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When people talk about tricky in-laws, they usually mean the kind who meddle in subtle ways, like folding your laundry without asking or suggesting a “better” way to season potatoes. My mother-in-law, Margot, was in an entirely different league. She didn’t meddle, she schemed.
The very first time we met, she clasped my hand, smiled with unnerving brightness, and said, “You have such a… serviceable look. Perfect for someone like Henrik, he always needed a grounding influence.” I told myself I had misheard. I hadn’t. That was just the beginning.
Over the years, Margot perfected the art of the sly insult dressed up as kindness. She “helped” me by altering recipes in my own kitchen, brought extra dishes to family dinners I had already prepared, and corrected me in front of guests as though she were teaching a class. Henrik insisted it was affection. To me, it was warfare waged with a porcelain teacup and a tight smile.
This brings us to the first Thanksgiving in our new home outside Copenhagen. Henrik and I had worked hard to afford it, and I was determined to host a holiday that felt warm, polished, and entirely ours. The table was set with linen napkins, I had practiced my pie crusts for weeks, and the scent of roasted turkey filled the air. Even my famously difficult Aunt Beatrice sampled a spoonful of stuffing and muttered, “Not dreadful,” which in her language was high praise.
For a moment, I thought I might survive this holiday intact. Then Margot arrived.
Her arrival was impossible to miss. The crunch of her boots on the gravel drive sounded like a drumroll. She flung open the door without knocking and swept inside, holding a gleaming silver tray covered with foil as though she were unveiling the crown jewels.
“Good evening, darlings!” she declared. “I thought I’d rescue the day with a turkey of my own. One can never be too careful.”
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