Exiled Daughter-in-Law: The Pierogi War
Chapter 1: Freezer Wars
Mother-in-law made a mountain of pierogi and wedged them into Ziplock bags, stacking them in the freezer until the door barely shut. The cold air bit at my ankles every time I tried to squeeze in a carton of ice cream. She’d been bustling in my kitchen since sunrise, her flour-dusted hands flew like a Waffle House cook on Sunday brunch—no breaks, just pure chaos.
As soon as she left the house—her purse swinging and keys jangling—I dumped every last pierogi into the trash can under the kitchen sink. The garbage bag sagged with the sudden weight, and I closed the lid with a thud, exhaling the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My heart jackhammered in my chest, and for a split second, I wondered if I’d just become the villain in my own story.
But barely five minutes later, the front door creaked open and there she was again, frowning at her forgotten phone. She caught me red-handed. I froze, elbow-deep in coffee grounds and regret, trying to bury her handiwork under last night’s takeout boxes.
She gasped, eyes wide, and then, as if on autopilot, whipped out her phone. With trembling hands, she recorded the whole scene, sniffled dramatically for the camera, and uploaded it right to the extended family group chat. Her text read: “The pierogi I made for my daughter-in-law—she threw them all into the trash! Why does she hate me so much?”
Cousins were screenshotting, aunts were already typing in all caps, and someone dropped a crying GIF. Within the hour, the whole family started showing up at my doorstep, some in pajamas, all radiating righteous fury, ready to put me on trial in my own living room.
I cooked every last pierogi I could salvage and served each person a bowl, placing them carefully on mismatched dinner plates from our wedding registry. I cranked the kitchen window open to let out the steam, the winter air mixing with the scent of boiling dough and the faint tang of Lysol from this morning’s cleaning spree.
As they took their first bites, their faces twisted, their forks paused mid-air. Silence settled in, heavy as a thunderstorm over a Midwest cornfield.
