“I’m Not Eating That,” the Mother-in-Law Scoffed at the Soup with Contempt – She Glared at the Bowl of Broccoli and Chorizo Soup “What on earth is this?” Mrs. Helen wrinkled her nose, sniffing as though facing something unpleasant. “It’s broccoli and chorizo soup,” explained Lucy, her daughter-in-law, smiling. She lifted the lid from a small ceramic pot, serving the fragrant soup. “It’s a delight, really, using fresh garden vegetables.” “I really can’t see the point,” grumbled the mother-in-law. “And imagine all the wasted energy fussing over a veg patch!” “Of course,” Lucy replied kindly. “But as a hobby, it’s just good fun.” “Yes—when it’s your own idea, and not forced on you,” Mrs. Helen muttered, pursing her lips. “Who’s all this food even for?” “For us. It’s only enough for a couple of meals.” “I’m not eating this rubbish!” declared the mother-in-law, throwing her hands in the air and stepping away from the table. “Heaven knows what’s in it!” Mrs. Helen pretended to gag and covered her mouth, turning sharply away. Lucy rolled her eyes, sighing. She had met Mrs. Helen’s son, Michael, a year and a half ago; it’d been love at first chat, and they’d married a month later without much fuss. With their savings, they’d fulfilled their dream of buying a country house, lovingly decorating it together. By then, Lucy had met her mother-in-law only four times—same as Michael. Three of those times, she’d persuaded her husband to visit his mum for the holidays. Mrs. Helen had always seen her son’s marriage as a whim, but unable to sway her now-independent adult son, she’d been waiting for the inevitable end. Which never seemed to come, leaving her unsettled. She couldn’t fathom what Michael saw in this “plain girl,” or why Lucy had managed to win his heart. He was such a handsome lad, always surrounded by more exciting and attractive young women. And Mrs. Helen was a true city dweller, having raised her son with the same values. Now, she was sure Michael must be sick of country life, and a little nudge would get everything back to normal. Experiencing this misery, he’d soon find a suitable partner for whom Mrs. Helen could be a real friend. But she needed to act fast before sly Lucy roped her son in with a baby! The scheme came easily: Mrs. Helen phoned her daughter-in-law to request a visit, reminding her she’d never been invited to the new house. Lucy mentioned she had, in fact, invited her twice by phone—Mrs. Helen had always refused, claiming to be busy. Mrs. Helen ignored her, and announced her readiness to visit. Two days later, she was standing in the bright, spacious sitting room, barely containing her indignation. Her son—like her and her late husband—hated soup! At their family table, they only ever served food you could immediately identify. How had Michael so quickly let his wife dominate him? Was he bewitched? Mrs. Helen shivered, feeling ill. The silly notion that Lucy was keeping Michael under her spell was quickly dismissed. Spells and Lucy? Unthinkable! Obviously magic! How else could Michael eat such muck? Mrs. Helen looked at her daughter-in-law with distaste. Feigning innocence, she was steadily destroying him. “But why say you don’t know what’s in it?” Lucy ignored her mother-in-law’s theatrics and filled another bowl, turning to Mrs. Helen. “You can see everything. There’s cabbage, onion, carrot, chorizo. I add mint from our garden, and a slice of homemade bread on top!” “Well, then eat wheat bran!” exclaimed the mother-in-law, raising her hands. “And at your age, you’d benefit from it! Bran helps regulate gut health, you know—happy gut, happy you!” Mrs. Helen flushed at Lucy’s cheek but pressed on: “And why do you force Michael to eat this?” Lucy blinked, puzzled. “Well—he likes it.” “How can a man like it? Isn’t there anything else in the house?” “He could cook for himself, order takeaway, or visit