The Ringtone on My Daughter-in-Law’s Phone Changed My Mind About Helping My Son’s Young Family Find a Home

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 2

The ringtone on my daughter-in-laws phone made me rethink my plans to help my sons young family find a home.

I live alone in a pleasant one-bedroom flat right in the centre of London. My husband passed away five years ago, and after that, I inherited a second, two-bedroom flat from my aunt. This other one is in a less fashionable part of the city, but its still got a nice layout. Ive been renting it out to a lovely young couple theyre tidy and responsible and every month I pop by to collect the rent and check on the place. For two years, theres never been a problem.

When my son got married, he and his new wife decided to make their own way. They rented somewhere and started saving for the deposit on a mortgage. I didnt object secretly, Id always meant to eventually give them my aunts flat and let them do with it what they liked, whether that meant remodeling, redecorating or even selling it on.

A year after their wedding, they had a son, my first grandson. His arrival only cemented my planI really meant to get the legal paperwork sorted for the flat. But, just a week ago, everything changed.

It happened at my 60th birthday party. I wanted to celebrate properly, so I booked a private room at a lovely restaurant, invited plenty of friends and family, including my son and daughter-in-law, of course.

My relationship with my daughter-in-law, Emily, is generally fine, although shes quite hot-tempered at times and doesnt always keep her emotions in check, even around me. Ive always put it down to her youth and never held it against her. But her actions that evening, in front of all my guests, completely changed my feelings towards her.

My son and Emily arrived with the baby. The restaurant was a bit rowdy, not ideal for little ones, and Emily let me know theyd probably only stay an hour, which didnt bother me at all.

When they were getting ready to leave, Emily couldnt find her phone. I went around with her, trying to help, and decided to call her number to make things easier. Our guests noticed us fussing about, and things got a bit awkward and quiet for a moment. Then, suddenly, from the windowsill, an awful snarling, barking, howling noise filled the room. Everyone turned, startled, while Emily went crimson, dashed over, grabbed her mobile and cut the call.

Our friends and relatives stared at her, and then at me, and although my brother quickly saved the moment by turning the music back up and raising another toast, I could feel the atmosphere shift.

All night, I caught people whispering about the rather unique ringtone Emily had set for my number a recording of an angry, barking dog. The next day, I asked my son about it, since he mustve heard it before, but he just shrugged and said it was nothing.

Since then, things have been different. I havent been in touch with them, and the idea of gifting them my aunts flat is on hold until things improve. I cant help feeling I deserve at least a straightforward apology from both of them. If, in their eyes, Im no better than a dog, I suppose thats their choice. But for now, Ill wait for things to change before making any big decisions.

