The Secrets at the Family Table
Violet was in a fluster preparing for the visit of her fiancé Edward’s parents. Her heart raced with nerves—today was the first time she would meet his family. The moment they crossed the threshold of her cosy flat in the outskirts of Oxford, she caught the sharp gaze of her future mother-in-law. As they settled around the table, Violet, hiding the tremor in her hands, began serving the hot meal.
“Edward is so fortunate to have found you!” Margaret remarked with practised warmth. “Such a fine cook, and the house is spotless! And you, my dear, are just as lucky. Edward is quite the catch—bright future, already owns his own flat.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Violet muttered, hurrying to the hall. When she opened the door, she froze, unable to believe her eyes.
From the start, Violet had sensed that Margaret was the true matriarch of Edward’s family. He spoke of her constantly—how he adored her, how his father valued her, how respected she was among her peers.
“We mustn’t upset Mother,” he often said. “Her heart is fragile—she’s allowed certain… indulgences.”
Violet nodded along, eager to please. She saw Edward as her future husband and was determined to prove herself worthy. When he announced his parents wanted to meet her, anxiety gripped her. She couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them, especially Margaret. Her love for Edward overflowed, and she already pictured herself in a wedding gown, taking his surname.
The Harringtons were no ordinary family. Edward’s father, Charles, ran a prosperous construction firm. Margaret owned a chain of florists. Edward’s sister, Eleanor, worked in finance, while Edward himself was a department head at a prestigious firm. Respectable, accomplished—Violet longed to belong among them.
But the true gatekeeper was Margaret’s approval. Not Charles, not Eleanor—only Margaret held the unspoken power.
“My parents are coming to visit next week,” Edward had told her days before. “Ready?”
A chill ran down Violet’s spine, but she nodded confidently. “Of course.”
Inside, though, she was in turmoil. The flat had to be immaculate, the dinner flawless.
“One thing,” Edward added with a conspiratorial grin. “Mother despises restaurant food. You’ll have to cook yourself. And a cake—it’s tradition.”
Violet nearly choked. Cook? She barely knew how to boil an egg, let alone prepare a roast with all the trimmings. A cake? Utter madness.
“A cake?” she echoed weakly.
“Yes, a cake,” Edward laughed. “Plenty of recipes online—it’s simple enough.”
Had it not been for her love for him, Violet would have refused. But she wanted to be the perfect wife—just as Margaret was to Charles. From Edward’s stories, the Harringtons were a haven of harmony, all thanks to Margaret’s unwavering command.
“And one more thing,” Edward added. “Don’t tell Mother how we really met. It would upset her, and she mustn’t be stressed.”
Violet agreed. They concocted a story: a chance meeting in a supermarket, where Edward helped her choose cheese. To Margaret, who adored home cooking and valued self-sufficiency, this was the perfect tale.
The truth was far less wholesome. Violet had been late for work but dashed into a café for a latte. Crossing the road, she hadn’t seen Edward’s car skid on the icy pavement. Thankfully, the only casualty was her coffee, splashed across her new white coat.
“Good Lord, my fault entirely!” Edward had leapt out, aghast at the stain.
One new coffee, a trip to the dry cleaners, and a handful of dates later, their story had begun.
“Why are they coming to yours?” her friend and colleague, Beatrice, had asked. “Why not meet at a restaurant? And what’s this nonsense about cooking?”
Violet sighed. “They have their ways. Margaret takes pride in homemaking—learned it from her mother, passed it to her daughter. Meanwhile, my mum was always working—we ate whatever was quick. I never learned.”
“What about a crash course?” Beatrice suggested. “There are one-day workshops—basic skills, at least.”
“No time,” Violet dismissed. “Reports due, and four days won’t make me a chef. I’ll think of something.”
Beatrice paused, then brightened. “Wait—I know a woman who bakes. Cakes, pastries—just like homemade! Order from her, keep it simple—make it look like yours.”
Violet agreed. The cake was sorted, but the main course and sides remained.
