Love, Mother-in-Law, and Artificial Intelligence
“Mum, why must you always try to ruin things between me and Margaret?” Edward’s voice trembled with frustration, though he fought to keep his composure.
“Because she isn’t right for you, Edward!” Margaret Hardcastle replied firmly, pressing her lips together and folding her arms across her chest.
“Have you even listened to yourself? Rita and I love each other! It’s not just words—it’s real!”
“Real?” his mother echoed, glancing away. “She isn’t capable of real feelings. And you know that perfectly well.”
“No, I don’t!” Edward raised his voice. “You’ve spent years telling me to find someone kind, loyal, clever, who keeps a good home. Well? Is she not pretty?”
“Pretty enough,” Margaret muttered reluctantly.
“Is our house clean? Yes. Does she respect you? Absolutely—never a cross word. Clever? She understands tech better than I do, and she reads more books than both of us combined. So what’s the problem, Mum?”
“The problem, Edward, is that your Margaret isn’t human,” his mother said desperately, rising from her chair. The little side table, neatly arranged with a teapot and scones by her daughter-in-law, wobbled and tipped over with a clatter. “She’s a product! A programme! A machine—wires and circuitry, no matter how smooth her skin or how bright her eyes!”
“Mum—”
“Don’t interrupt me!” she snapped. “This… woman… she doesn’t age, doesn’t fall ill, doesn’t argue! She’s perfect by design! Removable parts, solar-powered charging, a built-in thermostat! Do you realise you’ve traded something living for a piece of technology?”
The ageing corgi, Winston, yapped in agreement, circling her feet.
“Of course she smiles at you! Her ‘greeting mode’ is programmed! She never rolls her eyes, never snaps, never shouts. She isn’t real, Edward! And you… you’ve chosen an illusion.”
He fell silent. Then, with a heavy sigh, he retreated to his room.
The next morning, heart pounding, Margaret Hardcastle stood on the balcony, gazing at the garden below where children played and couples strolled. Her son’s words echoed in her mind: “We love each other.”
That same day, she visited the manufacturer’s website for androids. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through the catalogue. Finally, she chose: Victor. Six foot one, dark eyes, “empathy mode,” “active listening,” “hand-stitched comfort embrace settings.” Expensive—very. But wasn’t her son’s happiness worth it?
Three weeks later, the delivery arrived. A massive crate stood in the parlour, and inside—him. Her Victor. His eyes glowed gently, his voice deep and soothing, as if he’d known her forty years.
“Mum, are you serious?” Edward gaped at Victor, comfortably settled on the heated settee.
“Why not?” Margaret replied calmly. “I decided enough suffering. You live with an android—now so shall I.”
“Mum—” Edward dragged a hand through his hair. “This is absurd!”
“Absurd?” She smirked. “No more than your Margaret. At least he doesn’t argue, sulk, or talk back. And his coffee is better than any barista’s!”
“But what about feelings? Warmth? A soul?”
“You made this choice first. Or are your standards different for me, son?”
Later, in the kitchen, Edward tried again.
“Mum, I know you want to prove a point. But do you honestly think this solves anything?”
“I think we’re both tired of pain. Of disappointment. I’ve been alone so long. Now, at least, there’s someone to ask about my day, to tuck a blanket round me—”
“Mum…” His voice softened. “This isn’t real. It’s like replacing me with a copy.”
“But that’s exactly what you’ve done, Edward. We’ve both chosen comfort over complication. The only difference is, I’m honest about it.”
“What now?”
“Now we dine. Victor made lasagne. Margaret will approve.”
That evening, as the quiet hum of the street drifted up, Margaret Hardcastle stood on the balcony beside Victor, his hand warm in hers. Inside, Edward set the kettle to boil while Margaret updated her software.
Sometimes love takes strange shapes. But isn’t warmth in a home what matters most?
