Awkward Daughter-in-Law
Emma, did you even read the list? I gave you a list, everythings on there. Mrs. Nora Palmers voice had that edge like she was speaking to someone who simply didnt get it. It says: jellied stock with three kinds of meat. Three. Not two, not one. Three.
I did read it, Mrs. Palmer. But I wanted to talk to you about that. The partys next week, so I was thinking…
You were thinking. Nora let the words hang, as if thinking was some sort of offense. You were thinking, but Im telling you. Three kinds of meat in the jellied stock, pies with cabbage and mushroom, poached fish, Mimosa salad, Russian salad, the one with crab sticks, stuffed eggs, pancakes with cream, duck with Bramleys, potato roulade, cottage cheese pudding, Napoleon cake and Feather Light cake. Thats the minimum, Emma. Forty guests are coming.
Emma held the phone, staring out at the slow, soggy November rain falling outside her windowheavy and unwelcome, just like this conversation.
Understood, Mrs. Palmer. Ill call you back later, alright?
Dont leave it too late. Theres hardly any time before Saturday.
She put the phone down on the kitchen table, just sitting there a few moments, staring at it. Next to it was the handwritten list in bold, urgent letters, pinned down by the salt cellara list with fourteen items. Next to each, a note: homemade, not from the shop, like last time, but better.
Like last time. Last time was Marinasher sister-in-lawsanniversary. Emma had started cooking three days in advance. By the end of the second day her feet barely worked, and her hands were raw from all the washing up. For three days, Rob would return, eat something straight from the hob, and wander off to the telly. Once he asked if she needed help. Emma said no, she could manage. He nodded, leftno malice, just matter-of-fact.
At the event, Nora tried the jellied stock, called Emma over and practically whispered, Bit too much salt. Nothing else. No praise. Guests heaped compliments, went for seconds, some said they hadnt had pies like that in ages. Nora just nodded and said, A family tradition. Not a word about Emma.
Now, sitting at her kitchen table after nineteen years in this flat on Maple Road with Rob, Emma thought the word tradition meant something very specific to Nora Palmer. Tradition: daughter-in-law cooks. Tradition: daughter-in-law cleans. Tradition: daughter-in-law grateful to be invited to the table.
The phone buzzed. Marina.
Em, did you talk to Mum? She said you sounded a bit odd.
I was fine. Just tired.
Well, you know, the partys next week, best start shopping soon. I could come with you Wednesday, help carry bags. A pause. No, hang on, Ive got my nails Wednesday. Thursday?
Ill manage the shopping, Marina, honestly.
As you like. Just Mum is adamant about the duck must be Bramley apples, nothing else, for the tartness, you know.
I know.
And the jellied stock must be clear. Last time was a bit cloudy.
Emma closed her eyes. Clear stock, three meats, Bramleys for the duck, two cakes, forty people.
Okay, Marina. I heard you.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and stood up. Time to start dinner. Rob would be home at seven, famished, and if there was no supper, hed give her a long, puzzled look and say, No dinner tonight? Not accusing, just baffled, like someone waiting for a bus that never came.
Emma opened the fridge, took out chicken, onion, carrots, put the pot on the hob. Her movements were familiar, almost mechanicalnineteen years of the same moves.
Shed met Rob at twenty-six. He was funny, loud, told stories that had everyone laughing. Nora Palmer, on their very first meeting, had said, Youre a clever girl, Emma, you can just tell. Emma took it as a compliment. Later she realized, clever meant knows how not to argue.
Married at twenty-eight. First year wasnt bad. Then Oliver was born. Then he grew up and moved away for uni. What was left was this: a flat, a kitchen, a list of dishes on a notepad.
The stock began to simmer. Emma turned down the heat and walked into the living room. She wanted to call her mum, just to hear her voice. But the phone was already ringing.
Her mum.
Emma, her mothers voice was soft, but there was something in it that chilled Emmas stomach. Can you come round tonight?
Whats happened?
Its Dad. Hes not well. Paramedics have taken him to hospital. Were at A&E now.
