No Place at Her Table

My motherinlaw never set a place for me—only bowls and chopsticks for her family of three. “Our food's ready.

What's she going to eat?” Every day after cooking, she'd look right past me as I sat beside her and ask my husband that question at the top of her voice.

At first, I didn't understand what she meant. I told her I'd have whatever everyone else was having. She neither looked at me nor answered.

At the next meal, she set out three place settings again. Then, right in front of me, she asked my husband, “What's she going to eat?” Over and over. Without exception.

That was when I finally got it. She was doing this to get at me.

Chapter 1 The house we were going to live in as a married couple was being renovated, so my husband, Jonathan Wilson, and I moved in with his parents.

I'd said we were perfectly happy in our rental and didn't need to trouble them. But his mother warmly insisted. Having the whole family together would liven the place up, she said.

One weekend, she and my fatherinlaw barged into our rental without warning.

Somewhere between inviting us and strongarming us, they helped us move out. “You won't have to clean, and you'll come home to a hot meal.

How nice is that?” “That sounds like so much trouble for you,” I said, embarrassed. “Oh, please,” she said generously. “Jonathan's made it this far without ever cooking a meal.

I'm used to waiting on him.

With you here, it's just one more place at the table.” For lunch that first day, she made braised pork ribs, chicken stewed with potatoes, shrimp braised in oil, and scrambled eggs with tomatoes.

It was a colorful spread, with plenty of variety, and it looked delicious. Jonathan sat down and said with an easy laugh, “We really are meant to be family.

Mom, everything you made is one of Brittany's favorites. What are the odds?” The smile on her lips cooled a little. Her voice lost some of its cheer. “Really? What a coincidence.

Is there anything Brittany can't eat? I should know for next time.” Jonathan answered before I could. “She eats pretty much anything. She's just not big on fried food.

She likes things a little lighter.” I wasn't actually a picky eater.

I'd had stomach trouble for a while, and my doctor had recommended a lighter diet, with less spicy and fried food. Jonathan had remembered.

But doctor's orders are the sort of thing you only remember when you feel sick. I hadn't paid much attention to them myself.

Jonathan spoke so seriously about my diet, and his mother looked as though she was taking careful note. I felt so cared for that I forgot to correct him.

That evening, though, she made four dishes. I wasn't sure whether it was a coincidence, but every one was spicy or fried. My heart sank. Instinctively, I looked at Jonathan.

Sure enough, he was frowning. “Mom, didn't I tell you—” “Oh, dear. My memory! I got it backward. I thought you said this was just what Brittany liked. What are we going to do?

Brittany, tell me what you'd like, and I'll make you something else.” She stood and put the apron she'd just taken off back on.

She looked so sincere and apologetic that my suspicions vanished. If she'd done it on purpose, would she really offer to go back into the kitchen and cook all over again?

Wouldn't that just make more work for her? I smiled. “Mom, you don't have to. I like all this. Jonathan just thinks too much of it is bad for me.

He's always keeping an eye on what I eat. It's fine.” After dinner, I pulled Jonathan along with me and volunteered us both for cleanup.

His mother smiled and stopped us. “Let him go do his own thing. He's never been able to get dishes clean, even as a boy.

If the dishes aren't clean, you'll eat all those germs and make yourselves sick.

Let's not keep score over little things like that.” There was something nastily pointed about the remark. I could barely keep the smile on my face.

Chapter 2 Fortunately, Jonathan knew how to handle people. He picked up the conversation. “Mom, if I don't get them clean, I'll wash them again.

Besides, your son's not as useless as you think. I've done all these chores in the years I've lived away from home, and I've done them pretty well. Go relax.

We've got the cleanup covered.” He steered her out of the kitchen. But I was quick to catch the coldness in her expression.

Suddenly, I wondered whether that night's dinner had been deliberate after all. I piled the pots, pans, and dishes in the sink and turned on the water to rinse them.

Beside me, Jonathan pulled out a cleaning wipe and started wiping the stove. “Was your mom upset just now?” I asked.

He smiled with his lips pressed together. “It's fine.” He'd cleaned about a third of the stovetop.

He hadn't even finished using that first wipe when his mother called from outside the kitchen. “Jon, come here a minute. Can you see what's wrong with my phone?

Why won't it turn on?” Naturally, Jonathan never came back that evening. I cleaned the kitchen by myself. I was full of pentup resentment, and it felt awful.

When I came out, I met his mother, who had just finished whatever she'd been doing. She was all smiles, her earlier gloom gone. “You get old and become completely useless.

I can't even figure out a phone. Thanks for all your hard work, Brittany.” “No problem, Mom.” I smiled too, then turned to Jonathan. “You certainly know how to get out of work.

I did the dishes today. Tomorrow's your turn.” “Roger that, babe! Consider it done!” He raised his right hand in an exaggerated, notquiteregulation salute.

His mother's smile faded a little. The next day, after dinner, she looked at me. “Everyone finished? Let's clear the table.” “Sure.” I kept playing on my phone without looking up.

I didn't move. My fatherinlaw got up, put on his shoes, opened the door, and went out. He took a walk after every meal to help his digestion.

Short videos blared from Jonathan's phone. He hadn't heard his mother at all. She looked annoyed, then took out her own phone and started using it. Ten minutes passed.

The three of us sat at the table, and nobody moved. Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore. She raised her voice. “Shall we clean up?” This time, I didn't even answer.

I was laughing to myself. I wasn't budging. What was she going to do about it? That day's four dishes had been spicy stirfried clams, spicy tofu, crispy fried pork, and fried ribs.

