The Mother-in-Law Book Club

by Kate Hash

Genres: General Fiction; Southern; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Sometimes the family you need is the one you never expected to find.

On the plane to Durham for her next big gig, traveling consultant and soon-to-be divorcée Andi gets into an argument about the impossible expectations of mothers-in-law that will change her life forever. When her seventy-something adversary unexpectedly extends an olive branch invitation to her book club, Andi does something completely out of character: she says yes.

This social circle is delightfully feisty, gossipy, and also hopelessly clueless about how to navigate frayed relationships with their adult children. Andi spends evenings doling out advice to her new coterie of retired friends, helping to repair generational divides.

As the weeks and months go by, Andi has a quiet revelation: life in Durham just fits. The book club members love her, the company loves her, and after a whirlwind romance with a handsome professor, she’s fairly certain her new beau loves her, too. It’s all going great . . . until her past comes walking through the door. Andi must decide what happiness really looks like--and she just might need the wisdom of her new friends to figure it out.

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

Andi Walker does not lose her cool on planes.

I take a deep breath, letting the statement sink deep into my mind and body, hoping this mantra is capable of forming a force field of protection between me and the Very Bad Decision that has pulled at me for nearly two hours. I have read the in-flight magazine, scrolled through the headlines, and even briefly attempted some seated meditation. Nothing has worked.

It's not the worn pleather seats, stale pretzels, or weak gin and tonic causing my frustration. For me, they are an essential part of my life. I've spent years zigzagging across the country, stopping for days, weeks, and sometimes months in cities of all sizes. The plane is not the problem today-it's the women chatting nearby that are causing the bumpy ride.

"I just don't understand what the big deal is," a voice rises up to say. "I only asked her to be more observant of my son's-her husband's-medical needs. He should've gone to the doctor months before, but she let him put it off!"

Deep breath. Andrea Elizabeth Walker does not lose her cool on planes.

I use my full name this time, hoping it will trigger a subconscious dash of discipline. I can still hear my mom's voice reciting it under two strict conditions: when I was in trouble or when she needed to impart serious wisdom. The name Andrea belonged to her alone.

My mom called out my real name many times in adolescence and young adulthood. During a middle school chat when I failed a math test on purpose because I didn't think it was cool to be smart. The night in eleventh grade when I crashed the car after curfew and broke my arm. That morning at our favorite breakfast spot when I told her I might love my first real boyfriend. The long weekend at our house on the Cape when she told me that she was sick again-and this time she wasn't going to get better.

Andrea. It was sacred.

That is, until my mother-in-law came into the picture. I foolishly thought she'd step in and fill the aching ravine that had formed in my heart, but that didn't happen. Instead, my full name gained a new, third purpose: spirit breaker.

Andrea Elizabeth Walker, why on earth have you arranged the kitchen this way? Andrea Elizabeth Walker, there has got to be a better place for this armchair. Andrea Elizabeth Walker, your husband hates parsley, why are you putting it on this dish? Andrea Elizabeth Walker, do you really plan on keeping your maiden name forever?

Or, just a few months ago, over a coffee meeting that I did not want to go through with: "Andrea Elizabeth Walker, you are asking for far too much in this divorce settlement."

I shake my mother-in-law's voice from my mind and desperately attempt to sink deeper into this seat, which, despite its first-class status, isn't anything to write home about.

Don't do anything stupid, Andi.

This time, my internal monologue becomes a bit more public as the conversation moves from my mind to a quiet whisper I release that makes the traveler in the seat next to me bristle ever so slightly. Twenty minutes ago we shared eye rolls and he spun his finger in a circle, mimicking the universal sign for cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, as we silently judged the two women sitting across the aisle from us. Hearing my soft plea, he turns to look out the window to avoid whatever it is that's cooking up inside of me. Now I'm crazy, too.

Losing my patience doesn't come naturally. Normal Andi is cool, calm, and collected. Normal Andi minds her own business, nods, and plasters on a fake smile to get through annoying interactions. Unfortunately, normal old Andi did not board this flight today.

This version of Andi has been jilted and left to fend for herself yet again through an emotional minefield. It turns out that new Andi has a burgeoning interest in two things: talking about herself in the third person and, under the very specific set of conditions that she now finds herself in, the potential sweet release of telling two strangers that they are complete and utter morons.

