Drumstick or Wing
No, Kate, thats it. I warned you. If tomorrow she brings out that chicken with the drumstick for him again, and leaves only wings and backs for me and the kids, Ill explode. Do you hear? Ill blow like an overheated pressure cooker.
Olivia fiddled anxiously with the phone, staring out the window as a gentle autumn rain pattered against the glass. On the other end, her friend muttered soothingly, but it was too latethe verdict had already been passed. Mrs. Anne Stephens would arrive on Friday, and Olivia knew from that moment onward, her kitchen would cease to be hers.
You see, its not about the chicken at all, Olivia continued, lowering her voice and glancing toward the door. Its about me becoming invisible, Kate. A servant in my own home. No, worseat least servants are thanked. Me? I just disappear. Dissolve. And the kids see it, Kate. They watch as their grandmother waits on their father like hes some sort of monarch, and were just the retinue. And you know whats worst? Simon doesnt even notice. Not at all. To him, its all normal.
Kate tried to advise a heart-to-heart. Olivia sighed and brushed it off, even though her friend couldnt see her.
Ive done that. A hundred times. He nods, promises, and then as soon as she arrivesback to square one. Hes his mums boy, Katie. Forty years old, two university degrees, foreman at the plant, but in front of his mother hes five again. Yes, Mum, thank you, Mum, this is lovely, Mum. And while Im falling apart from parent-teacher meetings, and Daisys got her big exam, and Peters floundering in maths, none of it exists for him.
Outside, the rain intensified. Olivia pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane. In the reflection stared a tired woman, dull-eyed, first lines appearing beside her lips. Thirty-eight years old. Fourteen years married. And every year it felt more like she was managing someone elses family, not building her own.
All right, Kate, Id best get on with dinner. Shell be here tomorrow and will inspect the fridge first thing, say its empty, claim Im starving the family. Never mind I spent three hours at the market yesterday, stocking up for the week. Nothings ever enough, or the right thing. Ill go.
Olivia set the phone down and glanced at the clock. Half seven. Simon had promised to be home by seven, but he was lateas usual. Probably on the phone to his mum, reporting that his wife is unhappy again. Olivia winced at the thought and went to the kitchen.
***
Anne Stephens began packing immediately after lunch, over a day before her trip. She could never rest, too unsettled, fluttering about the flat, sorting belongings, shuffling food, checking her bags contents for the dozenth time.
Her two-bedroom council flat on Peace Road was saturated with memoriesa museum of her former life. Everything here reminded her of when Simon was small, her husband alive, the family whole, together round the table rather than scattered across distance and telephone. There were faded floral wallpapers she and her husband put up in 83, a cabinet with crystal glassesa silver anniversary giftand family photos on the walls: Simon at school, Simon with his diploma, Simon marrying Olivia.
Anne paused at that last photo. Back then, Olivia had seemed so sweet and modest, a respectable teacher from a good family. Anne had honestly been pleased: perhaps her son had found someone worthy. Fourteen years later, it was all so much more complicated.
Always dissatisfied, Anne muttered, turning from the photo. Its as if she doesnt feel at home, always grumbling, no matter how much I do. Simon works hard, brings in money, and all she can do is pick faults. Either I cook too much, or cut the chicken wrong, or spoil the kids with treats. But I buy the best for them! Spend my whole pension to treat my grandchildren, make sure theyre properly fed.
She went to the kitchen, opened her fridge. There were containers full of pasties, one with cabbage, one with minced beef, a jar of homemade jam, stuffed cabbage. Tomorrow shed add a fresh chicken, a kilo of beef for stew, some cottage cheese for pancakes. She kept a mental tallySimons favourites, what the grandchildren liked, how best to cook something to please everyone.
I must find a decent chicken, she mused, speaking aloud as always when alone. From the market, not the supermarketall hormones nowadays. Simon always loved my roast chickencrispy skin, succulent meat. The drumstick was always for him. He works so hard, comes home exhaustedhe deserves the best cut.
She retrieved her old, squared recipe notebook from the cupboard. The pages yellowed, words faded; still, Anne knew every recipe by heart. She opened to the page marked: Roast Chicken and PotatoesSimons Favourite. She read it, though she could have recited it perfectly.
