**Stubborn Mothers**
When Edward and Emily got married, both families were over the moon.
Margaret, Edward’s mother, even shed a tear outside the registry office. Victoria, Emily’s mum, hugged her new son-in-law as if she’d known him since he was a boy.
Neither Margaret nor Victoria had husbands. Both had raised their children alone. Both had weathered their share of storms.
Despite their differences—one stern and uncompromising, the other more easygoing—they’d always respected each other. They’d never built their children’s happiness on broken nerves.
The newlyweds spent their first months in a rented flat. A tiny studio, a chain-smoking neighbour through the wall, a noisy courtyard. Still, they were their own masters.
About six months later, Emily had an idea. Edward thought it was brilliant—perfectly logical.
Two weeks later, *that* conversation happened. With the mums…
***
“Mum, don’t take this the wrong way. Emily and I were thinking—”
Margaret just watched her son, waiting. She was used to his mad schemes.
“Well… you’ve got a two-bed, Victoria’s got a three-bed. And we’re stuck paying rent. It’s expensive and cramped. We’d like to move into her place.”
“Go on.”
“You and Victoria… you could live together. She’d move in with you, and we’d take her flat. More space all round.”
He laid it out like he was explaining the rules of Monopoly. Calm. Not a flicker of doubt.
“How long?” Margaret asked.
“Oh… till we buy our own place. Maybe five years. Or ten.”
She didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. Just said, “I’ll think about it.”
Then she stepped onto the balcony. Stood there a long while, staring at the empty garden, feeling a slow, creeping cold in her chest.
***
The next day, Victoria heard the same from her daughter.
“Mum, you and Margaret get on fine. Not best mates, but you respect each other. So why not live together? We could move in here, have a proper home—”
Victoria cut her off. “You want to rent out my life?”
Emily blinked. “No! It’s just… your lives are settled. We’re just starting—”
“Settled? So I’m scrap metal now?”
“You’re not listening!”
“Oh, I’ve heard enough, love.”
***
A week later, they all sat down together.
Margaret arrived first. Victoria followed. They faced the young couple, who looked solemn, almost grave.
“Mums, we don’t want a row. We’re asking you to understand. We’re struggling. No savings. Planning a family. You’ve both got homes—we’re shelling out rent. Where’s the sense in that? Is it really so hard to live together?”
Margaret spoke first.
“Yes. Especially when your own child sees you as… an inconvenience.”
Victoria picked up:
“Try seeing it our way. We’ve each got our own lives now. Our own peace. Our own rhythm. We don’t owe anyone, and we won’t bend ourselves backwards.”
“But you’re both on your own! It’d be livelier together. What’s the problem?” Emily pressed.
“Self-respect,” Margaret said. “And the right to a life of our own.”
“So you don’t care how we live?” Edward’s voice turned brittle.
“We care,” Victoria said. “But there’s a difference between helping and trampling yourself. You’re asking for the second one.”
The couple exchanged glances. Clearly, they hadn’t expected this.
They’d braced for arguments. Tears. Then, eventually, surrender.
Instead, they got a quiet, firm *no*.
That evening, Margaret washed the dishes—slowly, methodically. Every spoon, as if peace lay in the suds.
Victoria, for the same reason, scrubbed the house top to bottom. Polished, dusted, anything to stop the thoughts.
By the time they finished, the anger had drained. Only weariness remained.
They didn’t hate their children. Didn’t wish them harm. But after that talk, both knew: to their kids, they weren’t people anymore.
Just foundations. Something solid to walk over without looking down.
Their children had forgotten they were human. With habits, solitude, and the right to space of their own.
***
A month passed.
Edward and Emily never brought it up again.
They rented a bigger flat. Took out a loan.
Grumbled, of course. About prices, about chores, about how hard it was without help.
But they never asked their mothers to move in again.
Maybe they’d listened. Or maybe they’d sobered up after posting about their “stubborn mums” online and reading the replies. Nearly every comment began with: “Are you out of your ruddy minds?”
As for Margaret and Victoria? They grew closer. Theatre trips, recipe swaps. Not bosom friends, but allies for sure.
“Can you believe it?” Victoria chuckled once. “They still think we just didn’t *get* their grand plan.”
“Let them,” Margaret shrugged. “So long as they don’t start singing that tune again.”
***
And that’s the story.
About how children grow up, but don’t always grow wise.
That mothers aren’t furniture to be shoved wherever it’s convenient.
That the right to a life doesn’t expire at fifty—sometimes, that’s when it really begins.
***
Would you have agreed?
Moved in with your in-law just because your kids couldn’t hack the rent?
