My name is Ava. I am 38 years old and I have been married to Mark for twelve years. Twelve long, complex, sometimes wonderful years — but always marked by a constant presence: that of my mother-in-law, Cheryl.
From the moment Mark slipped the ring on my finger, Cheryl made it her mission to « fix » me. To mold me according to her fixed idea of the perfect wife for her beloved son. And let me tell you right now: I never lived up to it. Not once in twelve years.
She criticized everything. The way I folded Mark’s shirts. How I organized the pantry. Even the way I loaded the dishwasher! She would show up unannounced, come in with the spare key that Mark insisted she keep, and run her finger over my work surfaces as if she were conducting a health inspection.
« Ava, my darling, » she said to me in that sweet voice that gave me goosebumps, « you really need to work on your housekeeping skills. »
Or again:
— You know, I always used to iron Mark’s father’s shirts. That’s what real wives do.
But my favorite, with that pitying little smile:
— You really should learn to cook. Mark deserves home-cooked meals, not… experiments.
And I remained silent. Always. For Mark, who loved his mother despite her interference. For my children, who adored their grandmother even when she drove me crazy. For family peace, which seemed more important than my own sanity.
But last year, at Thanksgiving, Cheryl didn’t just cross the line. She shattered it.
Ever since I joined this family, Cheryl always hosted Thanksgiving at her house. And the golden rule? Nobody brought anything. Not a casserole, not a pie, not even a bottle of wine—unless she specifically asked for it.
« Too many cooks ruin the dish, » she said. Or again:
« You need a harmonious table setting, not a train station buffet. »
So every year, I arrived empty-handed, while she paraded around her kitchen like a Michelin-starred chef, enjoying compliments and flattery for her role as matriarch.
But two weeks before Thanksgiving last year, everything changed.
Cheryl called Mark, panicked.
— It’s a disaster… A real disaster!
A pipe had burst in her downstairs bathroom. Water damage, torn floorboards, open walls, construction tools everywhere. She even sent photos.
— I cannot accommodate anyone in this condition. It’s unbearable!
Mark looked at me with his beaten puppy eyes, the ones he always used when he wanted something.
— Or… I suggested, surprising myself, we can do it here. At our place. I’ll take care of it.
Mark’s face lit up. Cheryl, on the other end of the line, paused for a little too long.
— Well… I suppose it could work. If you’re sure you can handle it, Ava.
A little dig.
« I’m sure, » I replied firmly. « I’ve got this. »
And for the first time in twelve years, I was excited about Thanksgiving. I finally had the opportunity to prove that I wasn’t the poor housewife she imagined me to be.
On Thanksgiving morning, I got up at 5 a.m., too excited and stressed to sleep.
I started with the turkey, which I had marinated overnight. Then the side dishes: sweet potatoes roasted with maple syrup, homemade green bean gratin, cranberry sauce, and a sage and butter stuffing that filled the house with its aroma.
In the mid-afternoon, three tarts were cooling on the worktop. The table was set with our beautiful china. I had even folded the napkins into swan shapes like in restaurants.
My children, Jeanne and Josh, were running around hanging up paper turkeys they had made at school.
« Mom, it’s so beautiful, » said Jeanne, hugging me.
Mark kissed me on the cheek.
— You’ve outdone yourself, darling. It’s incredible.
I felt good. Really good. For the first time in a long time, I felt… sufficient.
She didn’t knock. She never knocks. The door opened, and there she was, in her camel coat, pearls around her neck, with five enormous bags filled with aluminum dishes and plastic containers.
« Hello, darling! » she exclaimed, entering as if she owned the place.
She looked at my dining room with a condescending air.
— It’s… cute.
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