**Diary Entry 26th May**
I never thought my own kitchen would feel like a battlefield.
«Know your place, Emily. A wife belongs by the stove, not arguing with her husband,» my mother-in-law, Margaret, announced to the guests, her voice sharp as a knife.
«Its not just a sponge cake, Margaret,» I replied softly, watching her prod it with a fork. «Theres ground almonds in the batter, and the zest gives it a proper citrus note. The cream is mascarponethats why its so light.»
«Light, yes, but wheres the sweetness?» She pushed her plate away. «In my day, cakes were properrich, buttery, satisfying. This is just air. You cant feed guests with air. Oliver, tell her.»
My husband, Oliver, cleared his throat awkwardly. He sat at the head of the table in our new flatbought with his parents helpavoiding my eyes.
«Mum, its lovely. Emily worked hard,» he muttered, shoving another forkful into his mouth. «Honestly, darling, its brilliant.»
*Worked hard.* As if Id glued together a primary school project, not spent weeks perfecting the recipe. Before marriage, my baking was something I was proud of. Friends ordered birthday cakes from me. Oliver used to call me his «kitchen fairy,» devouring whole trays of biscuits and swearing hed never tasted anything better.
Then we moved closer to his parents, and Margarets visits became a siege. At first, she brought jars of homemade chutney and «helpful» tips. Id lost my own mother youngI was grateful, at first. But soon, advice became commands. She barged into our bedroom, rearranged my cupboards, dictated how I should iron Olivers shirts («inside out, so the collars dont shine»), where to buy meat («only from the butcher in Borough Market, none of your supermarket nonsense»), and how to raise our five-year-old, Alfie («stop coddling him, youre raising a wet wipe»).
I endured it. I loved Oliver. I told myself Margaret was just old-fashioned, that she meant well. When I complained, Oliver would sigh. «Come on, Em. You know how Mum is. She doesnt mean harm.»
Tonight was another test. Margaret had turned up unannounced (as usual) and watched me frost the cake like a sergeant major inspecting troops. Now, her verdict was delivered before the whole family.
«Im not saying its inedible,» she relented, seeing my face fall. «But next time, dont skimp on the sugar. Men need proper sustenance. Right, Oliver?»
He nodded, chewing obediently. I stood to clear the plates, my throat tight. The sting wasnt just her wordsit was Olivers silence. He never defended me. Just agreed to keep the peace.
Later, after she left, he hugged me from behind. «Dont take it to heart, Em. Mums set in her ways. The cake was smashing, really.»
«Then why didnt you say so?» I didnt turn around.
«Whats the point? You cant change her mind. Easier to nod along.»
«Easier for *you*,» I said bitterly. «Oliver, I feel like a servant in my own home. Like my thoughts dont matter.»
«Here we go again,» he sighed, dropping his arms. «No one thinks that. But Mums the head of this family. Shes earned her say.»
I turned. His eyes werent kindjust tired. Like I was a chore to manage.
«And what about me? Do I know nothing? Are my feelings rubbish?»
«Emily, not now. Im knackered. Justnext time, add more sugar. All right?»
He left. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by gadgets Margaret had picked out. A stranger in my own house. My dream of a little bakery? Pathetic. I couldnt even bake a cake right for my own family.
Weeks passed. I played the perfect wife. Up early, breakfast ready, Alfie to school, house spotless. Extra sugar in pies, shirts ironed inside out. I bit my tongue when Margaret lectured.
Oliver was happy. The flat was quiet. He kissed my cheek each morning, praised my roast dinners, and never noticed the light fading from my eyes.
Then came his fathers 60tha grand do at their country house. Margaret handed me a list longer than my arm. «Three-tier cake, proper beef Wellington, salmon en croûtenone of your airy nonsense. And no cutting corners. This is about family pride.»
I suggested catering. Her gasp couldve sucked the air from the room. «*Catering*? Weve *never* outsourced hospitality. My sister Judith can help if youre incompetentbut Id rather you proved yourself.»
A challenge. I rose to it.
The week before, I barely slept. Days with Alfie; nights baking, marinating, chopping. The kitchen was my fortress. Oliver fussed («You look dead on your feet, Em»), but I brushed him off. «Your dad deserves the best.»
The party was a blur. The table groaned under dishes. Guests ravedespecially the men.
«Margaret, your daughter-in-laws a marvel!» boomed one of Olivers uncles, fork-deep in beef. «A wife like this? Worth her weight in gold!»
Margaret beamed. «Shes learning,» she said, as if my hands hadnt made every bite.
Later, when talk turned to businesssome investment in countryside glampingI listened while pouring tea. It interested me. Before marriage, Id read economics blogs, followed markets.
«Risky,» Olivers dad grumbled. «Wholl pay to holiday in a field?»
«I think its brilliant,» I said, setting down the teapot. «City folk crave nature now. Offer them workshopscheesemaking, foragingand its not just a field. Its an *experience*.»
Silence. Every eye on me. Oliver flushed, kicking my ankle under the table.
Then Margarets voice cut through, cold and clear. «Know your *place*, Emily. The men are talking. Go check the pudding.»
Humiliation burned my cheeks. I left without a word.
Oliver followed me to the kitchen. «What the hell, Em? You *know* Mum! Why embarrass me?»
«*Embarrass you*?» My voice was steel. «Your mother just *publicly* told me to shut up and fetch cake, and youre worried about *your* pride?»
«Shes my *mother*! Business isnt womens workwas it so hard to keep quiet?»
I looked at himreally looked. Not my husband. A boy scared of Mummys temper.
«Go back to your guests, Oliver.»
That night, after everyone left, I kissed Alfies sleeping face. «Mummy wont be weak anymore.»
The next day, I dug out my old recipe journals, my Le Cordon Bleu certificate (dusty, forgotten). I hung it where Margarets cross-stitch had been.
Then I created an Instagram. *Sweet Whims by Emily*. Posted a photo of that «airy» almond cake shed sneered at. Wrote: *Every dessert tells a story*. Hit *share*.
A week later, my first order: a birthday cake. I baked all night. Delivered it myself. The clients gasp, her tearful *»Mums never had anything so beautiful!»*it was better than gold.
Margaret called, screeching. «Judith saw you in *Camden* with a cake box! What nonsense is this?»
«Ive started a business, Margaret.»
«A *business*? Your job is *Oliver and Alfie*! Have you lost your mind?»
«Ring Oliver if you like,» I said, and hung up.
He stormed in later, livid. «Mums hysterical! Whats this rubbish about a *business*?»
I handed him my phoneglowing with five-star reviews. *»A masterpiece!» «Worth every penny!»*
He read. Looked at me. For once, I didnt shrink.
«I wont stop, Oliver. My place isnt just your kitchen. Its where Im *happy*. If youve a problem with that…» I let the silence speak.
He left me at the window, watching the sunset. Breathing freely for the first time in years. I dont know what happens nextbut I *do* know this: no one tells me my place ever again.
