**Diary Entry**
I always swore I’d never be one of those awful mothers-in-law. After all, I’d raised my son Daniel with kindness, knowing full well he’d one day start his own family. And Daniel owed me nothing—he was free to live his own life.
So when he brought home his fiancée, a sweet girl named Emily, I welcomed her with open arms. Emily, for her part, did her best to impress me, complimenting my cooking, admiring my flat, all the right things. I was sure we’d get along just fine.
Soon enough, Daniel and Emily decided to move in together. He tentatively suggested living with me, but the idea didn’t sit right.
“Of course you’re welcome here,” I told him, “but love, it’s not wise. Young couples need their own space—different routines, moments of quiet. And two women in one kitchen? That never ends well.”
Daniel listened, but renting a place in London wasn’t cheap. So I offered to help, just until they found their footing.
“I’ll cover a third of the rent to start. Later, you’ll manage on your own.”
He agreed eagerly. And I didn’t mind—it was a fair price for peace and good relations.
I remembered my own early married years, living with my husband’s parents. A nightmare, even though my mother-in-law was decent enough. Still, there were arguments, misunderstandings, hurt feelings. Meals were a struggle—she cooked things I couldn’t stomach, but I forced myself to eat them to spare her feelings. It was exhausting for both of us.
Eventually, Daniel and Emily found a flat nearby. Perfect—close enough to visit, but separate lives.
Emily worked as a nursery assistant, earning little. Daniel, content with his factory job, didn’t push for more.
After they moved, I offered to help them settle in.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily exclaimed. “The place is filthy—I don’t know where to start!”
So I grabbed my cleaning supplies and went over. Watching Emily “clean” was painful—clearly, it wasn’t her strong suit. In the end, I did most of it myself while she showered me with gratitude and empty promises to learn. Too exhausted to care, I barely listened.
The next day, Daniel rang. “Fancy having us over this weekend?”
“Of course, love,” I said.
Naturally, I spent half the day cooking—roast, salad, even starters. Yet they arrived empty-handed. Not so much as a packet of biscuits.
Hardly the end of the world, but it stung. Still, I brushed it off—they were young, adjusting.
After dinner, Daniel asked, “Mind if we take leftovers? Save us cooking.”
I sighed. I wouldn’t have minded a few days off cooking either, but for him, I didn’t protest. “Go ahead.”
Then came the calls.
“Mum, can I pop round for lunch? Trying to save, don’t want to eat out.”
Caught off guard, I agreed—how could I say no?—and rushed to the kitchen.
I thought it a one-off. But soon, he came daily. The fridge emptied faster, and my work suffered. Still, I bit my tongue. What mother turns her son away?
Once, casually, I asked why he didn’t pack lunch.
“Emily doesn’t really cook. Oh—fancy hosting us for dinner this weekend? Your food’s brilliant!”
“Sorry, busy.” The lie shamed me.
Something had to give. But I couldn’t bring myself to refuse outright—didn’t want to seem stingy.
Three weeks passed. Daniel kept coming. Then Emily joined. I’d become their personal chef.
Then, the final straw.
“Mum, Emily’s birthday’s coming. You’re invited!”
How sweet.
“Could you come early, though? Help her clean and cook? She’s hopeless.”
My blood boiled. Not guests—unpaid staff.
“No,” I said flatly.
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t be your maid. If it’s so easy, let Emily do it. And groceries aren’t free—you’ll repay me, yes?”
“Mum, we’re strapped—”
“If she can afford a salon haircut, she can afford food. And no more lunches. This isn’t a canteen.”
I nearly told them to pay their own rent but stopped—what if they moved in? Then I’d never escape.
No apologies came. How they managed the party, I’ll never know.
But I learned something: a good mother isn’t one who feeds her son forever. It’s one who cuts the apron strings in time.
Married, yet still clinging to Mum’s kitchen.
Time they grew up.