Yesterday – Why on earth are you putting the salad bowl there? It blocks the finger food! And move those glasses, will you? Oleg’s coming soon, you know he likes space to wave his arms about when he talks. Victor fussed around, rearranging the crystal dishes and nearly dropping the cutlery. Galina let out a weary sigh and wiped her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since dawn, her feet aching as if she’d been walking miles, her back throbbing from the familiar spot just below her shoulder blades. But she had no time to complain. Tonight, they were expecting a “star guest” – her husband’s younger brother, Oleg. “Victor, calm down,” Galina said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. The real question is, did you remember to buy wholemeal bread? Last time Oleg moaned we only had white rolls, and you know he’s all about counting carbs these days.” “I got it, I got it – wholegrain, seeded, just how he likes,” Victor darted towards the bread bin. “Galina, is the meat ready? You know how he fusses about his food – goes to those fancy London places, he won’t be impressed by homemade burgers!” Galina pursed her lips. She knew all too well. Oleg, a forty-year-old bachelor who liked to call himself a “free-spirited artist” (although mostly living off odd jobs and help from their aging mother), considered himself a great foodie. Every visit felt like a test Galina was destined to fail. “I roasted pork shoulder in honey-mustard glaze,” she replied crisply. “Fresh from the market, cost £22 a kilo. If he turns his nose up at this, I’ve got nothing else.” “Don’t get defensive,” Victor grimaced. “He’s not been down for six months – he wants some proper family time. He’s going through a tough period, you know, searching for himself.” “Searching for money, more like,” Galina thought, but kept silent. Victor idolised his little brother, believed him a misunderstood genius, and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven, exactly. Galina tore off her apron, checked her hair in the hallway mirror, and put on her practiced smile. Victor was already throwing open the door, beaming like a freshly polished teapot. “Oleg! Mate! There you are!” Oleg appeared, it had to be said, looking quite dapper: trendy coat slung open, a scarf tossed artfully over his shoulder, scruffy designer stubble. He spread his arms wide for his brother’s hug, but only patted Victor vaguely on the back. Galina glanced at Oleg’s hands. Empty. No shopping bag, no box of pastries, not even a cheap bunch of daffodils. He’d turned up at their door, after half a year away, for a meal fit for a feast – and brought nothing at all. Not for them, not for the kids (thankfully at their grandma’s tonight), not even a Mars bar. “Hi, Galina,” he nodded, eyeing the hallway before taking off his shoes. “New wallpaper? Bit… clinical, isn’t it? Well, if it suits you.” “Hello, Oleg,” she replied, evenly. “Wash your hands. Here are new slippers.” “I didn’t bring my own. You know, wearing other people’s can give you foot fungus,” Oleg waved her off. “I’ll stick to socks. Floors clean, I hope?” Galina felt irritation bubbling. She’d cleaned up twice in his honour. “Clean, Oleg. Come on through.” They settled in the living room. The table looked elegant: crisp white tablecloth, fancy napkins, three different salads, meat and cheese platters, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. The centrepiece was steaming hot. Oleg leaned back, surveying the spread. Victor busied himself with the expensive five-year-old cognac he’d bought yesterday, just for Oleg. “To family!” cheered Victor, pouring the drinks. Oleg swirled his glass, sniffed, examined it against the light. “Armenian?” he grimaced. “Hmm. I prefer French – much subtler bouquet. This is a bit rough. Still, you know what they say about gifts…” He knocked it back in one, didn’t bother to savour, and made straight for the platters – picking out the priciest cut. “Help yourself, Oleg,” Galina said, sliding over a giant salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” Oleg speared a prawn, peered at it closely. “These were frozen, weren’t they?” he declared. “Well, obviously – we don’t live near the sea,” Galina replied. “Got them from Tesco, the jumbo sort.” “Oof, rubbery,” Oleg pronounced, dropping the prawn back. “You overcooked them. Strictly two minutes in boiling water. Avocado’s hard, by the way – not ripe.” Victor, mid-serving, froze with his spoon in the air. “Oh, come on, Oleg – honestly, it’s delicious! I tried it myself.” “Victor, you have to train your taste buds,” Oleg said piously. “If you live on cheap substitutes, you’ll never know proper gastronomy. Last week I was at this restaurant launch – they did scallop ceviche to perfection! And this… well, is the mayo homemade?” Galina flushed. The mayo was store-bought – “Hellmann’s”. She hadn’t had time to whisk eggs herself. “From the shop,” she answered coolly. “I see,” Oleg sighed, as if she’d confessed to a fatal flaw. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Absolute poison. Let’s have the meat. Hopefully, that’s edible.” Galina wordlessly dished up a big slice of roast pork, ladled sauce, added rosemary potatoes. The aroma should have been mouthwatering – for any normal guest. But Oleg was a “connoisseur”. He chewed, gazing into space. Galina and Victor waited, tense as exam students. “Dry,” Oleg pronounced. “And the sauce… honey smothers everything. Bit too sweet. Meat should taste like meat. You made dessert out of it, Galina. Marinated it too little. You want the fibres to split – a night in kiwi or sparkling water at least 24-hours.” “I marinated overnight in mustard and spices,” Galina replied gently. “Everyone loves it.” “Well, ‘everyone’ is a broad term. Maybe your work friends enjoy it; they haven’t tasted anything but carrots. I’m talking objectively. It’ll do if you’re starving, but there’s no pleasure.” He pushed aside the untouched £10 serving and reached for the mushrooms. “These home-pickled, or imported?” he quizzed. “Picked ourselves. Salted ourselves,” Galina snapped. Oleg nibbled, winced. “Too much vinegar. You’ll burn your stomach. And salty! You must be in love, Galina – salt means love, right?” He sniggered at his own joke. “Victor, mind your blood pressure eating like this.” Victor giggled nervously, desperate to keep the peace. “Oh, leave it, mate, they’re great. With vodka they’re ideal. Pour another!” They drank. Oleg flushed, loosened his scarf, but refused to take off his coat – as if signalling he’d pop off at any moment and was really doing them a favour being here. “No proper caviar, then?” Oleg poked at a sandwich. “This is tiny – full of bits. Tesco deal, I bet?” “Oleg, that’s wild salmon caviar – £50 a kilo,” Galina snapped, her voice quivering. “We bought it just for you – we never buy it for ourselves, we save.” “Skimping on food’s the worst thing you can do,” Oleg said, popping another “awful” caviar bite. “You are what you eat. I, for instance, would never touch cheap sausages. I’d rather go hungry. But people stuff their fridges with bargains, and wonder why they feel tired and look grey.” Galina looked at Victor. He stared at his plate, desperate to eat his dry pork and say nothing. His silence hurt even more than Oleg’s words. He’d once again buried his head in sand just to avoid clashing with his “precious little brother.” “Victor,” Galina asked, “do you think my meat’s dry too?” Victor choked. “Um… no, darling, it’s lovely. Honestly lovely. Oleg just… knows what tastes good, he’s got that palate…” “A fine palate,” Galina said, dropping her fork so it clanged like a pistol shot. “So my palate’s rough and thick. My hands are clumsy. I cook poison.” “Galina, please, don’t make a scene,” Oleg grimaced. “I’m giving you constructive feedback. So you can improve. You should thank me. You’re too used to Victor eating everything and singing your praises; you’re getting lazy. Women should strive to do better.” “Thank you? You want me to say thank you?” She stood. Her chair scraped the floor. “Galina, where are you going?” Victor asked, worried. “We’ve barely started.” “I’ll be back,” she answered in a strange voice. “Just fetching pudding. Oleg likes his sweets.” She went to the kitchen. Her handmade “Napoleon” cake, layered with homemade custard and real vanilla, stood untouched. She looked at the cake, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of hurt spilled over, drowning out all common sense. How many times had this man entered her home, eaten, drunk, borrowed and never repaid? How many times had he criticised her décor, her clothes, even her kids? And always, Victor had stayed quiet, defending Oleg as “sensitive and creative”. Galina was the strong one – tough as nails, right? She left the cake untouched. Instead, she picked up a tray and returned to the living room. “Dessert?” Oleg perked up, stretching his neck. “Hope it’s not a shop-bought Swiss roll?” Galina quietly, methodically, started clearing the table. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” prawn salad. Then the platters. “Hey, what are you doing?” Oleg protested as his plate of caviar sandwiches disappeared. “I haven’t finished!” “Why carry on?” Galina said, deadpan. “It’s all inedible. Dry meat, toxic mayo salad, rubbery prawns, bad caviar. I can’t let you poison yourself. I’m not your enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Galina! Stop! What’s this, some kind of show? Put it all back!” “No, Victor, this isn’t a show. The real circus is someone arriving empty-handed, gobbling up a meal paid for by a quarter of your wages, and then trashing the hostess.” “I didn’t trash anyone!” Oleg spluttered, flushing with outrage. “Just expressed my opinion! We live in a free country!” “Free, yes.” Galina loaded more dishes onto the tray. “And I’m free to choose who I feed at home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor quality food? I respect that. Stay hungry.” She spun around, carried the feast to the kitchen. Silence rang in the living room. “You’ve gone mad!” Victor hissed, rushing after her. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my own brother! Bring the food back! Apologize now!” Galina set the tray down, turning to Victor. No tears, just icy resolve. “I humiliated you? And when you sat nodding as he put me down, you weren’t ashamed? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? He wolfed down £10 of caviar and said it’s sub-par. When have you ever bought me caviar like that, just because? We save all the best things for ‘guests’. And the guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! My flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years I’ve done your laundry, cleaned, cooked. Last night I spent hours making all this food. For what? To be told I’m clumsy? If you say one more word blaming me, I’ll put the Napoleon on your head. I mean it, Victor.” Victor backed off. He’d never seen his wife like this – always gentle, patient, “convenient”. Tonight she was a fury, ready to destroy. Oleg appeared in the doorway, no longer confident, now flustered and offended. “Well… I’ve never had hospitality like this,” he drawled. “I came to you wholeheartedly, and you criticise me over a slice of bread?” “You come to us wholeheartedly? Where’s that heart shown – in empty hands? Have you brought a single thing to this house in all these years? Even a box of tea? You come only to eat and criticise.” “I’m broke right now! It’s a rough patch!” “Your ‘patch’ has lasted two decades. But there’s always money for new coats and presentation parties. Meanwhile, you ask Victor for £100 and never pay it back.” “Galina, don’t! Don’t count people’s money!” “They’re not ‘people’s money’ – they’re ours! Family money, taken from our kids to feed this ‘foodie’!” Oleg clutched his chest. “Enough. I’m done. I can’t stay another minute in this house. Victor, how did you end up with such a dragon? I’m never coming here again.” He stormed out. Victor chased after him. “Oleg, wait! Don’t listen to her, she’s probably hormonal or just tired from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Oleg put on his shoes over his socks. “Not after this insult. Don’t phone me till she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood frozen. Then slowly returned to the kitchen, where Galina calmly packed leftovers. “Are you happy?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve freed us from a freeloader,” she answered without looking up. “Sit. Eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you too?” Victor hunched at the table, head in hands. “How could you? He was a guest…” “A guest should act like one – not like an inspector. Victor, listen to me: I will never, ever, prepare another feast for him. If you want to see him, see him at his place or at a café. But pay for it yourself. No more of my time or money for him.” “You’ve become hard,” Victor mumbled. “No, I’ve become fair. Eat up. Or shall I put it away?” Victor stared at the pork. His stomach rumbled. He tasted a bite. It was perfect: tender, melting, savoury with a kick of sweetness. “Well?” Galina asked, noticing his blissful expression. “Delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Galina.” “Good. Your brother’s just a bitter failure who feels big criticising others. Understand that.” Victor chewed and thought. For the first time, he wondered if Galina was right. He remembered Oleg’s empty hands, dismissive tone, and how uncomfortable he always felt at his critiques. “And the cake?” he asked. “Are we eating it?” Galina smiled – for the first time that evening. “We are. And I’ll make your favourite tea with thyme.” She cut the Napoleon cake into hefty slices. They sat together, eating cake, sipping tea. The tension eased. “You know,” Victor said, polishing off a second slice, “he didn’t get Mum anything for her birthday last month. Said he was the best present.” “See?” Galina nodded. “You’re finally waking up.” Victor’s phone pinged. A message from Oleg: “Should’ve at least sent a couple sandwiches – I left hungry. Put £100 in my account for the emotional damage.” Victor read it out. Pause. Galina arched an eyebrow. “And what will you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their cosy kitchen, the scrumptious cake, then at his phone. Carefully, he typed: “Go eat at a restaurant, you’re the foodie. No spare cash.” Then hit “Block”. “What did you write?” Galina asked. “I said we’re off to bed.” Galina pretended to believe him, though she saw the screen. She squeezed his shoulder in a gentle hug. “You’ve got there, Victor. Even if it took you a while.” That evening, they realised something important about each other. Sometimes, keeping the family together means letting others out. Even if those others share your blood. And the roast, regardless of any self-proclaimed “food critic’s” opinion, was simply divine.