Once again, everything was something she thought I couldn't eat. Before dinner, she'd made a point of telling me, “If you don't like it, make yourself a couple of other dishes.

There's everything you need in the fridge.” “It's fine, Mom. I like all of it.” I took a big bite of crispy pork, then another of ribs, eating with obvious enjoyment.

Her eyes lingered on my chopsticks, her expression growing uglier. “Slow down. You act like you haven't eaten in days. Such a greedy pig,” she muttered.

Calling me a “greedy pig” wasn't just a comment on how much I was eating. She was calling me greedy and selfish, in the nastiest way. It was a filthy insult.

Something twitched between my brows, but I pretended not to understand. My chopsticks simply moved faster, sweeping through the food. It wasn't as though I couldn't cook.

The day we'd moved in, I'd already thought about how exhausting cooking could be: preparing ingredients, tossing and stirring everything in the pan.

The hardest part was coming up with what to eat, three meals a day. We'd done all that ourselves in our rental, anyway.

Chapter 3 Moving in with his mother was no reason to let a woman pushing sixty wait on us hand and foot. But before I'd even had a chance to do my part, she'd shown her true colors.

She couldn't bear to let her son wash a few dishes. If I got Jonathan to cook with me, she'd hate me for it.

If doing more just meant getting more things wrong, I wouldn't do anything. “Are we going to clear this table?

Sit here any longer and your dad will be back from his walk!” The third time. The irritation in her voice finally pulled Jonathan away from his videos. “Yes, yes. I'll do it now.

Mom, go relax. We'll take care of it!” Then he met my warning look and realized he'd said the wrong thing. He hurried to correct himself. “Babe, you go relax too.

I'll do it myself.” Satisfied, I left. His mother looked unhappily at me, then went after him. “Out you go. I'll clean up.

I don't need you in here!” Jonathan still tried to take over. “I said get out! You don't even know how to take a break when you're offered one.

I've never seen anyone so stupid!” Her voice rose suddenly, sharp with anger. It startled him, and he didn't dare say anything else. After that, my motherinlaw began ignoring me.

She stopped hinting that I should volunteer to cook. Whenever mealtime came around, she'd head into the kitchen and get to work herself.

When the food was ready, she'd put out bowls and chopsticks for three people, then call out in the living room, “Oh, our food's ready. What's she going to eat?” Three meals a day.

Every single meal.

The hostility was so blatant that Jonathan lost his temper first. “Mom, what are you doing?” Her face went rigid, all her anger concentrated in her eyes. “I'm worried your wife won't like my cooking.

I'm worried she won't be happy with me. Is it wrong to ask one little question? It's so hard being a motherinlaw these days.

Whatever I do is wrong, and whatever I don't do is wrong too! I might as well be dead!” She cried louder and louder.

Finally, she plopped her heavy, bulky body onto the floor and really got going, wailing as though at a funeral.

Jonathan was about to speak again when his father tapped his pipe against the table. “Your mom worked herself to the bone making all this food. I didn't see you helping.

I didn't see you worrying about her. And now you're picking apart what she says?

Did college teach you nothing?” Jonathan opened his mouth to explain that his mother had refused to let him help. I caught hold of him before he could.

My fatherinlaw turned his gaze on me. “Your motherinlaw knows how hard you two work. She wants you to come home to a hot meal that's already made. What about you?

Have you thought about how hard it is on her old arms and legs to serve you three meals a day? You wouldn't work a housekeeper this hard.

We don't even charge you, and we're giving you a place to live on top of it. When she's cooking, you could at least stand there and keep her company, or hand her an ingredient.

Show a little consideration. You can't go through life with no conscience.” He got up to help her off the floor, and her aggrieved sobs grew even louder.

I agreed calmly. “You're right, Dad. We haven't been considerate enough. Starting tomorrow, I'll cook.” Jonathan stared at me in shock. He knew exactly what I was like.

I'd eat anything, but I wouldn't stomach being treated unfairly.

When someone cut in front of me while I was waiting for food, I gave them such an earful that they'd slink back to their place in line, questioning their life choices.

A coworker tried to use her seniority to dump her work on me. Chapter 4 I had no problem taking that straight to the boss and humiliating her, without a second thought.

Giving in this easily wasn't like me at all. That night, Jonathan tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

In a furtive whisper, he asked, “Babe, you're not going to make anyone so mad they die, are you?” I threw a cushion at him. “If you don't know what to say, shut up!

You don't have to talk just to fill the silence!” He looked sheepish. “Maybe we should move out.

Sure, living here saves us rent and groceries, but the emotional damage pretty much cancels that out.” “Let's wait. It's not as though we can cut them off forever.

As long as we have to deal with each other, this fight is going to happen sooner or later.” People battle for position when they first get to know each other.

Once they've been together long enough to establish who's on top and who's underneath, things get simpler. My motherinlaw wanted the upper hand in our relationship.

As it happened, so did I. The next day, I made stirfried pork liver, sautéed kidneys, braised intestines, and a rich bone broth.

Everything was high in cholesterol, the kind of food that sped up the buildup of plaque in the arteries.

My motherinlaw had high blood pressure, and her doctor had repeatedly ordered her to avoid it. She'd come running out, delighted. She thought she'd won yesterday's battle.

All day, she'd had a spring in her step and a tune on her lips.

Now, looking at the food, she went paler and paler. “Brittany, what…” I ran into the kitchen for the bowls and chopsticks. Following her example, I brought out only three sets.

Her lips paled too, while her ears turned red. That was anger. I pretended not to notice and called to Jonathan, who was sitting in the living room. “Babe, our food's ready.

Ask her what she's going to eat.” My motherinlaw froze