Emma was pulling on her coat before shed even remembered the stock. She darted back, switched off the hob, texted Rob: Dads unwell, off to Mums, dinners on the stove. Grabbed her bag. Out the door.
It was cold and damp outside, and she flagged down a cab, staring out at the blurry lights on the rain-slicked roads. Nick Palmer. Dad. Seventy-two, heart always as strong as an ox, never one for complaints. Used to say, No need to fuss, Ill outlive the lot of you. She wanted that to be true.
The hospital reeked of disinfectant, all long white corridors. Mum was by the window of the waiting area, small, still in her coat, clutching her handbag.
Mum.
Her mum turned. Her eyes were dry, but something about them made Emmas throat tighten straight away.
They say high blood pressure. And something with his head. He collapsed in the hallway. Id just nipped out of the kitchen, came back, and he was on the floor.
How is he now?
Still checking him over. The doctor said we have to wait.
They sat on those hard hospital seats, waiting. Mum squeezed Emmas handsmall and cold. Emma thought about how she hadnt visited for almost three weeks, always busy. Shopping, cleaning, Nora Palmers lists and food.
An hour and a half later, a young, tired-looking doctor came out.
Weve stabilized him, he said. But theres a possible issue with blood flow to the brain. Hell need to be monitored at least a week, with more tests.
Will he be alright? asked her mum.
Its early days. We have to keep watching him.
Emma took her mum home, made her some tea, sat with her until she dozed off in the armchair. Then Emma sat by herself, in the old family kitchen, letting the silence soak inthe sort of silence you only find in your own parents house, soft as an old blanket. Mums geraniums were on the sill, still flowering like clockwork. On the wall was that old photoEmma, aged seven, holding her dads hand, looking away, and Dad, looking at her.
She got home after midnight.
Rob was still awake, on his phone, but when she walked in, he put it down.
How is he?
Not great. They think its a stroke.
Serious, he said, quietly. Did you eat?
No.
Theres chicken on the stove, I warmed it up. Have some.
Emma had it, standing at the sink, too tired to bother with plates. She lay down, wide awake, thinking about her dads face, her mums hands, and that kitchens smell.
Next morning, Nora Palmer rang.
Emma, I heard you went off somewhere last night. Rob told me, its something with your father. I hope you realize there are only six days left until the party?
Mrs. Palmer, my dads in hospital.
Yes, I heard. But the hospital isnt far, is it? Youre not the one in a bed. When are you going to start the cooking?
Something inside Emma went very still, very clear. Like still water, no longer rushing.
Im not sure yet.
What do you mean, not sure? Noras voice sounded offended, almost shocked at the suggestion. Emma, its my birthday. Seventy. Thats only once in your life. Do you understand?
I do. But my dad is only one too.
Silence.
Well, Nora eventually said, I imagine youll manage everything. You dont need to sit in the hospital constantly. Visit, then youre free.
Emma didnt answer. Just said bye, hung up.
Rob was in the kitchen, drinking coffee. He looked at her.
Mum call?
Mm.
About the cooking?
He nodded, sipped his coffee.
Well, Em, its her birthday. You know, forty guests. Its not like we can cancel.
Im not saying cancel.
There you are, then. Youll manage. Visit your dad, but you can prep at the same time, cant you?
Emma looked at him. Rob was staring at his phone, brow creasednot because of her, but something he was reading.
Rob, she said, if it was your mum in hospital?
He looked up.
Whats that got to do with anything?
Nothing. Just curious.
Its not the same.
Why?
Well, because, shes my mum, as if that was enough.
Emma grabbed her coat and headed to hospital.
Her father was in a four-bed bay. She arrived to find him unconsciousher heart seized until a nurse said he was just sleeping. She sat beside him, watching his face. Wrinkles, stubbly jaw, his big hands resting on top of the covershands that used to whittle her wooden birds when she was a girl. The hands that once caught her when she toppled off her bike.
Dad opened his eyes. Gave her a cautious smile, the sort you give when youre not sure if youre dreaming.