On Friday, she went shopping. She bought ingredients but, after agonising, ordered the meal from a restaurant. Why humiliate herself when she could serve something decent? She’d make the salad herself—but meat or fish? Too risky.
Saturday morning, Violet trekked across town for the cake. An hour and a half each way—worth it, she hoped.
“Lovely cake,” she smiled, accepting the box from the baker, Sophie. “Looks just like something I’d make.”
“Did my best,” Sophie replied. “You wanted it homemade-looking but delicious. Don’t worry—it’s divine.”
“Thank you!” Violet said earnestly. “Worth the trip. But why so far out? Not many customers?”
Sophie waved a hand. “Mostly deliveries. I’ve no need for more—my husband provides.”
Violet thanked her again and rushed home. The cleaners were due, and she still had vegetables to chop—the only dish she’d truly made herself.
By seven, Violet was a wreck. What if Margaret guessed? Or discovered the truth about how they’d met? Disappointing Edward’s parents was unthinkable—yet the moment of reckoning loomed.
At first glance, the Harringtons seemed pleasant. But as Margaret stepped into the parlour, Violet caught her scrutinising gaze—inspecting every corner, as if assessing goods at market. The thought unsettled her, but she pushed it aside.
At the table, hands trembling, Violet served the meal.
“Edward’s so lucky!” Margaret began. “A woman who cooks *and* keeps house! And you, darling, are just as fortunate. Edward’s going places—career on the rise, property of his own. Our children make us proud: Eleanor in finance, just as I’d hoped, and Edward a manager at thirty-two. Such a blessing.”
“I wanted Eleanor in finance? Wasn’t that you?” Charles interjected but fell silent under Margaret’s glare.
“What’s this meat?” Margaret pivoted sharply. “Beef? Where did you buy it, Violet? Prices these days?”
Violet answered as calmly as she could. Margaret seemed satisfied—until her expression darkened.
“Violet, dear—are there nuts in this dish?”
Violet went cold. She had no idea if the restaurant had added nuts to the beef and vegetables. She wouldn’t have—but who knew what went on in their kitchen?
“No, why?” she managed.
“Charles is allergic. He starts gasping—we’ve had to call an ambulance before.”
Violet paled. If Charles had a reaction now, it was over. Edward believed she’d cooked everything but the cake.
“I… don’t know,” she stammered under Margaret’s piercing stare.
“You don’t *know*?” Margaret’s voice turned icy. “You cooked it yourself, yet you don’t know?”
Before Violet could reply, the doorbell chimed.
“Who’s that?” she muttered, jumping up. Edward caught her arm.
“My sister. Wanted it to be a surprise.”
Relieved for the escape, Violet hurried to the door—then gaped. There stood Sophie, the baker who’d handed her the cake that morning.
“You… Eleanor Harrington?” Violet whispered.
Sophie nodded, pulling her onto the landing. “Please don’t tell Mother about the cake—or my baking. Or my husband. To her, I’m in finance. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Understood,” Violet said. “I won’t mention the cake. And I know about her heart—don’t worry.”
They returned to find the Harringtons in the midst of an argument.
“I’m *not* allergic to nuts!” Charles bellowed. “Enough of your nonsense!”
“You know *exactly* why I asked!” Margaret hissed, oblivious to their return. “I was testing Violet. She didn’t cook this. Or the vegetables. The cake’s from some shop, I’ll wager!”
Violet, Edward, and Eleanor exchanged stunned glances. Margaret raged on.
“I’m tired of your lies, Charles! Secrets, half-truths! Our son’s starting a family—let him at least live honestly!”
Margaret’s face flushed crimson. She flung her napkin onto the table and glared at her husband.
“We’re leaving,” she declared. “This house is built on deceit.”
“I’m going nowhere,” Charles shot back. “The food“The cake is delicious,” Charles said firmly, taking a bite, “and I’d rather stay here with the truth than leave with another one of your fabrications.”