The phone rang at exactly eight. Anne knew straight away it was Simonhe always called at this hour, after dinner, when the kids were busy with schoolwork.
All right, Mum, he said, sounding weary and a little guilty. How are you?
Oh, Im fine, love. Nearly finished packing. Got all the food ready. Do you like cabbage or beef pasties more?
Cabbage, Mum. But you really dont have to overdo it. Youll tire yourself out carrying all that.
Anne felt her chest tighten. It was happening againprobably Olivia stirring him up.
What do you mean, dont? Im doing it for you, for the children. Peter looks so thinneeds fattening up. Daisys growing so fast, she needs homemade cottage cheese for vitamins.
Mum, weve a full fridge. Olivia did a big shop yesterday.
Olivia Anne stressed the name, your Olivia buys from the supermarket. All riddled with chemicals. My market foods proper. Or do you think your motherd bring you anything less?
Simon paused. Anne knew these silenceshe was caught between her and his wife, poor thing. But Anne only ever wished him well. Unlike some.
All right, Mum. Bring what you like. Just dont exhaust yourself.
Dont fuss, love, Im still sturdy. What time will you pick me up?
Around two.
Good, Ill be ready. How are my grandchildren?
All right. Peters struggling in mathswell work on it. Daisy is revising for a literature competition.
My clever girl! Takes after her granddadhe loved his books too. Anne was quiet for a moment. And Olivia?
Tired. The school keeps her busy.
Tired, Anne echoed, just a hint of irony. Well, teachers have holidays, at least. Not like you. Look after yourself on the job, wont you?
I will, Mum. See you tomorrow.
See you, love.
Anne put the phone down and gazed into space for ages. Simon used to call every daysometimes twice. Share everything, ask for advice. Now, only once a week, and always that guilty note in his voice, as if apologising for something.
Its all her doing, Anne whispered. Shes pulling him away from his mother. I can see it. Maybe shes jealousthinks Im in the way. But Im his mother! Raised him single-handedly after his dad died. Gave everything. And she waltzes in fourteen years ago and suddenly shes in charge.
She stood, went to the bedroom, and picked up a framed photo: her with Simon as a four-year-old, both laughing in a neighbours garden, his arms around her neck. Back then, he was all hers.
Why did things have to turn out so complicated? All she ever wanted was for Simon to be happy, for the grandchildren to be healthy and well-fed. Why couldnt Olivia see it was all out of love?
***
The evening in Simon and Olivias home was tense as always. The children finished their homework and scatteredDaisy deep in her mobile, Peter on his tablet. Simon sat at the computer in the lounge, pretending to work, but really scrolling aimlessly through the news.
Olivia washed up, each plate fuelling her low, throbbing irritation. She knew she should talk to Simonnow, while the children were up, so she wouldnt have to raise her voice. But the words wouldnt come. How many times could you repeat yourself?
Simon, she called, drying her hands on a tea towel.
Mmm? He didnt look up from the screen.
Can we talk?
Go ahead.
Properly, Simon. Shut the computer.
Simon sighed but turned. He looked tired, dark rings under his eyes. He was working hard, that was true. For a moment, Olivia felt a pang of sympathy, but steeled herself. She wouldnt back down tonight.
Its about your mum, she began, perching on the edge of the sofa. I know she wants to help, wants to feed everyone, but
Oh, Olivia, not this again. She only visits once a month. Cant you just let it go for a few days?
Let it go? Simon, Ive been letting it go for fourteen years. I let her rearrange my kitchen. I let her give the kids sweets after dinner, though Ive asked her not to. She cooks so much it gets chucked out days later. But most of all, she makes me into a nobody in my own house. Do you get that?
Youre exaggerating.
No, Im not. Be honest with me: when your mum comes over, whos in charge here?
Simon tried to reply, but Olivia pressed on.
She is. Your mother. She decides whats cooked, when we eat, who gets which cut. And you let her! More than let heryou expect it. You act like a little boy, delighted his mums come to pamper him. And you don’t care about me at all.
Olivia, this is mad.
