**Friday, 12th May**
«Dont you dare contradict your husbandyour place is in the kitchen,» my mother-in-law snapped in front of the guests.
«Its not just a sponge cake, Mum,» I tried to explain gently as she poked at the dessert with her fork. «Theres ground almonds and orange zest in it. And the cream is mascarpone-basedthats why its so light.»
«Light, yes, but not sweet enough,» Margaret retorted, pushing her plate away. «In my day, cakes were properrich and sugary. This is just air. You cant feed guests with this. Andrew, tell her.»
Andrewmy husbandcleared his throat awkwardly. Seated at the head of the table in our spacious new flat, bought not without his parents help, he avoided my eyes.
«Mum, come on, its lovely. Emma worked hard,» he mumbled, shovelling in a large bite. «Honestly, darling, its delicious.»
Something tightened inside me. *Worked hard*. As if this were a childs craft project, not a complex dessert Id perfected for weeks. Before marriage, my baking had been a point of pride. Friends ordered cakes from me for birthdays. Id even dreamed of opening a little patisserie one day. Andrew, when we were dating, called me his «kitchen fairy,» devouring whole pies and swearing hed never tasted anything better.
But after the wedding, everything changed. We moved closer to his parents, and Margarets visits became frequent. At first, shed bring homemade preserves and offer housekeeping tips. Having lost my own mother young, I welcomed it. But soon, advice became orders, and concern turned to control.
Shed walk into our bedroom unannounced, inspect the bathroom for grime, rearrange my kitchenware. She lectured me on ironing Andrews shirts («inside out, so the collars dont shine»), making roast beef («only from the butcher on High Street, not your supermarkets»), and raising our five-year-old, Harry («dont coddle himyoull make him soft»).
I endured it. I loved Andrew and wanted peace. I told myself Margaret was just old-fashioned, meaning well. When I complained, Andrew would shrug. «Shes set in her ways, Em. Doesnt mean harm.»
Tonights dinner was another test. Margaret had dropped by unannounced, as usual, and watched me frost the cake like a stern examiner. Now, her verdict was delivered before the family.
«Im not saying its inedible,» she relented, noting my expression. «Just use more sugar next time. Men need something hearty. Right, Andrew?»
He nodded, finishing his slice. I wordlessly gathered the plates. The hurt wasnt just her criticismit was Andrews silence. Hed rather placate her than defend me.
Later, as Margaret left, Andrew hugged me from behind.
«Dont take it to heart, love. Mums just traditional. The cake was brilliant, really.»
«Then why didnt you say so?» I asked quietly, not turning.
«Whats the point? She wont budge. Easier to agree.»
«Easier for *you*,» I said bitterly. «Andrew, I feel like a servant here. My opinions dont matter.»
«Not this again,» he sighed, letting go. «No one thinks that. But Mums family matriarch. Respect her. Shes lived longershe *knows*.»
I turned. His eyes held no support, just weariness.
«And what about me? Do I know nothing? Are my feelings irrelevant?»
«Emma, not now. Im knackered. Just add more sugar next time, yeah?»
He left. I stood alone in the kitchen full of appliances Margaret had chosen. A stranger in my own home. My patisserie dream felt childish. How could I run a business when I couldnt even please my own family?
Weeks passed. I played the perfect wife. Up early, making breakfast, cleaning, cookingextra sugar, extra roast, meat from High Street. I bit my tongue when Margaret lectured.
Andrew was content. Peace reigned. He praised my roasts, kissed me goodbye, oblivious to my hollow gaze.
Then came his fathers 60th. A grand do at their country house. Margaret handed me a menu: Beef Wellington, trifle, hors d’oeuvresdozens of dishes.
«Perhaps we could cater some» I ventured.
«*Cater?*» Her eyebrows shot up. «Hendersons *cook*. Its about family pride. If you cant manage, Ill call Aunt Joan. But prove yourself.»
I accepted the challenge. For a week, I barely sleptbaking, marinating, chopping. The kitchen became my battleground.
The party was a success. Guests devoured the food, especially the men.
«Margaret, your daughter-in-laws a gem!» boomed one of Dads golf mates. «Wife like this deserves pampering!»
Margaret preened. «Ive taught her well.»
No one saw my exhaustion. All credit went to her.
Later, as talk turned to Dads property investments, I chimed inan article Id read on glamping ventures. The room fell silent.
«*Excuse me?*» Margarets voice cut like ice. «A womans place is in the kitchen, not mens business. Check on the trifle.»
Humiliation burned. I fled to the kitchen, gripping the counter.
Andrew found me. «What were you *thinking*? You embarrassed me!»
«*I* embarrassed *you*?» My voice turned steely. «Your mother humiliated me publicly, and you sat there. Again.»
«Shes my *mother*! And shes rightbusiness isnt womens work. Was silence so hard?»
I stared at him, seeing not my love, but a boy afraid of Mummys wrath.
«Go back to your guests, Andrew.»
That night, I decided.
The next day, I dug out my old recipe journals and culinary diploma, hanging it where Margarets cross-stitch had been. I created «Sweet Tales by Emma» online, posting photos of my cakeslight, elegant, *mine*.
My first order came: a birthday cake. I baked through the night. The clients gasp of delight was worth every pennymy first earned money. Freedom tasted sweeter than sugar.
Margaret called, furious. «Aunt Mabel saw you delivering a *box*! Is my son not providing enough?»
«Im working, Margaret.»
«*Working?* A Henderson wife doesnt *work*! Im calling Andrew!»
«Call him.»
Andrew stormed in later, red-faced. «Mums hysterical! Whats this nonsense?»
I handed him my phoneglowing with praise: *»Mum cried happy tears! Youre an artist!»*
He read it, then looked at me. For once, my gaze didnt waver.
«I wont stop, Andrew. My happiness matters too. If you cant accept that…» I turned to the window, where dawn brokemy new beginning.
I dont know what becomes of us. But Ill never let anyone dictate my place again.
**Lesson learned:** A life lived for others approval is no life at all.