08

Relatives Demanded My Bedroom for the Holidays—Left Empty-Handed When I Refused “Where am I supposed to put this bowl of jellied meat?” Aunt Val muttered, wrestling the massive dish into the fridge. “There’s no space—it’s crammed with your… whatever that is… carpaccio and avocados, honestly, who eats that stuff?” she grumbled, shoving my neat containers aside. I sighed and counted to ten, stirring sauce at the stove. The relatives had barely arrived twenty minutes ago, but it already felt like a noisy caravan had overtaken our flat, intent on rearranging our lives to suit themselves. “Aunt Val, just pop it out on the balcony. It’s cold, glazed, nothing will happen to it,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “The fridge is all prepped for salads—I can’t let them freeze.” “Pff, the balcony! City dust flying everywhere! And what sort of hostess keeps food on the floor? Anyway, I’ll clear out your weird green stuff—no one’s going to eat it. Men need meat, not rabbit food,” she huffed, shifting focus to me. My husband, Paul, sliced bread at the table, trying to blend into the background; he knew Aunt Val and my cousin Lisa’s temper well. Lisa was currently critiquing our bathroom (“Only a shower? How do I bathe the boys?”) while her two young sons wiped chocolate hands on everything. I kept my composure, offering juice and warning about my precious hardwood floors, only to be told, “Don’t fuss, things are for people, not the other way round. Kids will be kids. You’ve changed, living in London,” Aunt Val scoffed. The holiday visit had been planned for months. Aunt Val and Lisa—along with the boys—invited themselves to “see the family” and “tour beautiful London.” I couldn’t say no: English hospitality and all that. But last time, their visit left me shaken for a week. Now, we finally had our own spacious, newly-renovated three-bedroom flat—a dream come true—and the pride of my life was our bedroom: deep blue walls, blackout curtains, plush carpets, and a bed with a mattress worth half an airplane. Paul and I had one rule: the bedroom was a no-go for guests. We offered the living room with a big fold-out sofa and, if necessary, Paul’s study with a comfortable daybed. When dinner wound down, Aunt Val dropped her bombshell: “My back’s shot from the journey. Can I have the bedroom tonight? I need a real mattress—my sciatica!” I explained gently but firmly: “The sofa is orthopedic, designed for guests, really comfortable.” But Aunt Val wouldn’t budge. “A sofa is a sofa. I’m not a young thing. I thought you’d give us your bedroom for the holidays. Family should have the best!” Lisa chimed in, “You’re healthy. What’s a couple nights on the sofa to you? It’s simply not right to make Mum sleep anywhere but the best bed, and with the boys in the room it would be easier for all of us.” I was stunned. “You want us to give up our bedroom and sleep in the lounge?” “You’re being dramatic,” Aunt Val snapped. “It’s only for a few nights! Guests deserve the best, that’s tradition. My mum taught me that, and hers before her. You must’ve forgotten your roots.” I held my ground: “Hospitality means good food and comfort, but our bed is personal. No one sleeps there but us. If you don’t like the sofa or daybed, I can help you find a nice hotel nearby.” Lisa was aghast: “You’d send family to a hotel? After we came all this way—with gifts? Do we mean nothing to you?” Aunt Val went further: “Your mother would be ashamed! You’re just like your father, selfish.” That was enough. “My mum was a saint, and she endured your demands for years. I am not her. I have boundaries. The bedroom is our space. End of discussion.” Lisa clanged her glass down. “Either you give us the bedroom, or we’re leaving tonight and telling everyone what sort of selfish Londoner you’ve become. Your choice.” Paul, silent until now, finally spoke, “We’re offering a warm home and comfortable places to sleep. Demanding our bed is unreasonable. If that’s what’s important to you, maybe it’s best you go.” Aunt Val leapt up, suddenly cured of all ailments. “That’s it! Lisa, pack the kids. We’re out! Better sleep at the train station than here!” Lisa looked panicked, clearly bluffing, but Aunt Val swept on: “We’ll go to Cynthia’s on the other side of town! At least she’s got heart, not just fancy food!” They stormed around collecting their gifts to take back (“You don’t deserve these towels!”), their home-pickled mushrooms, and children’s chocolates. Paul observed in silence—embarrassed by adults acting like spoiled kids. Within fifteen minutes they were gone, slamming the door so hard the plaster fell from the ceiling. The flat was blissfully silent; just the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock. I buried my face in my hands—then suddenly started laughing. Relief. Paul grinned, “They even left the jellied meat on the balcony!” We both burst out: the treasured bowl was still ours. I imagined Cynthia preparing for the unexpected guests in her tiny council flat. Not our problem. We poured ourselves champagne and, for the first time that day, genuinely celebrated. “For us,” Paul toasted, “For our home. May it always welcome those who respect us.” “And for our boundaries,” I replied, clinking glasses. That night, lying in our beloved bedroom—on that “disputed” mattress—I felt pure bliss. I realised: you can’t please everyone, especially at your own expense. If the price of peace is offending pushy relatives, it’s more than worth it. The next morning, my phone buzzed with gossip—distorted tales of cruelty and abandonment. I ignored them, instead stretching out in my bed and smiling into a brand new day. For the record, we gave the jellied meat to the neighbourhood dogs. They were grateful and offered no critique. Unlike certain people, animals know how to appreciate kindness.

09

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

The Ringtone on My Daughter-in-Law’s Phone Changed My Mind About Helping My Son’s Young Family Find a Home