Chapter 5: Kitchen Standoff

Little sister-in-law’s anger was overflowing. She looked like she really wanted to come over and slap me, but her husband kept a steady arm around her, quietly murmuring, “Calm down, babe, think of the baby.”

The siblings said everything they could think of. They all believed that even if my mother-in-law wasn’t perfect, it was my fault first. So why should I bother explaining?

I said directly, “It was Derek who told me to throw them away.”

Derek is my husband. Big brother is Marcus. Little sister-in-law is Tanya.

As soon as I said this, Tanya got even angrier. She jumped up, pointing at my nose and scolding: “No way! Even if my brother spoils you, he’d never tell you to throw away the pierogi my mom worked so hard to make! You do something wrong and now you want to blame my brother!”

Her husband was so scared he hugged her waist and shouted, “Don’t jump! Don’t jump!”

Mother-in-law wailed even louder: “Natalie, you need to speak with a conscience. Derek is at work and not at home. How could he tell you to throw away the pierogi?”

My husband’s job is confidential—think defense contract work. When he’s at work, his phone is locked up with the rest of the shift’s electronics. So when he’s at work, he’s completely out of contact, and everyone in the family knows this.

So when I said that, no one believed me. I could see it in their faces—a mix of disbelief and irritation, like I’d just told them I saw Bigfoot in the backyard.

I said, “He told me before, if I don’t want to eat something, just throw it in the trash, don’t force myself.”

Tanya shouted, “He was talking about takeout or snacks, not the pierogi my mom made!”

Marcus’s face darkened: “Natalie, don’t think that just because Derek isn’t home you can make up whatever you want. We’re talking to you seriously. We hope you’ll face your own problem.”

Face what? No matter what I said, it was useless. They’d only ever believe their mother, never me—the outsider. I felt like I was on the wrong side of a high school clique.

Seeing that it was already noon, I stood up and said, “I’ll make you all something to eat.” My voice was calm, but my hands were shaking a little.

Mother-in-law immediately said, “I’ll do it, you don’t know how to cook.”

Tanya pulled her back: “If she doesn’t know, she should learn! She’s married now, she should act like a daughter-in-law. She should serve you—why should a mother-in-law serve her daughter-in-law? Can you serve her for a lifetime?”

Mother-in-law sighed, “She doesn’t make tasty food.”

Tanya snorted, “I don’t care if it tastes good or not, as long as she makes it, even if it’s garbage, I’ll eat it!”

That actually suited me perfectly. A little spike of mischief flared in my chest.

I went into the kitchen, took out the biggest pot—one of those stockpots you only ever use on Thanksgiving—and washed it clean, scrubbing away any trace of yesterday’s chili.

I boiled a huge pot of water and dumped in all the pierogi, watching them swirl and float like tiny white pillows.

Once they were cooked, I served a big bowl to each person, setting them down with a neutral smile.

Then I carefully brought them out, steam rising in the cold afternoon air. The table looked like a midwestern church potluck, if everyone was mad at you.

Mother-in-law suddenly panicked: “These were specially made for you, so you could eat them every morning. You cooked them all at once—what will you eat from now on?”

Tanya rolled her eyes: “Mom, really? She doesn’t care about your pierogi, and you’re still worrying about her. If she skips breakfast, so be it—it’s not you going hungry.”

Mother-in-law said to me again, “Your brother and sister don’t come often, you should make some special dishes. Just a bowl of pierogi isn’t enough.”

I replied, “Eat the pierogi first. I’ll go whip up some sides.”

Marcus said, “Since they’re cooked, let’s eat. Honestly, I haven’t had Mom’s handmade pierogi in two months.”

Tanya said, “Me too! I want to eat them but can’t—Mom only makes pierogi for Derek’s family, and they don’t even appreciate it.”

Sister-in-law and brother-in-law helped bring out the pierogi for everyone, balancing bowls and spoons as they shuffled to the table.

I poured out a dish of sour cream and brought it to the table, the familiar tang cutting through the heaviness in the room. For good measure, I set out a little jar of horseradish from the fridge.

The siblings couldn’t wait to pick up pierogi, dip them, and stuff them in their mouths, sighing theatrically as if this was the last meal before a great famine.

Sister-in-law and brother-in-law joined in, the sound of forks scraping plates filling the awkward silence.