Is it? Then whys the biggest piece of chicken always on your plate at dinner? Why do the kids always get the wings, while you get the drumstick? Why am Itheir mother, your wifeleft with scraps, waiting till everyone else has finished?
Mums just looking after me.
Only you! She dotes on you. What about us? To her, the rest of us are just background. Im tiredtired of being cast as the extra in my own life.
What do you want, Olivia? Forbid her from coming?
No. I want you to talk to her. Tell her this is our family, our rules. I cook, I know what my children need. That a chicken can be shared equally. That a grown man can eat the same as everyone else.
Thats humiliatingtelling my mum how to carve a chicken.
Olivia laughed, harshly. And Im not humiliated, watching my daughter quietly cry because she gets a pathetic piece and her dad always gets the best? Shes twelve, Simon. She notices. But she says nothing, to spare her grans feelings. And I feel like a failure because I cant protect her.
Youre overreacting.
No. It’s the truth. And if tomorrow it happens again, Ill say what I thinkto your mums face. I dont care if you sulk for a week after.
She left the room. On the bed, Olivia buried her face in her hands, suppressing sobs. Anger, powerlessness, resentment at Simon and Anne and herself. Why couldnt she shrug it offwhy did it matter so much?
But she knew. It wasnt the chicken. It was about respect. About her needs and feelings constantly undermined. And Simon didntor wouldntsee it.
***
Friday dawned with rain. Simon left early, promising to return at two to collect his mum. Olivia got the children off to school and returned to the empty flat. She ought to tidy, get started on dinner, but couldnt summon the energy.
She made herself coffee and gazed out the window at the grey, rain-soaked streetjust one more gloomy November day.
She flicked through texts from Kate, whod sent encouragement after their call: Hang in there, Youre strong, Speak your mind, itll help. Easier said than done.
At two, the doorbell rang. Olivia started, though shed been expecting it. She glanced in the mirrorpale, circles under her eyes, hair hastily tied back. Not that it mattered; Anne Stephens would find fault regardless.
She opened the door. Anne, weighed down with two huge tote bags, entered; Simon ferried them in.
Hello, Olivia, Anne said, nodding briefly. Hows your health?
Fine, thank you.
Thats good. Simon said youve been tired. Not surprising, your jobs a hard one. Ive brought pasties and stuffed cabbage, do heat them up for everyoneand tell the children, will you?
Thank you, Olivia forced out.
Anne bustled straight to the kitchen, scanning it with a critical eye. Olivia watched her gaze flit over counters, oven, sinkhunting for things to nitpick, as always.
Your fridge is rather empty, I see, Anne tutted, opening the door. Lucky Ive brought supplies. Well be well-stocked now.
Olivia clenched her jaw. Shed filled the fridge the day before. It was never enough for Anne.
Mum, why dont you have a rest first? Simon suggested. You must be worn out from the journey.
Nonsense, Simon. Ill get lunch started. You havent eaten, I suppose?
We have, Olivia lied. No need to cook.
What do you mean, no need? Anne was already unpacking a chickenLook at this beauty, proper free-range from the market. Ill get it roasting with potatoes for dinner; the kids will be hungry after school.
Olivia darted a look at Simon, who looked away. Patheticalways silent before his mother.
Anne, really, Ive already made pasta and meatballs for tea. The children love it.
Pasta? Anne sniffed. Thats not proper food. Growing children need real meat.
I make the meatballs myself.
Do you indeed? Anne sounded unconvinced. Roast chickens betterall natural, Simons favourite.
Olivia felt rage bubbling up. Here she wasin her home, her kitchen, her familyand yet she was no one.
Anne was already breaking down the chicken for roasting, peeling potatoes, moving briskly about the kitchen as though she were mistress of the house. Olivia stood in the doorway, feeling utterly displaced. Simon was nowhere to be seen.
You have a rest, Olivia love, Anne called over her shoulder. Ill manage here.
Olivia left. In the sitting room, she sat on the sofa, head in hands. If she challenged Anne now, it would spark a scene in front of the children, which she wanted to avoid. Shed hang on till dinner.
***
The children returned from school, dripping from the rain. Peter made straight for the kitchen, lured by delicious smells.
Gran! he cried, running to hug her.
