“Michael, check the potatoes for the salad. If they’re soft, you can turn the heat off,” Emily said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“On it,” Michael replied, his voice steady as he lifted the pot’s lid.
Emily kept slicing the ham. Since six o’clock that morning she had been a machine, chopping, mixing, and arranging every kind of salad the family could ask for—potato, Eastern, pomegranate, cheese, and who‑knows‑what‑else.
When the ham was done, she laid the slices artfully on a platter. A massive wedge of cheddar stared back at her, demanding its turn. Slice after slice fell under the knife’s swift glide, and Emily felt the sheer abundance blur her vision, making the kitchen spin.
Michael stuck a fork into a potato, feeling its resistance in the bubbling water.
“It’s soft enough. I’ll switch it off,” he said calmly.
“Good. Turn it off,” Emily replied.
“You sound out of breath,” Michael observed, noticing the tension in his wife’s shoulders.
“Michael, are you kidding? I spent yesterday running to the market, hauling everything home, boiling it, and now I’m slashing these salads from dawn. And you ask why I’m breathless?” Emily snapped, the steam of frustration rising from her.
“What can I do? It’s not my fault… Mother’s anniversary,” Michael said, his head bowed, guilt hanging over him.
“Nothing’s anyone’s fault! Why am I always the one to pick up the slack? We have another daughter‑in‑law, but she’s the golden girl!” Emily snapped, irritation crackling.
“Emily, you’re forgetting Eleanor,” Michael said gently.
Emily reached for a napkin, dabbing her hands before pouring herself a glass of water. She’d known Eleanor for five years, and in that time she’d learned the ways of her mother‑in‑law, Margaret Stevens, all too well.
Emily had arrived in the city from a small village. She first studied, then found work, and met Michael by sheer happenstance. Their courtship was brief; soon they were planning a wedding.
Eleanor’s introduction to the Stevens household had gone smoothly. The village girl slipped into her new family with ease, helping on the cottage garden long before the wedding. She never shied from work—painting doors, weeding the potato patch on weekends, canning jars of cucumbers for winter. She never complained; in a large family, everyone pitched in. Emily had grown up in a bustling household and knew the unspoken rules by heart.
One afternoon Margaret invited Emily and Michael over for a family dinner. It wasn’t just a visit; her younger son Andrew was about to propose to his sweetheart, a woman no one in the family seemed to know. All they knew was that his bride would be called Olive.
Andrew introduced Olive to the table. It was clear she had a spine—she wouldn’t let anyone step on her and wouldn’t be swayed by flattery.
In Margaret’s eyes, Andrew was the golden boy, and Olive instantly became the favourite daughter‑in‑law. At the wedding, Margaret raved about Olive, calling her the most beautiful bride, the perfect match for her son. Emily never heard such praise directed at her. She didn’t mind; it was just words, and she had already seen through Olive’s polished façade. Beneath the surface, Olive was a hollow pretty thing.
Olive did very little around the house. She and Andrew lived in a one‑bedroom flat, managing the chores only half‑heartedly. The idea of her helping Margaret on the cottage was laughable.
Margaret, for her part, never forced Olive to work. While Emily lugged two ten‑litre buckets of cucumbers and tomatoes for canning, Olive lounged in a deck chair, sipping a straw‑filled glass of homemade juice.
“How do you like the cottage, Olive?” Margaret cooed, hovering near her.
“Fine enough,” Olive replied, finishing her sip.
“The juice—did we add enough sugar?” Margaret asked, eager to please.
“It’s sweet, but a bit too sugary for my taste. I’m watching my figure,” Olive said, sighing.
“I’ll tell Emily to cut back on the sugar,” Margaret promised instantly.
Emily was out gathering apples from the orchard, trying not to let the tension crack her composure. She kept her grievances to Michael alone.
“Can you believe it? They want it less sweet, even though the recipe calls for that much sugar. If we cut it, the juice will ferment and spoil. But we’ll do anything for Olive!” Emily vented.
