“Try Harder, Girl”
“You know, dear, you’ll have to work very hard to fit into our family,” declared Lydia Greenwood with the air of a stern headmistress.
Alina barely stifled a chuckle. Predictable. The mother-in-law was already rapping the new pupil’s knuckles before class had even begun.
Beside her, William averted his gaze. It was clear he wanted to mutter something like “here we go.” But he didn’t intervene. Wise. This wasn’t his fight.
“Work harder?” Alina echoed, smiling faintly. “Could you clarify? Should I sign up for dressmaking classes? Or perhaps ballroom dancing?”
The conversation unfolded in Lydia Greenwood’s kitchen. Everything here was expensive and polished—lace-trimmed curtains, sweets in crystal bowls, a grand oak table with chairs the colour of champagne. Lovely, but Alina could never live here. Too perfect, as if no one truly lived here, only posed for a show.
“Alina, darling, we’re a cultured family,” Lydia explained, as if oblivious to the sarcasm. “We’re well-bred people. Strangers don’t just waltz in and stay.”
Alina nodded absently, no longer listening. This role was painfully familiar. She’d swum in these waters before—only back then, she’d lacked both experience and self-respect.
…Fifteen years ago, Alina had been different: young, eager, with trusting eyes and a belief that she must be “a good wife.” She’d loved her husband, Paul, dearly.
Paul, however, had only loved his mother.
Her first mother-in-law, Margaret Blackwood, had fancied herself the local celebrity. She had Opinions—loud ones—on everything. At the second family dinner, she declared:
“This chicken’s drier than a dishcloth. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to roast it properly, since your mother clearly didn’t.”
Alina had just smiled then. She’d thought patience and politeness would earn approval. So she called her “Mum,” made her beef salad instead of ham (as requested), and endured criticism on everything—from lipstick shade to floor cleanliness.
When her daughter was born, it worsened. Margaret lectured endlessly on “raising a proper lady,” always with smug smiles, hinting Alina was a poor teacher. A cobbler with no shoes.
“Nappies are child abuse!” Margaret announced one day, thrusting cloth nappies at her. “They’re for the lazy. You’ll be a good mother, won’t you?”
Paul never interfered. Not even when their toddler, still lisping, asked:
“Mummy, why are you st-stupid?”
Alina froze.
“What? Who told you that?”
“Granny Maggie.”
When she begged Paul to speak to his mother, he shrugged.
“Come on, she didn’t mean it. Just her temper. You know how she is.”
Alina knew. She’d sat through holidays hearing how she’d “ruined the cheese sauce” and bought lavish gifts, desperate for praise. She’d played perfect—until realising Margaret’s ideal would never be her.
After that, Alina filed for divorce. “Difficult personality” sounded too much like “awful behaviour, no intention to change.”
“You’ll die alone with cats!” Margaret prophesied.
No cats appeared, but Alina kept her flat, her job, and her sanity.
Then came William. They met through friends, exchanged numbers, and talked. He wasn’t lovesick or full of grand promises, but he respected her. Knew her past. Accepted her daughter.
And he wanted to marry her. Alina hesitated, watching. She loved him, but feared another family where she’d never belong. Yet William was different. His mother wasn’t his compass. So Alina risked it.
Now, in his mother’s house, she listened to the same old monologue—but felt no shame, no fear. Just déjà vu and boredom.
“We don’t just take in anyone, you know,” Lydia continued. “William’s soft, might miss things. I don’t. So… try harder, girl.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Alina said coolly. “But I’ll just be your son’s wife. I already have a family. A daughter. A husband. That’s enough.”
She didn’t wait for the evening to end. William followed, taking her hand outside.
“You alright?” he murmured.
“Fine. Don’t worry. Classic genre for me.”
This time, Alina knew her worth. So what if his mother disliked her? She wasn’t obliged to love her—and Alina owed her nothing.
…Two years passed since that “warning.” To Lydia’s dismay, Alina never tried. No visits, no curtsies, no performances. They lived quietly in her flat. William even bonded with Polly, Alina’s daughter.
Contact with Lydia remained formal—birthday calls, gifts from William alone. No fights, no closeness.
Alina never stopped him seeing his mother. But she barred her from their home. William respected that—he’d witnessed that first talk.
Unlike Paul, who’d once said:
“Mum says you overspend. Maybe she could help with shopping lists?”
And Alina had agreed. What a fool. She’d wanted Margaret to accept her. She never did.
William was different. He had backbone.
“Mum, she is who she is,” he’d tell Lydia. “If you don’t like her, don’t talk to her. But I’m staying.”
For once, Alina wasn’t fighting alone.
Then, after icy neutrality, came… a thaw. Not spring, but cracks in the ice.
One evening, Lydia called. Alina hesitated, then answered.
“Alina, hello. How are you?” Lydia’s voice was oddly sweet.
“Fine. What do you want?”
“I thought… maybe tea? I’ve made cherry pies—divine.”
Alina froze. The sugariness was so thick she checked the number. But it was Lydia. The same woman who’d judged her suitability.
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
Lydia sighed. “Another time, dear.”
“Dear” finished her. Had she dreamed it?
Days later, Lydia texted a photo of a gilded porcelain set.
“You like nice china? Take it. I’ve two.”
“No thanks. I prefer unbreakable mugs.”
Alina deflected, but unease grew. Why the sudden kindness?
The truth emerged when William mentioned his brother moving to Edinburgh. New job, new life. Lydia’s only nearby daughter-in-law was Alina.
A week later, they bumped into each other outside Boots. Lydia brightened.
“Alina! Fancy seeing you! Come over—I’ve made honey cake!”
Alina nodded but didn’t smile. The cold bit her skin; her heart chilled.
“Lydia… remember when you said I’d have to try harder?”
“Well… I was just getting to know you.”
“No. Back then, you didn’t want me in your family. Now you want into mine. But I won’t ask you to try. I just won’t let you in.”
Lydia straightened her coat. “Suit yourself.”
One Saturday, they played bingo. Polly laughed, winning. Alina drew the numbers. William teased them about missed squares.
His phone rang. He listened, then nodded.
“Mum says happy Mother’s Day.”
“Lovely. I’ve plenty of well-wishers.”
Once, she’d been told to fit into someone else’s frame. Now, she’d woven her own canvas—vibrant, unyielding. And no one who hadn’t shared the struggle could touch it.
