—”
Vicky leaned in, giggling. “Mum, that’s *you* now!”
“Suppose it is,” Margaret admitted. “We mothers-in-law forget what it was like.”
Nicholas appeared, draping an arm around his mum. “Remember when you skipped my nursery drop-in because you were baking pies for Dad’s boss?”
“*Yes*! He was livid—had to cancel a meeting to mind you!”
They laughed, and Alice, as if sensing the shift, smiled in her sleep.
“Ellen,” Margaret said softly, “I’m sorry. All my lectures, my ‘rules’… You’re doing brilliantly—with Alice, the house, everything. So what if it’s shop-bought? What matters is everyone’s happy.”
“Thank you,” Ellen whispered, tears spilling.
P.S. After that weekend, Margaret never criticised again—and if advice came, it was gentle, wrapped in love. Ellen realised sometimes, you just needed to talk heart-to-heart to melt the ice. After all, they both loved the same people—just differently.