You came, he said, voice weak, unfamiliarusually booming.
Of course I did, Dad. How are you feeling?
Not bad, just a bit dizzy. Nothing much.
It is something much, Dad.
Well. He shrugged as best he could. Well see.
She sat with him two hours. Later, she rang her mum: hes awake, talking. Mum said, Thank goodness, so quietly it made Emmas eyes sting.
On the bus home, Emma stared at the steamed-up window. This is what really mattered, she thought. Dad in hospital, mum at home alone. Not Nora Palmers list, not the Bramleys, not the clear aspic. That wasnt important. This was. Why hadnt she realised it, or let herself realise it, sooner?
Rob came home cheerful, bringing a loaf, talking about work. She nodded along. Then she said:
Rob, Im not doing the food for the party.
He stopped, put his glass down.
What do you mean, not doing it?
Just that. Dads in hospital. Mum needs me. I cant spend three days tied to the kitchen.
Emma, he said, serious now, calling her by her full name, which meant he was cross, there are forty coming. Mum needs this, its her party.
My dads had a stroke, Rob.
I know. Its serious. But the doctors are there. Doesnt mean you have to sit by his bed round the clock.
No. But it does mean Im not making twelve dishes for forty while my dads in hospital.
Rob got up, paced the kitchen.
You know mum cant just cancel. Everyones been invited. Marinas told the lot.
Order food in.
Order food? As if shed suggested blasphemy. Mum wants homemade. You know what shes like.
Oh, I know, Emma said softly.
He looked at her, something in his eyesa sort of lost look, not anger but a confusion, as if something thatd always worked no longer did.
Em, think about this. Its once in a lifetime. Your dads in hospital, yesbut you can visit, and cook too, cant you?
No.
No?
No, Rob.
He left the room. Minutes later, Marina rang.
Emma, whats this? Rob says youre refusing to cook? Forty people, do you get that?
I get it.
Mums seventy! Dont you care?
I do. But my dads illand that matters too.
You cant just move the date!
Marina, you can order food. Or do it yourselves. Ill give you the recipes.
Silence.
We cant do all that cooking.
Youll learn.
She put the phone down. Her hands werent shakingwhich surprised her. Shed thought shed be terrified, or hesitate. Instead, just that clear, still calm, like before.
Next day she was back at hospital. Dad was a little bettersitting up, spooning down the watery porridge, wincing but eating. They feed you like youre in nursery, he joked. Emma laughed. She brought homemade broth in a flaskmums idea. Dad drank it all, satisfied. Now youre talking, he said.
That evening, Emma and her mum had tea in the tiny kitchen, floral curtains, old fridge with the dodgy handle. Smelled of bread and dried mint from the back garden. Emma thought, I know this smellit belongs to me, not that other kitchen where I stand stirring things no one thanks me for.
Are you alright, love? her mum asked quietly.
Im managing.
Trouble at Robs?
Its Robs mums birthday Saturday.
And? Are you going?
Maybe. But Im not catering.
Her mum paused, then carefully, as if weighing something long unsaid:
Emma, are you happy there?
Emma looked up.
What do you mean?
Just… each time you come, youre tired, always rushing. Like now, you keep glancing at your phone.
Emma looked down at her phone. She had, hadnt she?
Force of habit.
I know, her mum said, and left it at that, pouring more tea.
By Wednesday, Nora Palmer called again. Her voice had a shaky, rare earnestness.
Emma, I want to speak frankly.
Im listening.
I know your dads unwell, and I am sorry, I mean that. But you must see Ive waited twenty years for this day. Seventy. You only get one shot.
Emma said nothing.
Im not asking you to ignore your father, Nora went on. But youre the best cook in this family, you know you are. Its your contribution. Isnt it?
Mrs. Palmer, Emma replied slowly, Ive learnt something this week. My contribution isnt pies or aspic. Its being with my dad when he needs me.
Be with him, then. Whos stopping you? Hospital in the morning, cooking in the evening. Im not asking the impossible.
