Olivia stood by the stove, stirring a pot of stew while eavesdropping on the conversation in the living room. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, was passionately explaining something to her son, who responded with vague murmurs. Snatches of chatter floated through—neighbors, grocery prices, the weather. The usual family banter, with no space for her.
“Olivia dear, where’s the shepherd’s pie?” Margaret called. “You promised to make it yesterday!”
Olivia pressed her lips together. She’d never mentioned shepherd’s pie. In fact, she loathed the dish, and Margaret knew it perfectly well.
“Mum, I’m making beef stew,” she replied, forcing calm into her voice. “Remember, we agreed yesterday?”
“Beef stew?” Margaret bustled into the kitchen, frowning. “William doesn’t like beef stew. He’s always been fussy.”
William—Olivia’s husband—had shared meals with her for eight years and never complained. But arguing with his mother? Not a chance. Olivia knew that much.
“Mum, it’s fine,” William’s voice drifted in from the living room. “Stew’s alright.”
“There, see?” Margaret shook her head reproachfully. “Now he’s forcing himself to eat something he dislikes, just for you.”
Olivia turned back to the stove so Margaret wouldn’t see her face. How exhausting, these endless nitpicks! Roast chicken? Should’ve been fish. Bought bread from Tesco? Should’ve been Waitrose. Laundry on Wednesday? Saturday was better.
“Margaret, perhaps you’d like to take over cooking?” Olivia suggested, without turning. “I don’t mind.”
“Oh no, dear. You’re the lady of the house—you cook. I’ve done my time. It’s the younger generation’s turn now.”
Younger. Olivia was forty-three and felt anything but, especially after conversations like this.
Margaret retreated to the living room, and Olivia finished cooking. Half an hour later, lunch was ready. She set the table and called everyone in.
“William, love, sit here,” Margaret fussed, patting the chair beside her. “Olivia’s put you near the draft again.”
Olivia glanced at the window—firmly shut, not a whisper of wind. Still, William obediently moved where his mother pointed.
“Oh, I forgot the crème fraîche,” Olivia said, heading to the fridge.
“William never eats stew without it,” Margaret noted. “Should’ve thought of that sooner.”
“Mum, it’s fine,” William said placidly. “Olivia’s getting it now.”
Olivia set the tub on the table and sat down. They ate in silence. The stew was hearty, flavored to perfection—yet Margaret ate as if swallowing cough syrup.
“Remember, William, the stew I used to make you as a boy?” Margaret suddenly said. “With red wine and mushrooms. You’d always have seconds.”
“Course, Mum,” William smiled. “It was lovely.”
“Proper Irish stew,” Margaret went on, casting a meaningful glance at Olivia. “Not like these slapdash meals nowadays. Young people can’t cook—just want everything quick and easy.”
Olivia felt a lump rise in her throat. She’d spent three hours on this stew, carefully layering flavors. Yet Margaret had turned it into another chance to snipe.
“Margaret, maybe you could teach me your recipe?” Olivia asked, swallowing irritation.
“Too late now, dear. Cooking’s a skill for the young. No time to learn properly at your age.”
“Mum, Olivia’s a great cook,” William unexpectedly defended. “I always enjoy it.”
Margaret looked at him, startled—as if he’d betrayed her.
“Of course you do. Men don’t know the difference—just want their bellies full.”
After lunch, Margaret retired for a nap, and William turned on the telly. Olivia cleaned the kitchen, thinking how sick she was of this life. Work, chores, cooking—and always feeling like an outsider.
That evening, William’s sister Emily arrived with her husband and two kids. Olivia brightened, hoping for distraction—too soon.
“Olivia, darling! How are you?” Emily air-kissed her cheeks. “You’ve lost weight. Not ill, are you?”
“Just tired,” Olivia said.
“Ah. Where’s Mum? I want to show her the children.”
Emily swept into the living room, and the familiar family chatter resumed—neighbors, gossip from their hometown, names Olivia didn’t recognize.
“Remember Auntie Mabel from down the road?” Emily said. “Turns out she’s in hospital. Blood pressure’s awful.”
“Oh, the poor dear!” Margaret gasped. “William, pop by tomorrow, check on her.”
“Will do, Mum.”
“And remember our old neighbor, Tim? Finally married—nice local girl, from a good family. His parents are thrilled.”
Local. Olivia caught Margaret’s glance—the barb wasn’t accidental.
“It’s best when people marry their own kind,” Margaret said pointedly. “They understand each other. Outsiders just bring trouble.”
Emily’s kids raced around the flat, and seven-year-old Jack knocked over a vase. It shattered.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Emily fluttered. “Jack, apologize! Olivia, forgive him.”
“It’s fine,” Olivia said, gathering shards. “It was old.”
“Old?” Margaret gasped. “That was my late sister’s wedding gift! A family heirloom!”
Olivia froze. Margaret had never mentioned the vase before—it had sat for years, unnoticed.
“I didn’t know,” Olivia muttered. “Maybe we can glue it—”
“Glue won’t fix disrespect,” Margaret snapped.
Emily’s husband coughed. “Perhaps we should head off? It’s late.”
“Don’t be silly,” Margaret said. “We’re family.”
Family. Olivia thought bitterly that to Margaret, family meant only blood—no matter how many years Olivia spent among them.
Guests left by eleven. Olivia washed up, tidied, then found William reading in bed.
“We need to talk,” she said, sitting beside him.
“About?” He didn’t look up.
“Your mother. The way she treats me.”
William sighed. “Liv, she’s like that with everyone.”
“Not Emily. Not you.”
“We’re her children.”
“And what am I? A lodger?”
Silence. Then: “Mum’s set in her ways. Give her time.”
“We’ve been married eight years! How much time?”
“Don’t start a row. I’ve a headache.”
Olivia knew then—he’d never choose her over his mother.
Next morning, voices in the kitchen woke her. Margaret was whispering urgently to William. Olivia crept closer.
“I see you suffering,” Margaret said. “She’s wrong for you. Cold. Distant.”
“Mum, stop.”
“Truth hurts? Emily married Steve—they’re happy because he’s one of us. But you? Tied to an outsider.”
“Liv’s a good woman.”
“Not for you. She looks at me like I’m in her way—but it’s my house. I raised you here.”
“Our house, Mum. Mine and Liv’s.”
“Yours. She’s temporary—here today, gone tomorrow.”
Olivia pushed the door open. “Morning.”
They froze. Margaret turned to the window. William looked guilty.
“Tea’s cold,” Margaret muttered. “Heat your own.”
Olivia silently filled the kettle.
William gulped his tea. “Off to work. See you tonight.”
He kissed Margaret’s cheek, gave Olivia a stiff shoulder-squeeze, and left.
Silence hung thick.
“Margaret,” Olivia said finally, “why do you hate me?”
Margaret turned. No pretense now. “You’ll never belong here.”
“But I’ve tried—”
“Some things can’t be fixed. You weren’t born one of us.”
That evening, Olivia packed.
William found her at the door. “Don’t go.”
She didn’t turn. “Goodbye, William.”
He hugged her, hands trembling. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not making you happy.”
The taxi pulled away. Behind her, a family where she’d never fit. Ahead, a world where she wouldn’t have to beg for love. Relief—sharp, sweet—washed over her.