“Emily, try not to give her special treatment. Do what you think is right. Arguing with Margaret is pointless—she’s set in her ways,” Michael shrugged, unwilling to get drawn into the family drama.
Emily tended the garden, bought seeds, raised seedlings, harvested, and preserved the harvest. Olive never lifted a finger. The family never turned down food; they took it with both hands. Emily paid for everything—salt, sugar, spices, vinegar—small items that added up.
One day Emily confronted Olive directly.
“Olive, could you at least help out in the garden sometimes? Mother’s getting older, and Michael and I can’t do it all alone.”
“When will we have time? We work weekdays, hit the gym and pool on weekends, and dine out in the evenings. Life isn’t just chores; it’s also about enjoying ourselves,” Olive replied coolly.
Margaret promptly jumped in.
“Yes, dear, Olive’s right. You’re both young, you should live for yourselves. And you’re beautiful, so you must look after yourself,” she said, patting Olive’s shoulder.
Emily fell silent, her words swallowed by the clatter of plates. She whispered to Michael later.
“Now I’m the stubborn mule, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Olive’s been like this for years. It’s nothing new,” Michael shrugged.
Then the biggest event loomed—Margaret’s birthday. She ordered a high‑end robot vacuum without asking if anyone could afford it, simply declaring, “I want it, and that’s that.”
Olive and Andrew received a different message.
“Enough flowers and chocolates. You’re still young—spend your money on yourselves, not on an old woman,” they were told.
Emily finished the salads, packed them neatly, and she and Michael drove to Margaret’s cottage to set the table. Olive and Andrew were nowhere to be seen; they arrived precisely at the appointed hour, as if on a schedule.
Margaret, eager to celebrate, rushed to present a modest bouquet and an envelope to Emily, demanding it be opened immediately and in front of everyone.
Emily tore open the envelope, puzzled by the paper inside. Olive announced loudly that Margaret would soon become a grandmother. The room fell silent; the focus shifted entirely to the pregnant Olive.
By evening, Olive began to complain of nausea, blaming the smell of the food.
“Emily, clear the table right now,” Margaret commanded.
“Maybe Olive will just go home if she feels that bad,” Emily suggested, exasperated.
“She’s pregnant! Put yourself in her shoes!” Margaret snapped, defending Olive.
“Remember when I was carrying tomato seedlings and cucumber transplants?” Margaret reminded, eyes watery.
“Emily, I only asked you to clear the table! Why are you making a scene?” Margaret whined, on the brink of tears.
“I’m tired. I’ve set the table, now it’s Olive’s turn to clean and wash up. I need to go home and rest,” Emily said, pushing her chair back.
Margaret felt deeply wounded. This time Emily didn’t back down; she stopped helping on the cottage and avoided family gatherings altogether.
Three months later, Michael called from work, voice urgent.
“Emily, Mother’s been taken to hospital with a suspected stroke. Are you going to see her?”
“Of course I’ll go. I’ll find out what’s happening and call you back,” Emily replied.
It turned out that the beloved daughter‑in‑law had never once offered a hand to Margaret, even after the mother‑in‑law begged for help.
Emily cursed herself. If anything happened to Margaret, she would never forgive herself. They were family, after all.
“Margaret, how are you feeling?” Emily asked over the phone.
“I’m in bed. The doctors did scans and blood tests,” Margaret replied weakly.
“Rest, I’ll be there soon,” Emily promised.
Two weeks later Margaret was discharged, recovering at home. Michael and Emily arrived, relieved.
“Emily, you’ve done everything—cooked, cleaned. I’m lost without you,” Margaret said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I was ashamed… I only realized how much I missed you after you were gone,” Margaret whispered. “They say we don’t cherish what we have until it’s almost lost.”
“I missed the garden too,” Emily choked back tears. “From now on, you’re the one in charge. Take the keys, run the place.”
“Let’s go out together. Fresh air will do us good. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. Let’s have some tea,” Margaret said, a faint smile returning.
