**Diary Entry: The Sausage Incident**
I, Emily, still can’t get over what happened at lunch with my new mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. My five-year-old son, Oliver, an angel with impeccable manners, asked for seconds—and would you believe it? Without a second thought, Margaret took a half-eaten sausage from her own plate and plopped it onto his! I froze, as if someone had thrown cold water in my face. Oliver, ever the polite little gentleman, didn’t say a word, but I sat there gripping my fork, thinking—is this how it’s going to be? Leftovers from her plate as seconds? It’s beyond the pale, but I’m keeping my composure—for now—though I’m itching to say what’s really on my mind.
Oliver and I, along with my husband, James, recently married, were visiting his parents for one of the first times. Margaret, a formidable woman who used to manage a warehouse, runs things her way. I’d been trying to be the perfect daughter-in-law—helping in the kitchen, praising her roast, smiling patiently while she demonstrated the “proper” way to peel potatoes. But that sausage incident threw me completely. I’m not just any mum; I’m the one who makes sure Oliver eats clean, fresh food—not someone else’s leftovers, even if it’s from his grandmother!
We’d been sitting at the table, tucking into soup, roast beef, and sausages with mash—Margaret had cooked enough for a wedding feast. Oliver, my clever boy, finished his portion and asked sweetly, “Grandma, may I have another sausage, please?” I smiled—he’s always so well-mannered. Margaret beamed. “Of course, darling!” Then came the moment. Instead of taking a fresh one from the serving dish, she speared the half-eaten sausage from her own plate—complete with a smear of gravy—and dropped it onto Oliver’s. I stiffened. Oliver glanced at it, then at me, but, ever the little trooper, he said nothing and started eating.
I was on edge the entire time. Is she serious? Does she really think this is acceptable? I wanted to speak up, but the words stuck in my throat. James, catching my look, whispered, “Em, don’t make a fuss—Mum was just trying to help.” Help? Since when is *that* helping? I’d understand if we were short on food, but there was a whole dish of fresh sausages right there! Why not take one from that? I forced a smile and stayed quiet, but inside, I was fuming. Oliver finished, said “Thank you,” and scampered off to play, leaving me to stew over the whole ordeal.
While clearing the table, I finally snapped. “James, did you *see* what your mum did? She gave Oliver her half-eaten sausage!” He shrugged. “Come on, Em, it’s not a big deal—she wasn’t thinking.” Not thinking? There’s a difference between sharing an apple and handing a child your chewed-up leftovers! I reminded him Oliver is *my* son, and I won’t have him eating off someone else’s plate. He sighed. “Alright, I’ll talk to her.” But I know James—he avoids conflict, and his “talks” never amount to much.
Margaret, returning to the kitchen, noticed my mood and asked, “Emily, is something wrong? Was the roast not to your liking?” I plastered on a smile. “No, it was lovely—just a bit tired.” I couldn’t exactly blurt out, *Why on earth did you give my son your half-eaten sausage?* But I’ve decided—next time, I’ll be ready. If she tries that again, I’ll say firmly, “Margaret, let’s give him a fresh one—there are plenty.” Or I’ll jump up and serve him myself. I don’t want a row, but I won’t stay silent either.
Later, I told my friend Lucy, and she nearly choked laughing. “Em, is Oliver going to be finishing Grandma’s meals now? Maybe draft her a menu of acceptable sharing foods!” I laughed too, but it’s no joke. This isn’t about a sausage—it’s about boundaries. I respect Margaret, but I have my own standards. Oliver’s too polite—he’d never say “no,” even if something bothered him. But I’m his mum, and it’s my job to protect him, even from well-meaning grandmothers.
Now I’m strategising—should I bring Oliver’s meals? Sit strategically so she can’t reach his plate? (Only half-joking.) But honestly, I need her to understand: *my* rules matter. James promised to “mention it,” but I doubt Margaret will change—she’s the sort who’s always convinced she’s right. For now, I’m keeping a hawk’s eye on Oliver, teaching him to say, “No, thank you,” when something feels off. That sausage still haunts me. If this keeps up, I’ll start carrying a “safe food” container. Or maybe—just maybe—I’ll tell Margaret exactly how I feel. But that’s another story. For now, I take a deep breath and ruffle Oliver’s hair, grateful he’s such a wonderful little boy.