his mum,” Lucy listed cheerfully. Mrs. Helen blushed even deeper at the last suggestion. “Don’t be sarcastic! At least ask me what Michael prefers!” “Mrs. Helen, I did ask—he’s grown up and apparently learned to speak. He says he likes everything.” “He’s lying! Isn’t it obvious? At first, he didn’t want to oppose you. Now, he’s had enough!” “Oh,” Lucy sighed, “but the soup’s already made and I won’t waste it. We’ll just have to manage. You’ll support your son, won’t you?” “What?!?” Mrs. Helen scowled at Lucy. “No? Shame. I think he’d appreciate your solidarity.” “You!..” “Lucy! We’re back!” Michael’s cheery voice came from the hallway. A fluffy white little dog bounded into the room, yapping loudly. “Aaaargh!” shrieked Mrs. Helen, hiding behind Lucy. “Don’t worry, that’s Mimi. She doesn’t bite, and she’s very well-behaved,” Lucy raised her hand, the dog stopped, sat, and gazed up obediently. “Good girl—so clever!” “Why let the neighbour’s dog in?” Mrs. Helen whispered, shocked. “Why neighbour’s? She’s ours. Lives with us.” “Indoors?! That’s unhygienic!” gasped her mother-in-law. “And Michael hates dogs!” “No, Mum, you hate dogs. Hello!” said Michael, entering. “You got here just in time for lunch.” “Hello, son!” Mrs. Helen waited for him to kiss her cheek, but Michael only gave her a brief hug and kissed Lucy on the lips. “Lunch?” Michael sniffed the air, smiling. “I’d love to, Michael, but I can’t.” “Why not?” “You’ve prepared food for pigs! Didn’t you say you have pigs? The smell! Worse than traffic in the city!” Michael looked from his mother to Lucy to the table. His neck muscles tensed as he cast his mother a more serious glance. “To be honest, I hardly remember those little details,” Michael said, grimly. “What details, son? Our tastes! Our rules! It’s tradition! You never complained!” “Me? As a child, I was scared to upset Dad. Growing up, I didn’t want to fight with you.” “What are you saying?!” Mrs. Helen exclaimed, Mimi barking again. “Quiet!” she snapped at the dog, whom Lucy controlled easily. “She’s got a will of her own,” she glared at Lucy. “And you—always letting people walk all over you! Do you like being bossed? You let her turn this place into a zoo. Are you the man of the house or what?!” “I am,” said Michael. “Then act like it!” Mrs. Helen exhaled, relieved, certain she’d set him straight. “Where’s your luggage?” he asked. “In the hall!” she complained. “I’m starving after the journey.” “Good. Thank Lucy for having you.” “What?..” “Thank Lucy for making the effort and apologise.” “But she…” “Mum!” “T-thank you, and s-sorry,” Mrs. Helen muttered angrily. Lucy nodded calmly. “Come on.” “Where to?” “To where it’s your tastes, your rules, your traditions.” “But, Michael, I!..” she tried to protest but was cut off. “Dad and you hated soup, animals, countryside—my likes never mattered. But my father gave some advice: ‘If you don’t like it here, make your own.’ I did, Mum. Here, my tastes count, my rules, my traditions. This is my wife’s home. Don’t like it? You’ve got your own place.” “Son! She’s turned you against me!” Mrs. Helen wailed, almost sobbing. “She’s bewitched you!” she whispered. Michael took his mother to the hall, fetched her suitcase, opened the door and led her to the gate in silence. “By the way, Lucy was on your side. She gets on with family. She’d set a special dish just for you. But the soup was a test. The mask fell,” said Michael, opening the door to the street. “Your taxi’s here.” “You… but… when did you call it?” Mrs. Helen stammered, still stunned by his bluntness. “I asked Lucy to wait—not to let it go. She was right.” “You—but—” “I am, Mum—the man of the house. Like you wanted.” He nodded to the driver. “Bewitched,” Mrs. Helen confirmed herself, and settled into the taxi, pulling out her phone to search for ways to undo magic. There must be something to get her son back!

