*Love, Mother-in-Law, and Artificial Intelligence*
“Mum, why do you always try to wreck my relationship with Emily?” Liam’s voice trembled with frustration, though he fought to keep it steady.
“Because she’s not right for you, Liam!” Margaret said firmly, lips pressed tight, arms crossed over her chest.
“Do you even hear yourself? Emily and I love each other! It’s not just words—it’s real!”
“Real?” His mother scoffed, looking away. “She’s not capable of real feelings. And you know that.”
“No, I don’t!” Liam raised his voice. “You spent my whole life telling me to find someone kind, loyal, smart, who keeps a good home. Well? Is she not pretty enough?”
“She’s… lovely,” Margaret muttered reluctantly.
“Is our place spotless? Yes. Does she respect you? Absolutely—she’s never once talked back. And she’s brilliant—better than me with tech, with books. So tell me, Mum, what’s the *actual* problem?”
“The problem is your Emily isn’t *human*, Liam,” his mother said desperately, standing up. The little coffee table—set neatly with a teapot and scones by her daughter-in-law—wobbled and crashed over. “She’s a *product*! A program! Circuits and wires, no matter how pretty they’ve wrapped her in smooth skin and shiny eyes!”
“Mum—”
“Don’t interrupt!” she snapped. “That… *woman*… she doesn’t age, doesn’t get ill, doesn’t argue! She’s *designed* to be perfect! Removable chest panels, solar charging, built-in thermostat! You’ve traded something *alive* for a *gadget*!”
Their old corgi, Biscuit, yapped at her feet in agreement.
“Of course she smiles at you—she’s got ‘greeting mode’ switched on! She never rolls her eyes, never snaps, never shouts. She’s not a person, Liam! And you… you chose a *fantasy*.”
He stayed silent. Then, with a heavy sigh, walked off to his room.
The next morning, heart pounding, Margaret stood on the balcony, watching kids play and couples stroll below. Her son’s voice echoed: *”We love each other.”*
That same day, she visited the android manufacturer’s site. Her fingers shook scrolling through models. Finally, she picked one: *Victor*. Six-foot-one, dark eyes, “empathy mode,” “active listening,” “ultra-soft hugging arms.” Pricey. Very. But wasn’t her son’s happiness worth it?
Three weeks later, a massive box arrived. Inside—*him*. Her Victor. His eyes calm, his voice low and soothing, like he’d known her forty years.
“Mum, seriously?” Liam gaped at Victor, cozied up on the heated sofa.
“Why not?” Margaret said lightly. “Done with loneliness. You live with an android—now so do I.”
“Mum…” Liam dragged a hand through his hair. “This is *mad*!”
“Mad? No madder than your Emily. At least he doesn’t argue, sulk, or talk back. And his morning coffee beats any barista’s!”
“What about *feelings*? Warmth? A soul?”
“You chose this, love. Or are *your* standards different?”
Later, in the kitchen, Liam tried again:
“Mum, I get it—you’re making a point. But do you *really* think this fixes anything?”
“I think we’re both tired of hurt. Of disappointment. I’ve been alone so long. Now someone asks about my day… tucks a blanket round me…”
“Mum… This isn’t real. It’s like replacing me with a copy.”
“And isn’t that *exactly* what *you’ve* done, darling? We’ve both picked comfort over messiness. I’m just honest about it.”
“So… what now?”
“Now we eat. Victor made shepherd’s pie. Emily might like it.”
That evening, under the hum of the street, Margaret stood on the balcony with Victor. He held her hand. Inside, Liam boiled the kettle while Emily updated her firmware.
Love takes odd shapes sometimes. But really—isn’t warmth all that matters?