For you, maybe not. For meright now, I just cant pretend everythings fine when it isnt.
A long silence.
Youve always been a bit awkward, Emma, Nora said at last. Not angry, just matter-of-fact. Like saying its raining.
Maybe so.
Robs very upset.
I know.
He says youve changed.
Perhaps I have.
Emma hung up. Her hands still didnt shake.
Thursday morning, she packed a bagclothes, charger, toiletries, passport. Made the decision without fuss. Texted Oliver: Grandads getting better. Ill stay at Nans for a few days. Alls fine. Quick reply: Mum, Ill ring you tonight. Are you OK, really? She messaged: Honestly. Love you.
Once Rob left for work, she left a note on the kitchen table: At my parents. Will call. She paused at the kitchen doornineteen years worth of mornings, one table, one stove, the same old kitchen smell. Then she closed the door behind her, heading out.
No more snowjust cold, crisp, late-November sky. Emma walked to the bus stop, thinking: nineteen years. Thats half a life. Half a life believing you deserved only what you got, never asking for more.
At her parents, the familiar scent of mint and warm light met her at the door. Mum let her in, saw the bag, didnt ask a thing. Just stood aside, let her through, and hugged hertight, brief. Emma stood there, feeling something long-tightly wound inside her slowly begin to loosen.
You staying? Mum asked.
A few days, if thats okay.
What do you mean, if thats okay? Mum gave her a little poke. This is your house.
She stayed four days. Every morning, she and her mum went to the hospital. Dad gradually improvedspeaking more clearly, already grumbling about the IVs and asking for proper grub. Doctor said he should recover, with rehab afterwards.
Emma slept better than she had in yearsno alarm clocks, no waking until she wanted to. Ate her mums food, simple and homelyporridge, bangers and mash, apple cake made with the last of the Bramleys from Mums September harvest. That cake wasnt fancy but smelt so intensely of home Emma found herself blinking tears.
Whats the matter? asked Mum.
Nothing. Just, its really good.
Mum nodded, not prying.
Rob rangfirst time Friday evening, tense.
When are you coming back?
Not sure yet.
Em, the partys tomorrow. The whole family!
I know.
Mums panicking. Marinas trying to cook and everythings burning.
They can order food. I said so.
You know Mums upset?
I do. Im sorry its worked out this way. But Im here.
Long pause.
Youre different, he said. Almost the same as Nora, but in a different tonepart accusing, part lost.
Probably, Emma said.
She didnt go to the party.
Saturday morning, she and Mum brought Dad soup and a home-baked roll. He ate the lot, praised the roll, said hed soon be back to cook himself if Mum kept making such a hash. Mum laughed and told him to pipe down. Emma sat and listened to their bickering, which wasnt bickering but the talk of two people who knew each other so well and were still happy together. In their seventies and still managing it.
Saturday evening, Emma sat reading in the armchair, not really even reading, just holding the book. Mum was knitting opposite. It snowed steadily outside, proper December snow now. Her phone buzzed a few times. Marina: Evening was a mess, guests, barely any food, mortifying. Nora Palmer said nothing. Rob texted one word: Well?
She ignored them, picked up her book.
She and Rob spoke properly a few days later, when Emma came to get her things from the Maple Road flather stuff, her documents, her practical life. By then, Dad was out of high-dependency, in a normal ward, and improving.
Rob was at the kitchen table. Something about him had changed too, as if a gear had shifted.
Can we talk?
We can.
They talked a long while. No fights, just talkingreal talking, for the first time in years. Emma said she was tired, tired of being a convenience, that nineteen years of being easy had cost her something she couldnt quite name. Rob listened, sometimes tried to explain that hed never meant it badly, it just happened; his mum was his mum, after all. Emma didnt argue, she just explained her side.
Do you want a divorce? he asked at one point. It caught her off guardso plain.
She paused.
I want to live differently. What thats called, I dont know yet.
He nodded, got up, poured a glass of water.
Ill let Oliver know.
Okay.