Im not eating that, declared the mother-in-law, glaring down her nose at the bowl of soup.

Im not eating that, she repeated, looking at the dish of pea and ham soup as if Luisa had ladled in something unmentionable.

What is this? Mrs. Helen scrunched up her face and sniffed it, convinced she was in the presence of culinary tragedy.

Its pea and ham soup, Mrs. Helen, replied Luisa, her daughter-in-law, cheerfully. She removed the lid from a rustic earthenware pot and began to serve the vibrant, homemade soup. I do love cooking with fresh veg from our garden.

Cant see the appeal, myself, Mrs. Helen muttered. What a pointless waste of time and energy keeping up a veg patch!

Oh, absolutely, Luisa laughed, not missing a beat. But when its your hobby, its just a bit of fun.

Fun for whom, though? Mrs. Helen pinched her lips disapprovingly. Who did you make all this food for?

For us. Not much, reallyjust enough for a couple of meals.

Mrs. Helen recoiled indignantly.

Im not eating this slop! she exclaimed, waving her arms for dramatic effect and stepping away from the table. Who even knows whats in there? She clutched her mouth and turned away, playing up her disgust like the star of a daytime soap.

Luisa rolled her eyes and let out a mighty sigh.

She and Mrs. Helens son, Michael, had met a year and a half ago, fallen madly in love by the second text, and married a month later with all the ceremony of a trip to the post office.

Theyd pooled their savings for a dream: a house in the countryside, a project slowly blossoming into a home.

In all that time, Luisa had only encountered Mrs. Helen four timesand Michael as well. At least thrice, she had to nudge her husband to see his mum on holidays.

Mrs. Helen always saw Michaels marriage as a passing fancy. With no actual say over her grown, stubborn lad, she waited for the inevitable disaster.

But it never happened. Nerve-wracking!

Mrs. Helen could not fathom what Michael saw in this supposedly simple girl Luisa, nor how she had charmed him. A handsome chap like Michael had never suffered from a shortage of more interesting, attractive women.

Also, Mrs. Helen was a dyed-in-the-wool Londoner. Her son, naturally, had been raised as such. Now, her maternal instincts assured her Michael must be sick of the countrysideand hed only need a nudge to come running back to reality.

Once he was free of this rustic ordeal, hed surely choose a proper partnerone with whom Mrs. Helen could have lunch at John Lewis and a solid friendship.

But she must act quickly, before sneaky Luisa tied him down with a baby!

Enter the plan: Mrs. Helen rang up her daughter-in-law and requested a visit, making a pointed reference to not being invited to the housewarming.

Luisa reminded her shed extended two invitations over the phone already, but Mrs. Helen had always had one excuse or another. Mrs. Helen brushed this off and declared her readiness to grace them with her presence.

Two days later, there she was: standing in their spacious, sunlit living room, sporting her best look of outrage.

Her son, just like she and her dearly departed husband, loathed soup!

In their family, you only served food you could recognize instantly.

How had Michael become so easily tamed by his wife?

Had she bewitched him?

Mrs. Helen shuddered.

The ludicrous theory that Luisa kept Michael in thrall through clever seduction was swiftly dismissed.

Luisa? Seduction? Not a chance!

Witchcraft, then!

How else did you explain eating such tripe?

Mrs. Helen eyed her daughter-in-law with growing suspicion.

Feigning innocence, Luisa was slowly destroying her son.

But why do you say you dont know whats in it? Luisa ignored her mother-in-laws drama, grabbed another bowl and ladled out more soup. Its all there to see. Thats the cabbage, thats the onion, thats carrot, and thisgood British ham. I even put in some mint from the garden, and a nice slice of proper wholemeal bread on top.

Well, why not serve sawdust while youre at it? Mrs. Helen huffed, arms raised in despair.

Actually, at your age, fibre would do wonders! Keeps the plumbing in order and your gut bacteria cheerful. Happy gut, happy you!

Mrs. Helen flushed at Luisas candour but soldiered on:

Why are you forcing Michael to eat this?

Luisa blinked, bemused.

Because he likes it.

How can a grown man like soup? Isnt there anything else in the house?

He could always cook for himself, order takeaway, or pop round to see his mum. Luisa listed, grinning.

