You should be grateful that my mum is eating your food, my husband snaps.
Did you put my boots on again? I shout as I burst into the hallway, spotting the wardrobe door wide open. I told you not to touch my stuff!
My dear, whats the tone? Margaret Clarke adjusts her scarf in front of the mirror. Its bleak outside, and these are my only proper shoes. Isnt that a bit harsh?
Its not about being harsh, I cross my arms, feeling irritation rise. Its about respecting my personal space. I dont wander into your room or take your things.
Margaret purses her lips and gives me that royal stareeyes sliding from top to bottom with a slight squint and a patronising smile.
How considerate we are, she says. Back in our day eight people slept in one room and nobody complained about personal space.
In your day maybe they didnt, I mutter, but times have changed.
What are you whispering about? Margaret leans in, pretending not to hear. Speak up, Im not getting any younger.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Living with my motherinlaw for the past three months has been a trial, but there was no other option. We had to give up the flat wed rented together to keep up with the mortgage on the new house. The build has been delayed, so were cramped in Margarets twobed flat.
Im just going to the shop to buy you a pair of rubber boots, I force a smile. So you wont suffer.
Oh, no need! Margaret flails her hands. My shoe cupboard is overflowing. Better buy yourself a pair so you dont waste mine.
Mine, I note to myself. Not old or everyday, but truly mine. It underlines who gets to decide whether to share or not.
Fine, Margaret, I say. Im off to work now. Ill be late; I have a meeting.
Again? she shakes her head. Alex will come home tired and hungry, and you wont be there.
Alex is an adult; he can heat his own dinner, I reply, pulling on my coat. Everythings already in the fridge.
Stepping outside, I inhale the damp spring air. The rain has stopped, but the slushy snow underfoot has turned into a grey mush. She really does need boots, I admit, heading for the bus stop.
At the office the day drags. Im a designer at a printing firm and usually dive headfirst into work, but my thoughts keep circling back to the morning clash, the missing pricey tea packet, and the time Margaret accidentally washed my favourite sweater in hot water.
You seem on edge today, my colleague Natalie says, sitting down with me at lunch. Motherinlaw again?
I manage a weak smile. You can see that, cant you?
Exactly, Natalie pats my hand sympathetically. Tell me whats happening this time.
Nothing spectacular, I wave it off. Just the usual petty things piling up.
And Alex?
Whats Alex? I sigh. He loves his mum, I get that. He tries to stay neutral.
Neutral wont work, Natalie shakes her head. Sooner or later hell have to pick a side, and itd be better if he chose yours, otherwise
Otherwise what? I sit up. Ill leave him because of his mum?
Not because of her, but because of his stance, Natalie corrects. Believe me, Ive been there. My first husband left after five years, mostly because his mother constantly invaded my space and he always backed her.
Well get through this, I say firmly. In a couple of months the new house will be finished and things will settle.
Lets hope, Natalie sighs, not sharing my optimism.
In the evening, I decide to surprise Alex with ingredients for his favourite carrot caketomorrow is Saturday, perfect for an early bake. The flat is quiet; only the kitchen light glows. I slip off my shoes and pause at the doorway. Margaret is at the table, happily eating the casserole Id made for breakfast, the whole dish meant for three.
Clara! Margaret startles, as if caught off guard. Back already? I thought youd be later.
The meeting got cancelled, I say, glancing at the almost empty casserole dish. Wheres Alex?
Hes out with some friends, said not to wait, Margaret waves her hand. Im just having dinner. The readymade chicken didnt appeal, so I tried your casserole. Its delicious, by the way!
I set the grocery bags on the table, silently cursing the thought of having to rise an hour earlier tomorrow to make a new breakfast. I really wanted to sleep in on Saturday.
This casserole was for breakfastfor everyone, I finally manage, keeping my voice steady.
Oh, dear, Im sorry! Margaret flails again, but theres no remorse in her eyes. I thought it was just sitting there. No matter, youll cook something else tomorrow. Youre a brilliant cook, after all!
I clench my jaw. Margaret knows the casserole was for breakfast; I mentioned it yesterday at dinner when we planned the weekend menu.
Alright, I say. Im going to change.
While unpacking the groceries I realise Im missing the chocolate I bought for the cake.
Margaret, have you seen the chocolate? It should be in the bags, I call out.
She gives a guilty smile. Oh, Clara, Im sorry! I grabbed a piece for my tea. Thought you wouldnt notice.
A wave of anger rises, not over the chocolate but over the constant, systematic breach of boundaries, the lack of courtesy and respect.
Noted, I reply shortly. It was for Alexs cake.
Just buy another tomorrow, Margaret shrugs. The shop is right across the road. No big deal.
I nod, holding back tears and fury, unwilling to start a fullblown argument. It would achieve nothing; Margaret would simply pretend not to understand the problem.
Alex returns late, finding me already in bed with a book, trying to distract myself.
Hey, sunshine, he leans in to kiss me. How was your day?
Fine, I set the book aside. And yours?
Great! Met the lads, grabbed a pint at the pub. Long time since weve gone out.
I nod, not sure whether to mention the eaten casserole and the missing chocolate. I dont want to seem petty.