Oliver turned up two weeks later, unannounced, big bag in hand, that old solemn look hed get before talks as a kid.
You alright, Mum?
I am, Ol. Properly.
Dad said things are… well, complicated.
Not complicated, just honest. Thats all.
He stayed three days. They talked a lotfirst he was a bit cross at her, then at Rob, then he calmed down and just kept her company. When he left, he hugged her at the door.
You look more rested than you have in years.
That obvious?
Very.
They divorced calmly, without rowslike people whod lived beside each other too long, not together. Rob kept the flat on Maple Road. Emma took her things, a few boxes, and moved in with her parents while she sorted somewhere else. Her mum didnt say a wordjust cleared a room, made up the bed, and put on the bedside table the little wooden bird Dad had once carved. Emma saw it the first time she went in. Picked it uplight, smooth, covered in tiny knife marks.
Dad was discharged early Decemberwalking unaided, slowly, leaning on a stick but steady. At the door, he looked at Emma:
Well, there you are. Everyones home.
That New Year, it was just the four of them: Emma, her mum, her dad, and Oliverwho travelled down specially. They decorated the tree, watched old films, ate Mums Russian salad and a cabbage pie. Simple, nothing fancy. Emma helped with the pie, dusted the board with flour, thinking: this is what it means to cook for people. Not for a list. Not for tradition. For people.
In February, she found herself a little flata one-bed up on the fifth floor, window over a quiet close with a few silver birches. It was modest, little furniture, smelled faintly of new paint and previous lives. Emma brought her first things, stood in the empty room, then went and stared at the birches outside.
Marina rang once, in March. Her tone was half-indignant, half-conciliatorya tricky blend.
Emma, how are you? Mums… well, worried. Shed never admit ityou know her.
I know.
Hows it all going, then?
Fine, Marina. Im getting on.
Maybe you could… well, come to ours at times? At least on the big occasions? Its a bit much, us by ourselves.
Emma smiled, even though Marina couldnt see.
Ill think about it. Well see.
Only, you did always make the best aspic. We tried, it comes out all cloudy.
Ill send you my recipe. The trick is straining the brothtwice through muslingive that a go.
Really?
Really. Not as hard as it looks. You just have to do it yourself.
She sent the recipe. Marina replied with a shocked-face emoji and never called again.
Dads recovery was slow but steady. By spring hed given up the walking stick, grumbled at the medics, insisted hed go down to the allotment. Doctors said wait. He said, You watch me. Sure enough, in May, when the ground had warmed, Emma drove him there, helped open the shed, got the heater going. They sat on the veranda with mugs of tea in old blue-rimmed cups. Beyond the fence, the cherry blossoms were blooming.
Dad, do you remember making me those wooden birds?
I do. You always used to lose them.
Not all. I kept one. Its on my shelf.
Thought so, he replied. Mum told me. A pause. Youve done well, Em.
For what?
Just for being you, he said. Lifes long. Just dont waste it on the wrong things.
She nodded. Scent of blossom and damp wood, absolute quiet, only a far-off cuckoo calling.
That spring, Emma got a job again. Shed worked in accounts for years, then eased offNora Palmer had always said family came first, Rob never argued. Now, she joined a small office, nice team, the work familiar. At first, the change was strange, but soon enough, Emma enjoyed having her days truly to herself again.
Weekends, shed visit her parents. Sometimes she stayed over. She and Mum baked piesnot for parties or lists, just for them. Dad would sit nearby, offering advice no one needed; Mum would tease him for it. The wooden bird sat calmly on the bedside.
One summer evening, Oliver called, just to chat.
Mum, how are you?
Im well, Ol. Honestly, really well.
Youre different. Glad to see it, honestly.
Different?
Better.
Emma laughed.
How are things with you?
All good. Work, mates, might visit in August…
She listened to his voice, gazing at her flats window. Outside, the birches were full, green, as if the entire street was bursting with leaves.
Come visit, she said. Ill make you some proper soup.
Your kind?
Mums recipe.
No soup better anywhere, Oliver grinned. Thats a deal.