Mrs. Helen turned beetroot at that.

No need for sarcasm! You could at least ask me what Michael prefers.

I did ask. Hes a grown-up, I do believe. Says hes not fussy.

Hes lying! Dont you get it? At first, he wanted to avoid conflict. Now, hes simply exhausted!

Well! Luisa shrugged with mock tragedy. Soups made, cant bin it. Well just struggle through. Besides, you could support your son, couldnt you?

What?!

No? Shame. I expect hed quite like your solidarity.

Oh, you…!

Luisa! Were back! Michaels cheery voice rang from the hallway.

A fluffy white puppy dashed into the sitting room, yipping for England.

Aaargh! Mrs. Helen yelped, promptly ducking behind Luisa.

Dont worry, its Maisie. Shes perfectly civilised, and frightfully clever, Luisa raised a hand; Maisie stopped, looked up, then sat obediently. Such a good girl.

Why do you let the neighbours dog in your house? Mrs. Helen hissed.

Not the neighbours. Shes oursand lives with us.

Here?! Thats unsanitary! Mrs. Helen exclaimed, aghast. And Michael hates dogs!

No, Mum, thats you. Hello, Michael entered, smiling. Youve timed it for lunch.

Hello, dear! Mrs. Helen poised herself, awaiting the usual cheek kiss, only for Michael to give her a lukewarm hug and a peck on Luisas lips.

Shall we have some lunch? Michael sniffed the air with pleasure.

Id love to, Michael, but I simply cant.

What do you mean, you cant?

Youve cooked swill fit only for pigs! Didnt know you kept pigs; smells worse than rush hour in London.

Michael glanced at his mother, then Luisa, then the table.

His jaw tensed, eyes losing their earlier brightness.

Honestly, Id forgotten all about that, Michael said, bitterly amused.

About what, Michael? Our tastes! Our rules! Our traditions! Youve never complained before!

Me? As a boy, I was terrified of upsetting Dad. And as I got older, didnt want to argue with you.

What are you saying?! Mrs. Helen cried, prompting Maisie to let out a flurry of barks. Quiet! she snapped, waving a finger at the dogwho remained perfectly polite under Luisas command. Shes got her own will, Mrs. Helen hissed at Luisa, but you! How can you be such a pushover? Do you enjoy being bossed about, letting her turn your home into a zoo? Are you actually in charge here or what?!

I am, Michael replied.

So act like it! Mrs. Helen exhaled dramatically, convinced her work was done.

Wheres your bag? Michael asked.

In the hall! Ive been starved since I left the train.

Perfect. Thank Luisa for the invitation.

What?

Thank Luisa for making one last effort and apologise.

But she…

Mum!

Th-thank you, Luisa. Sorry, Mrs. Helen mumbled, livid.

Luisa nodded calmly.

Come on, then.

Where to?

Somewhere thats all your tastes, your rules, your traditions.

But Michael, I…! she protested, but he cut her off:

Dad and you hated soup, animals, countryside. My preferences never mattered. Dad once said, If you dont like it, make your own. So I did, Mum. Here, my likes, my rules, my traditions. This is my wifes home. Not happy? Your house awaits.

Son! Shes turned you against me! Mrs. Helen wailed, nearly sobbing. Enchanted you! she muttered.

Michael escorted her to the hall, grabbed her suitcase, opened the door, and quietly led her to the gate.

Luisas actually been on your side. She gets on with family; she didnt believe it could be like this. She set aside a separate plate for you. But the soup was a test. The mask slipped, Michael explained, opening the door for the waiting cab. Taxis here.

But… when did you call it? Mrs. Helen stammered, staggered by her sons brutal honesty.

Luisa held off booking it, just in case. She was spot on.

You! But

Its me, Mum. Just as you wanted, Michael nodded at the cab driver.

Enchanted, Mrs. Helen muttered, now certain of her diagnosis, already scrolling her phone for ways to break the spell. Surely there must be something to bring her son back!