Is your mum still up? Alex asks, pulling his sweater over his head.
No, shes in her room watching TV.
Ill pop in and say hello, he says, getting up.
I hear muffled voices and Margarets laughter from the next room. I wonder if shes embellished the story for Alex, painting herself in a better light.
Alex comes back twenty minutes later, relaxed.
Guess whatyour mum ate your casserole, he says, climbing into bed. Says its fingerlicking good.
Yes, I know, I reply dryly. It was meant for breakfast.
So what? he turns to me. Cook something else. At least mum appreciated your cooking!
I look at Alex.
Alex, it isnt about the casserole. Its that your mum constantly takes my things without asking, eats food I set aside for special occasions, and never considers my opinion.
Come off it, Alex waves his hand. Its just a casserole. Mum was simply hungry.
And the chocolate for your cake? She ate that just because too.
What chocolate? Alex frowns.
I bought it for a surprise cake tomorrow, and your mum ate it with her tea.
And what then? Youre upset because she felt like it?
No, its not the chocolate! Shes testing limits, showing who runs the house.
Nonsense! Alex sits up, annoyed. Youre overreacting. Mum just wanted a bite.
Yesterday it was my tea, the day before my boots, now this casserole and chocolate, I count, flexing my fingers. Everything of mine, taken without permission.
Alex looks bewildered.
Are you serious? Youre turning everything into mine vs. hers. Were a family!
Family means respecting personal boundaries, I say softly. Asking before you take something, not raiding the fridge and eating what was meant for everyone.
Enough! Alex raises his voice. You should be happy my mum eats your food. It means she likes your cookinga compliment!
I stare at him, eyes wide, unable to process that he sees no problem.
A compliment? I repeat. So if I make a dinner and your mum devours it while were not there, thats a compliment, not disrespect?
Stop dramatising! Alex snaps, flinging the blanket aside. Im exhausted, had a hard day, and youre turning this into some childish drama over a casserole!
He grabs his pillow and declares, Im going to sleep on the sofa. I have to get up early tomorrow. Goodnight.
I sit alone, tears streaming down my cheeks. I hadnt expected such a reaction. I hoped Alex would understand, support me, but he sides with his mother without even trying to see my side.
The next morning I wake to the smell of pancakes. Margaret is bustling in the kitchen, Alex sitting at the table with a smug grin.
Oh, youre up? he says, as if nothing happened yesterday. Mum decided to treat us. Have a seat.
I begrudgingly sit. Margaret places a plate of pancakes before me.
Eat, love. Ive also made scrambled eggs, coming right up, she says.
Thanks, I whisper, but I only want coffee; Im not hungry.
How can you not be hungry? Margaret splashes her hands. Ive made so much! Youll offend me if you dont eat.
Alex watches me, waiting to see how Ill react. Refusing the food feels like declaring war.
Fine, I say, picking up a fork. Ill have a little.
Good girl! Margaret coos, patting my head. Youve gotten skinny, need to eat more, otherwise youll end up in a coffin.
Alex smirks but says nothing. I chew the pancakes mechanically, wondering if this is still my home. Or ever was.
After breakfast Margaret heads out to the shop, and I finally sit down with Alex to talk.
Alex, we need to discuss your mum, I begin, sitting opposite him on the sofa.
Again? he winces. Everything seems fine. She even made us breakfast.
Thats a nice gesture, I agree, but the real issue is the lack of respect for my boundaries. I feel like a guest in my own flat, not a family member.
Alex sighs. Clara, my mum is used to being the lady of the house. Its hard for her to change. Bear with it; well move soon.
What will happen when we move? I ask quietly. Will she still pop over to our new place and start running the kitchen? Take my things without asking? Eat what Im cooking for everyone?
He looks away. Shell visit now and then. Shes my mum, after all.
You dont see a problem with that? I lean forward. Im not against your mum, Im against the disrespect of my space. And you dont seem to get that.
And Im worried youre splitting everything into yours and hers, Alex retorts. Were a family; we share.
We do share, I concede. But it should be by agreement, not because someone grabs without permission.
We stare at each other, and I realise Alex still cant grasp the core of the issue. To him, his mother will always be untouchable, beyond criticism or rules. I just want him to see my side.
You know what, I say finally, Im going to stay with Natalie at her cottage for the weekend.
What? Over a casserole? Alex raises an eyebrow.
Its not about the casserole, I shake my head wearily. Its about you not listening to me. I need time to think.
I stand, grab my bag, and head to the bedroom to pack. Alex doesnt follow; he remains on the sofa, staring at the empty space.
When Im out the door with my suitcase, he asks, What should I tell my mum?
The truth, I reply. That Ive left to consider our future. You should think about that too.
I step out of the flat, feeling a strange lightness. Maybe the decision is impulsive, but it feels right. Sometimes you have to step back to see the whole picture.
My phone buzzesa text from Natalie confirming the cottage key is with her neighbour. I inhale the crisp spring air. A weekend alone, quiet, with my thoughtsthats exactly what I need. Later, Ill have a serious talk with Alex about family, boundaries, and respect. Because family isnt about sacrificing yourself for others; its about everyone honouring each others feelings, even over something as small as a breakfast casserole.
