**Sunday, 15th October**
I’ve always thought—naively, perhaps—that conflicts between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law could be avoided if both women simply behaved sensibly. After all, we’re bound by love for the same person—my son. I believed that even with different temperaments and perspectives, common ground could always be found. At least, I did until last weekend at our cottage, a weekend I’ll remember, though not fondly.
My son is soon to marry. His fiancée, Eloise, and I had only met briefly before, never properly conversing. Hoping to change that, we invited them to the cottage for a quiet getaway—fresh air, good food, and a chance to connect. I prepared everything carefully, from cold starters to hot dishes, wanting it to feel intimate, like a proper family gathering.
They arrived Saturday afternoon. I welcomed them warmly, smiling as they settled in. While setting the table, I casually asked Eloise to help—just slice some bread and lay out the cutlery. Nothing demanding, just a small task. But she didn’t stir. She stayed right beside my son, chatting away as if she hadn’t heard a word. I let it go, thinking perhaps she hadn’t. I finished laying the table myself, unwilling to press the point.
After lunch, the two of them went to rest while my husband and I cleared up. Later, as we prepared tea before grilling, I tried again. “Eloise, would you mind slicing the cheese?”
Her reply left me stunned: “When you’re a guest, it’s best not to interfere. The hostess has everything in hand.”
Interfere? Since when is slicing cheese a breach of etiquette? Since when is a simple request an imposition?
The whole evening, she kept to this odd stance. While the men grilled outside, she didn’t lift a finger—just stood about chatting as I hurried between the kitchen and the garden with plates and glasses. Not once did she offer to clear the table or wash up. My son, sensing my frustration, stepped in to help. Eloise? Barely a glance. Not even a perfunctory “Shall I help?”
Next morning, they slept till noon. When they finally roused themselves to leave, the bed remained unmade—no effort to tidy, as if even that would be “interfering.”
Here’s the thing: I love having guests. Friends, nieces, even my husband’s old colleagues visit often, and without fail, they pitch in—clearing plates, chopping vegetables, washing mugs. My sister always says, “You cooked; it’s my turn now.” Others bring food to ease my load. It’s courtesy. Gratitude for hospitality.
Eloise’s behaviour, though? A bucket of cold water. As if I’m meant to do everything because “I’m the hostess,” while she’s there to be served. Not a shred of appreciation, not even a token gesture—just detachment.
I hid my hurt, but inside, I was livid. And now I don’t know how to move forward. The wedding’s in months. Like it or not, we’ll have to find a way to coexist. I refuse to be the villain in my own family—but I won’t be a maid for a grown woman who thinks even slicing cheese is beneath her.
What comes next? Will she always keep her distance, treating our home as if it’s none of her concern? When children come, will I be expected to mind the baby while she relaxes, then hear that “grandmothers ought to help”?
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Maybe this is the modern way—to smile, chatter, and contribute nothing. But that’s not family to me. Family means support, involvement, sincerity—not strangers sharing a table.
My son’s oblivious. He loves her, and that’s as it should be. I won’t come between them. But neither can I stay silent. Because one day, it’ll be too late.
