When Iris marries Ryan, she doesn’t just inherit a husband — she inherits his mother’s ruthless opinion. What starts as dinner turns into a battleground of judgment, silence, and simmering resentment. But when karma finally pulls up a chair, Iris discovers revenge might taste better than dessert.
When I married Ryan, I didn’t just get a husband.
I got his mother, Linda, too.
She was the kind of woman who smiled when she insulted you. The kind who’d tilt her head sweetly while saying things like, “I’m not controlling, honey. I’m just always right,” as if she were quoting scripting.
For the first year, I told myself to laugh — to keep the peace.
I smiled through her “helpful tips,” ignored the eye-rolls she thought I couldn’t see, and bit my tongue every time she referred to me as “Ryan’s little project.”
I told myself it was just her way. I told myself that she’d come around.
She didn’t.
Her need to be involved in every part of our lives turned obsessive. It was three calls a day, sometimes even surprise drop-ins, and “Just checking in” texts that always came with strings attached.
When we moved into our first home, I thought maybe, finally, we’d have space.
But space meant nothing when you’re married to someone who texts his mother more than he talks to you.
Especially when dinner became a three-person event.
Every night, just before we sat down to eat, Ryan would pause with his fork on the edge of his plate and pull out his phone.
“Iris, wait, babe,” he’d say, holding up a hand.
“Let me send Mom a photo of this. She loves seeing what we eat!”
At first, I thought it was sweet. A little weird, sure, but sweet.
Then I found out that Linda didn’t just look at the photos.
She critiqued them — harshly.
Relentlessly.
The first time I made lasagna, Ryan showed me her reply.
“Here’s what Mom said about dinner, Iris,” he said, pushing the phone toward me.
“Looks dry. Did your wife forget the ricotta? Ryan, you need a woman who knows her cheeses.”
He chuckled and tilted the screen toward me, expecting me to laugh with him.
I didn’t.
I was too busy replaying every step I took in the kitchen that afternoon, wondering if I really had forgotten something.
The next night, I made grilled salmon with lemon butter — a recipe I’d learned from my mother. I used fresh dill and even zested the lemon like a pro.
“That fish looks raw. Does she want to poison you, son?”
Then came the apple pie I baked from scratch.
“The crust looks burnt.
Ryan, your grandmother would cry if she saw what your wife baked. Embarrassing.”
The Thanksgiving turkey?
“Poor bird looks pale. She probably doesn’t know a thing about basting.
Ryan, I told you to marry someone domestic. You went for looks only.”
My BBQ ribs?
“Ugh. Too much sauce.
Real women cook from scratch, not from a plastic bottle.”
Every message felt like a slap, followed by Ryan’s shrug.
“She needs to learn boundaries,” I muttered under my breath.
“She’s just teasing, babe,” Ryan said, grinning. “You’re being too sensitive.”
Too sensitive — my least favorite sentence in the English language.
Each night chipped away at me. I cooked less creatively.
I hesitated before plating anything, wondering how Linda would spin it. I started questioning everything — from my seasoning to my worth.
Then came the chicken pot pie — my grandmother’s tried and tested recipe.
I made the crust from scratch again. I used real cream, roasted the vegetables.
It was golden, buttery, and flecked with parsley. For once, I was proud before it hit the table.
Ryan, of course, pulled out his phone.
“This smells incredible, Iris. Let me just get a picture.
Mom loves —”
“I know,” I said, interrupting him.
He took the shot, and I poured a glass of wine. Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed. He smiled at the screen, then read it out loud.
“Mom says that your pie looks…
soupy.”
“Soupy?” I stared at him.
“Yeah,” he said, laughing softly. “She says that the filling should be firmer. And that maybe you should stick to salads.
It’s much easier for beginners.”
I looked at the pie. Then at my husband. He didn’t even bat an eyelid.
That was it.
“Thanks for the feedback,” I said.
As I cleared the plates, one thought kept circling in my head: maybe someone who lets me be humiliated doesn’t deserve to be served by me.
But karma?
Karma was already preheating.
A few days later, Linda went out to the theater with her girlfriends. She wore her pearls, red lipstick, and that smug smirk she reserved for special occasions. According to Ryan, she spent the evening bragging about her “perfect taste” and how her son’s wife couldn’t boil water without ruining it.
Ryan decided to be like his mother and went out for drinks with his friends from work.
That same night, Mark, my father-in-law, showed up unannounced.
He looked worn out. His tie was loose, and he held his briefcase like it weighed more than it should have.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said as he stepped inside. “Linda’s out gossiping again.
Tell me that you have some food. I skipped lunch.”
“I made lasagna,” I replied, already moving toward the fridge. “Still warm.”
“Thank goodness,” he muttered, sinking into the kitchen chair like he belonged there.
I plated a generous serving, added garlic bread, and set it down in front of him.
He took a bite. Then another. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and let out the kind of sigh that tells you everything before he even speaks.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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