Airports and airplanes can be surprisingly lawless places. Things we can't ever do in real life without attracting a side-eye-whiskey on the rocks at eight in the morning, sleeping on a well-trafficked carpet during a long delay, or casually wearing heatless curlers in full view of strangers-are all blissfully accepted or, at the very least, tolerated and ignored.

There is a particular freedom in the sky that brings out the best and worst of us. For the two older women sitting nearby, it's the freedom to speak openly, honestly, and loudly enough for the entire front cabin to hear about every pent-up grievance that they have with their respective daughters-in-law.

The freedom that I feel is, without question, the whiskey-in-the-morning variety. It's the type of liberty that comes from lubricating your brain while running away from life's problems. It's the sweet relief of knowing that you are far, far away from your troubles for the foreseeable future. My estranged husband and seemingly endless turmoil? Boston. Crazy but free Andi? Twenty-five thousand feet in the sky, hundreds of miles away.

Andrea, you can do this, I think, reverting to my full name for good measure. Fight your worst instincts. One hour, forty-five minutes down. About a half hour left. We may even land early.

Despite my best efforts to stay in my own mind, the conversation happening across the aisle weaves back into my awareness. Both of their voices carry throughout the tiny first-class cabin so anyone who, like me, accidentally drained their headphones before the flight has been subjected to the endless complaints. They've moved on to a new, equally infuriating topic.

"Here's the thing," says the woman seated in the seat closest to me. "This is my famous coconut cake. I learned the recipe from my grandmother. It's a family tradition for more than sixty years-all I want is for my daughter-in-law to try it. I've told my son how much this hurts my feelings."

"And why on earth won't she try it?" the other voice asks from the window seat, her face mostly shielded from view. I've seen only hints of her during the flight.

"Something about an allergy," the aisle-seat lady responds, casually waving her hand. "But coconut isn't even really that strong of a flavor. I'm sure that she will be fine! My family just adores this cake and all I'm asking for is one bite. She'd love it."

Coconut cake. That's what's going to push me over the edge. Coconut cake is going to render my internal pep talk completely useless. I've listened to these two boomer women criticize their daughters-in-law for the entirety of this flight. They were strangers a mere two hours ago. How do I know this? Because the aisle-seat lady has exclaimed I can't believe I just met my new best friend! about fifteen times.

What else have I learned? Aisle lady is on a quick trip to visit a cousin in Raleigh and has two kids. She's currently trying to pawn off a three-hundred-piece collection of fine china to one child (who very obviously doesn't want it), and guilt the other into spending his entire two weeks of paid vacation with her and her husband at a "gorgeous, rustic cabin in Ohio" that she found on the internet-where she intends to force-feed his wife coconut cake.

Window lady is on the final stretch from a trip abroad and has three kids. The daughter who lives in London is the obvious golden child and free from nearly all judgment. Durham, North Carolina, is the home base from which she terrorizes her two sons and one daughter-in-law, Emily. Despite giving birth to three of window lady's grandchildren and having a successful career, Emily apparently doesn't spend enough time babying her husband and compensating for all of the basic life skills he wasn't taught by his own parents.

They've aired complaints about holiday plans and housekeeping, child-rearing and chores, finances and food. They have used their time alarmingly well, I must admit. I know more about their lives than I do some of my own extended family.

What I also know is this: I clock about fifty thousand miles per year for my job and never before has a flight down the East Coast felt so agonizingly long.

I let the last comment really sink in. Aisle lady is mad because her daughter-in-law won't eat something she's allergic to. Instinctively, I let out a low grunt and think of all the outrageous things my mother-in-law, Jean, has said to me in the last year-hell, who am I kidding, for the last decade-and find my frustration bubbling over.

Why should I keep my mouth shut? If I can't yell at Thomas or his mother right now, why not choose these perfectly acceptable proxies instead?

Andi Walker is definitely going to lose her cool on this plane, I realize.

"Hi there, hi, hi," I say, leaning forward and gesturing boldly to get the attention of the pair of them. "I'm Andi, that's short for Andrea. May I ask what your names are?"

I'm not an animal. If I'm going to verbally destroy someone in a confined space, I'm going to at least learn their name. This, of course, catches them both off guard.