Yes, darling, Im here, Anne ruffled his hair. Missed you all so much. Hows school?
Okay. Whats that smell?
Roast chicken. Ready soon. You must be hungry?
Yep! he grinned.
Daisy entered more quietly, her manner all caution, so like Olivias own. Olivia watched her daughter as she surveyed the kitchen, clocking the way Anne had rearranged everything to her own order.
Daisy, wont you give your grandma a cuddle? Anne called.
Daisy obliged, though Olivia could see she wasnt comfortable.
My, youre so grown up now. Nearly a young woman already. Hows your reading?
Good, Daisy replied.
Well done, you take after your mum therea real bookworm?
Yes.
Lovely! Let me pour you a cuppa and have a pasty toofreshly baked this morning.
Daisy sat politely and nibbled a pasty without enthusiasm; Peter had already wolfed down two and was grabbing a third.
Peter, thats enough, Olivia intervened. Its nearly dinnertime.
Oh, let himgrowing boy! Anne cut in.
He doesnt need to ruin his appetite before tea, Olivia replied sharply.
Awkward silence. Peter looked between his mum and gran, confused. Daisy gazed at her plate.
All right, leave the rest for later, darling, Anne said gently. Mums right.
Olivia headed for the hallway, burning with frustration. Even in the smallest things, it was a power struggleand Anne always won, the generous grandmother versus the mean mother.
At seven, Simon arrived. Anne met him at the door, relieved him of his coat, fussed if he was cold or hungry. Simon managed a wan smile, giving brief replies. Olivia, watching from the next room, felt like a spectator at someone elses play.
Everyone, to the table! Anne called. Dinners served.
The table groaned under the food: a golden roast chicken, potatoes, salads, pickles, bread. Anne bustled about, loading plates.
Simon, darlingdrumstick for you, she announced, depositing the largest, juiciest piece on his plate. Goodness knows you need it, working so hard.
Olivia felt something inside snap. Here it wasagain.
Daisy, a nice wing for youlook after that figure, cant have too much fat. Daisy was twelve and thin as a reedan excuse, nothing more.
Peter, wing and back for you, love. Get stuck in.
Peter picked at his meal, eyeing Simons plate with confusion.
And me? Olivia asked quietly.
A wing as well, love, Anne answered, not meeting her eye. Or you dont like chicken?
I do. But Id like a proper piece, not scraps.
Simon looked up, anxious.
Olivia, really
What? Id like to know why my husband gets the drumstick and my children and I are left with odds and ends.
Simon works hard, Anne said icily.
Dont I work? Im on my feet all dayschool, home, children. Still only fit for the leftovers, am I?
Olivia, please Simon tried for her hand, but she pulled away.
No, Im tired of being quiet. Tired of standing by and watching you let your mother humiliate me at my own table.
Humiliate? Anne went pale. I only came to helpto cook for the family, and you”
You came to make it clear whos in charge! To remind me this is your sons house, not mine. That the children are your grandchildren, not my children. I cant even split a chicken as I like, because you know best who deserves what cut!
Please, both of you, Simon tried. The kids
Olivia turnedDaisy sat ghostly pale, Peter with his face in his hands.
Im sorry, Olivia whispered, and rushed from the kitchen.
In the bedroom, she flung herself on the bed, sobbing into the pillow. She cried for exhaustion, for shame in front of the children, for the anger at Simon, Anne, herself. Why couldnt Simon choose her, defend her, ever?
She could hear muffled voices through the wall, Anne probably reassuring the children, making herself look the kindly gran and Olivia the unhinged. And the children would believe itthey already did.
The door creaked. Simon entered.
Olivia what was that?
She sat up, wiping her face.
Me? What about her?
Mum was only trying to be nice and you
Shut up, Olivia said, coldly. I dont want to hear it.
But
Ive put up with it fourteen years, watching your mother treat you as the centre of the universe and me as staff. You let her, Simon. Moreyou love it, dont you? It suits you to have your mum spoil you, everyone scurrying to keep you happy. While I get nothing.
Thats not
It is. If you cared, youd have told her long ago: Mum, Olivia is my wife. She deserves respect. But you never do. If I force you to choose, it will always be her.
Simon slumped beside her.
