Margaret Whitfield knew she’d never turn into one of those dreaded monster-in-laws. She prided herself on being kind and considerate, and she’d raised her son, William, knowing full well he’d one day start his own family. After all, she owed him nothing, and he certainly owed her nothing in return.
So when William brought home his fiancée, a sweet and charming girl named Emily, Margaret welcomed her with open arms.
Emily, for her part, was clearly eager to impress her future mother-in-law. She raved about Margaret’s cooking, complimented her lovely flat, and showered her with praise. Margaret was convinced they’d get along swimmingly.
Soon enough, William and Emily decided to move in together. Her son tentatively floated the idea of them all living under one roof, but Margaret wasn’t keen.
“Of course, I’d never turn you away, darling,” she said. “But let’s be sensible—newlyweds should have their own space. Different routines, different needs. And two women in one kitchen? Recipe for disaster.”
William listened, but renting a flat in London wasn’t cheap. Sensing his struggle, Margaret offered to chip in—just until they got on their feet.
“I’ll cover a third of the rent to start, then you can take over,” she said.
William eagerly agreed, and Margaret was happy to pay—small price for peace of mind.
She remembered all too well her own early married years, living with her in-laws. Nightmare, even though her mother-in-law had been perfectly decent. Still, clashes were inevitable—different tastes, misunderstandings, hurt feelings. The food was a particular sticking point. Margaret couldn’t stomach half the dishes her mother-in-law made, but she forced them down to avoid offence. Exhausting, all around.
William and Emily found a flat just round the corner—close enough for visits, but far enough to keep Margaret sane.
Emily worked as a nursery teacher, earning peanuts, while William was content clocking in at the factory, no ambition to climb higher.
As soon as they moved, Margaret offered to help them settle in.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily gushed. “The place is filthy—I don’t even know where to start.”
So Margaret rolled up her sleeves, armed with cleaning supplies, and marched over to assist.
She sighed inwardly as she watched Emily “clean.” It was painfully clear the girl wasn’t used to scrubbing floors, and the whole ordeal seemed to pain her.
By the end, Margaret had basically done it all herself. Emily showered her with gratitude, insisting she had so much to learn from her future mum-in-law. Too tired to care, Margaret nodded half-heartedly.
The next day, William rang.
“Fancy having us over this weekend?” he asked.
“Of course, love!” Margaret replied.
Naturally, she spent half her Saturday cooking—a proper roast, salads, nibbles. She didn’t mind; it’d be nice to catch up, see how they were settling in.
But her mood dipped the moment they arrived—empty-handed.
Not that she *expected* anything. But was a box of biscuits too much to ask? Apparently so. William and Emily seemed oblivious, so Margaret chalked it up to them being strapped for cash while furnishing the flat.
“Mum, d’you mind if we take the leftovers?” William asked after dinner. “Save us cooking tomorrow.”
Margaret sighed. Not that she’d have minded a day off cooking herself, but she’d never deny her boy.
“Of course, take what you like,” she said.
It left a sour taste, but she brushed it off. Young people, living for themselves, avoiding the kitchen. What could she do? She didn’t *mind* cooking.
Margaret worked from home, popping into the office rarely—a perk she loved.
So when William called the next week, she braced for anything… except *this.*
“Mum, mind if I swing by for lunch? Trying to save—don’t fancy the canteen.”
She froze. She hadn’t planned on cooking, but she could hardly refuse.
“Of course, love,” she said, abandoning her emails for the stove.
She assumed it was a one-off. But soon, William started dropping in *daily.* Not ideal—her grocery bill skyrocketed, and her work kept getting interrupted.
Still, she bit her tongue. What mother turns her son away at mealtime? Though she *did* casually ask why he didn’t bring packed lunches.
“Emily doesn’t really cook,” he admitted. “Oh, and—fancy us coming for dinner this weekend? Your roasts are unbeatable.”
“Sorry, love—booked. Off to Maureen’s,” she lied, cheeks burning.
“Shame.”
This couldn’t go on. But she couldn’t outright refuse without looking stingy. And honestly, her purse felt it. She was *still* covering part of their rent.
For weeks, it continued—William for lunch, then Emily tagging along. Margaret grew accustomed to her new role as live-in chef.
Then they got bold.
William called about Emily’s upcoming birthday. “You’re invited, of course!” he chirped.
“Oh, sweet of you! But won’t it just be your friends?”
“We *want* you there—you’re family!”
Margaret melted. That kind of warmth could excuse a *lot.*
Or so she thought.
“Listen,” he continued, “could you come early? Help Emily tidy and cook?”
He yanked her back to earth.
“She can’t manage alone?” Margaret said flatly.
“Course not!” William laughed. “She’s hopeless in the kitchen. You could even prep at home and bring it over. Oh, and—could you set up? Emily’s got a salon appointment.”
“And the groceries?” Margaret asked, jaw tight.
“Just grab whatever you need. We’ll eat anything!” he said breezily. “Oh, and—tableware? We’ve only got mismatched mugs.”
Margaret hit boiling point.
This wasn’t about love. This was about free labour. Free *money.* They’d turned her into a walking ATM and unpaid housekeeper.
“No, William,” she said. “I’m not coming.”
“*Why?*”
“I’d come as a *guest.* Not a skivvy.”
“Mum, don’t be daft!”
“Daft? Spending *hours* cooking for *your* party is daft? If Emily can afford a salon, she can afford a supermarket run! And no, you *won’t* be reimbursing me, will you?”
“Mum, we’re skint—”
“If Emily’s got money for highlights, she’s got money for *food.* And don’t come round for lunch anymore. This isn’t a bloody café!”
She nearly snapped about them covering their own rent next—but God forbid they’d move *in.*
Neither apologized. She never found out how they salvaged Emily’s birthday.
But she *did* learn one thing: A good mother isn’t the one who feeds her son forever. It’s the one who cuts the apron strings *before* he brings a wife home to mummy’s kitchen. Time they grew up.