Donna, says the woman in the aisle. Marilyn, a voice calls tentatively from the window. Her face is still mostly obscured from view because, despite Donna's diminutive size, she is somehow taking up all of the visual space at this angle.

"Donna, Marilyn," I begin with my forced corporate smile, "I don't know how to tell you this, but you are both so wildly off the mark when it comes to your respective daughters-in-law that it's almost impressive. Almost."

Donna's eyes widen and genuine shock registers on her face. With an Hermès scarf tied neatly around her neck and her deep gray hair perfectly coiffed into a small bun, she doesn't immediately strike me as someone well acquainted with pushback or confrontation.

When I glance around at the people nearby I realize they all have a mix of wonder and shock dotting their faces. The silent accord we all had to simply grin and bear the loud conversation we'd been forced to hear has been broken. More specifically, I broke it.

"We've been on this flight for almost two hours and all you've done is complain and commiserate over perceived slights," I say. "And in all of those stories and gripes, not even a smidge of self-reflection. Not one moment of you asking yourselves or one another, 'Huh, could this be partially or, I don't know, perhaps all my fault?'"

Frankly, their mutual lack of self-reflection reminds me of someone. The very someone who has caused me to flee from Boston to Durham for the next four months on this assignment. It is entirely unsurprising that Thomas's actions have set me on a crash course with a probable perp walk off this plane. He's the reason that I'm even on this flight to lose my cool over coconut cake. Well, clearly more than cake, but the point holds.

"Marilyn, with all due respect, your oldest son sounds like an absolute man-child," I say, deciding to tackle her big problem first. "He seems to want a fifty-fifty partner in name only. He's making her do far too much around the house and your attempts to 'coach her' on how to manage your son after they've been married for twelve years is, frankly, insulting."

She leans far forward during my speech and I get my first clear picture of her. Under different circumstances, I'd be something close to smitten. Her angular face is framed by a flawless gray-blond bob. Her eyes are narrow but kind, and accentuated by thick black-rimmed glasses. Something about the look on her face and the subtle eyebrow raise she's thrown my way makes me momentarily consider that she's got a more playful personality than one would think after the conversation I've overheard.

"When you get off this flight, consider googling 'emotional labor' and ask yourself if your son is pulling even an ounce of that weight in their household," I add. "Then, maybe ask yourself why that is. Why does he think that it's the job of a woman who's also an accomplished scientist with three kids to baby him on top of everything else she has going on?"

The details I've thrown in make it very clear that I've listened to every single minute of their conversation. Everyone within five rows in either direction has heard the entire conversation.

"And what would you suggest?" Marilyn asks with a hint of snark in her voice, perhaps not expecting that I've got an answer locked and loaded.

"Stop trying to tell your daughter-in-law how to manage your son, and start giving your son a whole lot of shit for how hard he's making his wife's life. Stop acting like he's a child. He's a grown man. I gave ten years of my life to a man just like this. It's an abysmal existence. Best-case scenario, he's just waiting for her to demand more of him, but he should demand more of himself."

"The nerve of you-" Donna begins, but I don't let her get another word out.

"And you," I fume, pointing at her. "I don't even know where to start. Some of the stuff you said earlier about your grandson's birthday party was certainly something, but the coconut-cake thing is damn near certifiable. I'm sorry that you can't make your cake without hurting your daughter-in-law. She's allergic, for goodness' sake-the flavor means nothing. You do understand how food allergies work, right? You quite literally have three options: Don't make the cake, figure out how to get good at something else, or quit making it such a big deal that she doesn't want it. You don't get to be mad at her for not eating it. She's allergic."

My slow emphasis on the word allergic is accompanied by a facial expression that makes it clear that I think she is, undoubtedly, an idiot. Marilyn has complained the entire flight, but she's at least teetered on the edge of sanity. Donna's manufactured issues with her daughter-in-law are so clearly the work of a textbook egomaniac. I'd put a hundred dollars on the table that she wore white to both of her kids' weddings.

Five solid minutes deep into this rant, I look around and notice all the other passengers are either obviously watching or pretending-not-to-but-definitely-watching. I used to love coming home from a chaotic business trip to tell Thomas one ridiculous story after another about outlandish things I saw in the airport or unhinged behavior on the plane itself. Today, I'm the story.