I dont know what to do. Shes my mum. Shes all I have left I cant bear to hurt her.
But you can hurt me.
Olivia
Answer me. You can hurt me?
No answer.
Olivia stood, walked to the window.
I cant do this anymore, Simon. Either you tell her this is my house and set some boundaries, or or I dont know. But I wont go on.
Whatdrive her away?
I want you to be a man, Simon. A husband. Head of the house. Not a forty-year-old mummys boy.
She left him alone, exiting straight into Anne.
Pleased now? Annes eyes shone with tears. Youve ruined my relationship with my son?
I only told the truth.
Truth? I gave my whole life for him. His father died when he was fifteen, I worked two jobs, put him through university, gave it all. And now you swan in, claim you have more right than me?
Hes not just your son, Anne. Hes my husbandthe father of my children. And in this house, I have say, not you.
Hardlycant even manage a proper casserole, always working, leaving the children to grandmothers, house a tip. I checkedthe fridge is bare, dust in the corners, Peters socks unwashed. What sort of housewife are you?
Olivias throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to strike outbut she held her temper.
Get out, she hissed. Leave my house.
This is my sons house.
Its my house! Olivia shouted. And I wont have you here!
Simon burst from the bedroom.
Whats happening?
Your wifes throwing me out! Anne sobbed. I came to help, and she throws me out like a dog.
Oliviawhat?
Im protecting my family. My home. Myself. If you cant see that, Im sorry. But I wont back down.
Anne turned to pack her bags. Simon floundered in and out of rooms. The children peered from behind doors, frightened and confused.
Half an hour later, Anne stood in the hall, stone-faced, red-eyed.
Ill go, she said. If Im not wanted here. Just remember, Simon, you only get one mother. Dont wait until Im dead to say your sorries.
Mum, please Simon tried to hug her, but she shook him off.
Book me a taxi. Im going home.
Its the middle of the nightstay till morning, at least.
No. I dont want to be here.
Simon called a taxi. While waiting, no one spoke. Anne ignored them all. Olivia waited in the bedroom. Simon helped Anne out; heard the taxi drive away; returned, his face grey and aged.
Well, are you happy now? he asked.
NoIm not happy about any of it. But there was no other way.
Shes my mother, Olivia.
I know. And I have no problem with her visiting. But she must respect me. Respect the children. Respect our family.
Simon slumped onto the sofa; Olivia joined him. They sat quietly, both lost in their thoughts.
What now? Simon asked at last.
I dont know. But we have to change something. Or itll fall apart.
***
Anne Stephens got home near midnight. The flat was cold, silent. She left her coat on, sank onto the sofa, tears flooding outwounded, betrayed by her own son. After everything shed done for himhow could he let his wife do this?
She wandered from room to room. Simons old drawings, his photos, his medalsthey were still her whole world. Shed given everything for him, forgoing anything for herself, living only for him. And now, driven out; her own son letting it happen.
She reached for the phone. Wanted to ring Simon, cry down the line, beg for comfort. But what if he didnt answer? Or told her shed brought it on herself?
She lowered the phone and sat at the table. She remembered that dinnersetting the juicy drumstick on Simons plate, as shed done since he was small. Giving the best piece to her beloved son was natural. Was it really so wrong?
But then, Daisys sad eyes came to mindwatching her fathers plate, and then her own, realising what wasnt fair and saying nothing.
Anne shook herself. No. She had done the right thingit was Olivia whod turned them against her. Surely.
The phone rang. It was Simon, sounding tired and strained.
How was the journey, Mum?
All right.
Im sorryabout everything.
Youre apologising? For your wife throwing me out?
Mum, please
Youre on her side.
I just want it to stop, Mum. Im tired.
So Im a burden then
Mum!
Dont call again if its so hard for you.
Anne hung up, heart pounding, hands shaking. When the phone rang again, she didnt answer. Let him worry, she thought. Let him see what it feels like. But the phone stayed silent after that.
She sat in the kitchen until morning, staring out into the dark. All shed ever wanted was to do right by Simonwhy didnt he understand? Why wasnt it enough?
***
The next day, Simon and Olivias breakfast was silent. The children darted nervous glances at their parents. Daisy picked at her porridge, Peter sulked.
