“I Doubt You Even Know How to Cook a Decent Meal. My Son Deserves the Best,” Said My Future Mother-in-Law

John and I had been dating for almost a year when he finally decided it was time for me to meet his mother, Mrs. Eleanor Thompson. He had always spoken about her with a mix of admiration and caution, often mentioning her high standards and strong opinions. “She’s a bit difficult,” he would say, “but she means well.” I took his words to heart and prepared myself for the encounter.

The day finally arrived, and I found myself standing nervously outside Mrs. Thompson’s grand Victorian house. John squeezed my hand reassuringly before ringing the doorbell. The door swung open, revealing a tall, stern-looking woman with piercing blue eyes. “You must be Emily,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “Come in.”

The house was immaculate, every piece of furniture perfectly placed, every surface spotless. It was clear that Mrs. Thompson took great pride in her home. She led us to the dining room, where a lavish spread awaited us. “I hope you like roast beef,” she said, eyeing me critically.

As we sat down to eat, Mrs. Thompson wasted no time in interrogating me about my background, my job, and my family. I answered her questions as politely as I could, trying to make a good impression. But no matter what I said, she seemed unimpressed.

After dinner, Mrs. Thompson suggested we move to the living room for coffee. As we sipped our drinks, she turned to me and said, “So, Emily, do you cook?” I nodded, smiling. “Yes, I love cooking. I often try new recipes and enjoy making meals for John.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Really? What did you cook for him last week?” I hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the question. “I made chicken Alfredo and a side of garlic bread,” I replied.

Mrs. Thompson scoffed. “Chicken Alfredo? That’s hardly a proper meal. My son deserves better than that.” Her words stung, but I tried to keep my composure.

John intervened, trying to lighten the mood. “Mom, Emily is a great cook. You should try her lasagna sometime; it’s amazing.” But Mrs. Thompson was not convinced. “We’ll see about that,” she said coldly.

A few weeks later, John informed me that his mother wanted to come over for dinner at my apartment. I saw this as an opportunity to prove myself and spent hours preparing a three-course meal: Caesar salad, beef Wellington, and a chocolate soufflé for dessert.

When Mrs. Thompson arrived, she inspected my apartment with the same critical eye she had used on me. “It’s… cozy,” she remarked, clearly unimpressed. We sat down to eat, and I nervously watched her take her first bite of the beef Wellington.

She chewed slowly, then put down her fork. “It’s overcooked,” she declared. My heart sank. I had followed the recipe to the letter, but it seemed nothing I did could please her.

The rest of the evening was painfully awkward. Mrs. Thompson continued to find fault with everything: the salad was too salty, the soufflé too sweet. By the time she left, I was on the verge of tears.

John tried to comfort me, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I thought this would go better.”

Despite my best efforts, things only got worse from there. Mrs. Thompson’s disapproval hung over our relationship like a dark cloud. She constantly criticized me to John, questioning my suitability as his partner.

Eventually, the strain became too much for us to bear. John and I grew distant, our once-strong bond weakened by his mother’s relentless negativity. We broke up a few months later.

As I packed up my things and moved out of our shared apartment, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of failure. I had tried so hard to win Mrs. Thompson’s approval, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.