Dad? Daisy ventured. Is Gran never coming back?
Simon and Olivia exchanged a look.
She will, Simon said. But not yet.
Did you fight over chicken? Peter sniffed. Was it really because of that?
Olivia sighed, Not over chicken, Peter. Over how adults sometimes dont understand each other or forget to talk.
But Gran is nice, Peter said. She bakes for us, brings presents. Why did you send her away, Mum?
I didnt send her away, Olivia swallowed her tears. I just wanted to be respected. For her to see that were important toonot just your father.
But Dads the head of the family, Peter replied, Gran always says so. Dad gets the most.
Olivia closed her eyes. Annes message had soaked in for years: Dad first, Dad gets the best, the rest follow.
Peter, listen, Olivia said gently. There are no favourites in a familywere all important. Chickenand everything elseshould be shared fairly. Do you understand?
Peter nodded, uncertain.
Daisy stood up.
Can I get ready for school now?
Yes, darling.
The children slipped away. Simon poured another coffee, staring at Olivia.
What do we do?
I dont know. You need to talk to your motherset boundaries.
She wont listen.
Then she shouldnt visit.
Shes my mother!
And this is my family! Olivia snapped. She either respects our rules, or visits somewhere else.
So youre making me choose.
No, Simon. She made you choose years ago. When she decided her son came before everyone else.
Simon drank up, stood, and left for work. Olivia was left at the kitchen table, surrounded by half-eaten breakfasts, not feeling triumphant, but hollow. Would Simon sulk? Would the children resent her? Anne, and her guilt-ridden phone calls?
She washed up, unable to shake the doubt: had she done the right thing? Maybe she should have held her tongue, as always?
No. Silence had lasted fourteen yearsenough. Time for change.
***
A week passed; Anne didnt call. Simon kept in touch, but didnt share the conversations. He grew more withdrawn; the children treaded carefully.
On Friday night, Simon told Olivia, Mum wants to visit on Sunday. To talkwith you.
Olivia hesitated. Im not sure, Simon.
Pleasejust give her a chance. She said shed try to understand your point.
She says that a lot. And then it goes the usual way.
For me, please?
She looked into his pleading eyes. He wasnt to blame for how hed been raiseda man kept dependent and dominated by a lonely mother. Okay, on the condition: no showering the kids with presents, no housework criticism, and no chicken rituals.
Deal.
***
Sunday turned out crisp and bright. Anne arrived at noon, looking shrunken and subdued. Olivia let her in, saying nothing. Simon fidgeted; the children were out for the afternoondeliberately so.
Have a seat, Olivia said.
Annes hands trembled as she clasped them.
I wanted Anne began, faltering, …to apologise.
Olivia raised her eyebrows.
For what, exactly?
For not listening. For not realising how I made you feel. I thought I was helpingmaking sure the family was cared for. But all I did was make you feel less. And the children, too.
Olivia waited.
My lifes always revolved around Simon, Anne continued. Ever since his father died. When he married, I felt left out, unwanted. So I tried to show I was still neededtried too hard, and ended up pushing you away.
In doing so, you humiliated me, Olivia replied, quiet but direct.
I didnt mean to. I honestly didnt see it could be interpreted like that.
Anne, youre an intelligent woman. Serving my husband the best bit, in front of his own familyit was deliberate. Criticising how I look after my homeit stings. You just found it easier not to see, because showing Simon you mattered most was more important.
Annes head dropped. Tears spilled over.
Maybe youre right. Maybe I was selfish. But I dont know how else to be. My worlds Simonwithout him, whats left for me?
Your own life, Olivia said. Friends, hobbiesa future not built on your son alone. Hes grown, Anne. He has his family. You need to let him go.
Im trying, I promise. But its so hard.
For the first time in fourteen years, Olivia saw her mother-in-law as something other than an adversaryan anxious, lonely woman, frightened to let go.
Youre welcome to visit, Olivia said. But you mustnt interfere with how I raise the kids. Or our home. Or treat Simon like the centre of the world, not in my house. If you want to fuss over him, do it privatelybut at my table, were equals. Understood?
Anne nodded.
Ill try. I really will.
Simon let out a sigh of relief.
Sorted, then?
Olivia said nothing. She doubted Anne could change after all these years. But it was worth a tryfor Simons sake, for the children, for herself.
Anne left a few hours later, promising to visit next weekno gifts, no food, just a visit. Olivia saw her to the door, even managed a brief hug.
When she returned, Simon stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
Thank you, he said.
For what?
For giving her a chance.
Well see what she does with it. If anything repeats, Ill not hold my silence.
I know.
They stood together, dusk outside streaked with orange and pinks. The children returned, noisy, bringing friends, filling the house with liveliness.
Olivia cooked tea, nothing fancy. As she served, she made sure the plates were evenno bigger portions, no better bits.
Peter giggled, Mum, did you do it on purpose, making all the plates the same?
Yes, PeterI did. Because its fair.
But isnt Dad annoyed he doesnt get the most?
Simon put his fork down.
No, son. He smiled. Because Im not more important than you or your sister. Were all a family, and we share.
Daisy smileda real smile, at last. Olivia felt a thaw within her. Maybe things would finally work out.
***
Three weeks passed, then four. Anne visited, more reserved. She no longer brought an armload of food, nor took over the kitchen. Olivia saw it was hard for her, but Anne held her tongue, dividing the chicken evenly when asked.
One night, Olivia found Anne in the kitchen, gazing into the darkness.
Cant sleep, Anne?
Nojust thinking
About what?
That Ive done it all wrong. All these years.
Youve raised a good man. Simons a credit to you.
But I made him dependent, caught between us. He suffers for it.
Hes grownhell manage.
You love him? Anne asked abruptly.
I do. But sometimes I resent how he cant stand up for me. How he fears upsetting you more than me.
And I fear losing him. Thats why I clutch him, smothering.
Let go. Thats how you keep him, Olivia said softly.
Anne sat quietly, then left. Olivia lingered, realising forgiveness is sometimes more important than justice.
***
Months passed. Anne visited less, but changed. She attended an English class, made a friend on her street, started going to the theatre. Simon, too, changedmore gentle, attentive. The family finally achieved that elusive, fair balance.
One day, when Anne came over, Olivia roasted a chicken by Annes recipe. At splitting time, Anne carefully carved it into equal pieces.
Like this? she asked, uncertain.
Exactly like that, Olivia smiled.
At the table, all portions were identical. There were no special pieces, no best.
Peter giggled, Remember Gran, you always gave Dad the big bit?
Things change, Anne smiled. Now, everyones just as important.
Simon raised his glass.
To familytogether, at last.
They clinked glasses, laughed, ate. Olivia realised that happiness lay in these simple moments, sharing a table with loved ones, sure of her place.
The best bit wasnt ever the drumstick. It was loveand every single person at the table having an equal share.
***
Anne returned home later that week, ready for her evening tea. For the first time in years, she felt calm after visiting Simonneeded, but not possessive or desperate. She was living for herself, at last. Thered be more to come: new friends, new mornings.
She poured her tea, feeling a gentle hopefulness. The best bit of life, after all, isnt about giving everything to one personits about living richly and openly, with love both given and received, shared and free.
***
Next morning, Olivias phone rang. It was Kate.
Well, hows things? Has the mother-in-law been round again?
She has. Its different nowtruly.
You didnt chuck her out forever?
No needshe understands. We all do.
And how does it feelbeing the boss of your kitchen?
Olivia chuckled, Its not being the boss, Kate. Its being respected, being heard. With that, everything else falls into place.
Does Simon still get the big bit of chicken?
Not anymore. We eat as a family, equal helpings, equal say. Thats how it should be.
She cooked breakfastscrambled eggs, bread, equal plates for everyone. Her family trickled in, sleepy, tousle-haired.
Mum, whens Gran back? Daisy asked.
In two weeksfor Peters birthday.
Will she make the cake?
Maybe. Maybe well make it together.
Together? Peter grinned. You never did that before.
Olivia nodded, We do now. Things are different.
Daisy smiled, and for the first time in a long while, Olivia felt entirely at home.
Because the real best bit isnt the part of the chicken you get, but the love and respect you share. Thats what makes a family whole.
