My True Daughter-in-Law – When My Son Announced He’d Marry Teenage Emily, I Was Worried, but Nothing Prepared Me for the Twists Our Family Would Endure: Pregnancy Before Eighteen, Army Service, Difficult In-Laws, Affairs, Divorce, and the Unforgettable Place of the First Wife in a Mother’s Heart

Author Wanda MirandaReading 6 minViews 1

FAMILY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW

Mum, Im marrying Amelia. The baby is due in three months, my son told me, leaving no room for discussion.

I cant say I was shocked; Id already met Amelia before. It was her age that made me uneasyshe wasnt yet eighteen. And my son still had his mandatory service ahead of him. Still just kids themselves, now insistent on a wedding, with a baby on the way.

Finding a wedding dress for Amelia was no easy feat, with her being seven months along. The bump refused to be ignored.

Once all the wedding festivities died down, the newlyweds settled with Amelias family. Yet, my son visited me every week. Hed lock himself in his room, asking not to be disturbed. Naturally, as his mother, I worried.

One day, I called Amelia.

Is everything alright with Will? I asked.

Of course, why wouldnt it be? replied Amelia, calm as anything.

Amelia, do you know where your husband is at this very moment? I pressed gently.

Mrs. Turner, perhaps youd be best to mind your own affairs. Well sort ourselves out, she retorted, with a cheekiness that wouldnt be the last Id hear.

Sorry to disturb you, I said quietly, ending the call.

Im a peaceful soul by nature, not one for meddling. So I let them get on with their lives, determined not to be a nuisance.

Soon after, Amelia brought little Beatrice into the world. I wasnt terribly fond of the name, so I called my granddaughter Bee instead.

Just after, Will was called up for service, stationed miles from home. For two years while he was away, I made a point to visit little Bee. Every visit, I couldnt help but notice how radiant Amelia lookedstriking, almost worryingly so. Shed enrolled at university, surrounded by temptations, and a part of me wondered if shed wait for Will to return.

I always had the feeling that Amelia barely tolerated me. Whenever I visited, shed sigh, hand me the pram, and send me off on a walk, as if she couldnt bear to have me under her roof. Her eyes alone could wound. There was always a certain coldness, an unmistakable distance. I much preferred to leave their chilly home as soon as I could.

When Will finished his service and returned, everything seemed blissful. Bee grew, Will visibly adored his wife, and Amelia managed the home like a queen. My heart felt at ease. Fifteen years passed like this, full of peace and contentment.

But then, something changed in Amelia. Suitors began appearing left and right. She didnt even try to hide it. Will endured her infidelity for three long years, loving her still, while his heart broke.

Amelia cut deep, mocking Will. I didnt confront hertruth be told, I was a bit scared of her sharp tongue. Her glare alone could send you packing.

Will, is everything alright between you and Amelia? Trouble? I finally asked.

Dont worry, Mum. Well work it out, Will replied, sounding oddly guilty and resigned.

I worried he felt responsible, which was why he put up with Amelias behaviour. Eventually, I gathered my courage and went to speak with her, unable to sleep with all this unrest.

Amelia, may I ask something? I began softly.

Why not ask your son what he gets up to at work, or more specifically, with whom? snapped Amelia. My aunt works there, told me everything. Your precious Will cheated firstso dont blame me!

Goodness, why did I ever get involved? I never said a word to Will. Let things play out as they may. Youll drive yourself mad trying to please everyone.

Shortly after, Amelia and Will divorced. Bee remained with her mother.

Will took to the single lifean endless string of girlfriends: brunettes, blondes, redheads his bed never cold.

Amelia wasted no time either. She remarried almost immediatelyWill told me through tears. Evidently, she was now a devoted wife.

Wills next great love was Joana petite, cunning woman of forty, while Will had just turned thirty-five. He was utterly besotted, eager to please her.

Joan didnt waste time: she wanted a proper church wedding, a flat for her daughter, and to be fully supported. Will bent over backwards for her.

Unlike Amelia, Joan tried hard to befriend me, insisting I call her by her first name, like some close chum. It grated on me, but I dont care for arguments, so I put up with it. The gifts she bought with Wills money collect dust in my closetmy heart never warmed to them.

Joans smile was forced, her words insincere, and it was clear she cared nothing for Will. Shed found herself a comfortable life and lived it with no scruples, making demands and scheming. Whatever Amelias faults, shed shouted at me with honesty and loved Will sincerely.

Joan refused to cook, preferring ready meals and bakery bits. I once commented, Couldnt you make Will a nice soup, dear? Everythings always out of a packet.

Gail, dont try to teach an old bird new tricks, she quipped, and that was that.

Her friends came firstfellow socialites like herself. A weekly trip to a fancy spa, hours whiling away in cafés, endless shopping spreesthat was Joans lifestyle. Any slight discontent, and shed burst into melodramatic fits.

How can anyone live with a wife like that, Ill never understand. Meeting Joan was a misstep, a foolish accident on Wills part.

I find myself missing Amelia more and more often now. Theres plenty to compare. Her roast dinners and legendary trifles put Joans supermarket food to shame. Why did Will ruin things with his first wife? He never could hold onto a woman like that, and I think he knows it deep down. Still, Im grateful Bee hasnt forgotten about her gran, always bringing me little gifts.

To me, Amelia was my real daughter-in-law, even if only in the past. You dont know the worth of what you have until its gone. Joan will always be a shadow in comparison. I pity my sonits clear to me Wills heart still belongs to Amelia, though theres no road back.

In families, the true measure of a relationship isnt in words or gifts, but in sincerity and kindness. Sometimes, we only see the real worth of those closest to us when its too late. Treasure your loved ones and the peace they bringyou never know when youll miss them most.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared About My Life or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben didn’t earn a fortune; his wages were modest, as he was an ordinary labourer. Natalie had always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, a wealthy life, so she relished any encounter with men better off than her husband. One day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she caught the eye of a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Swayed by his grand speeches, she left her poor husband behind to start a new life. Ben was devastated by her actions. He practically begged on his knees, promising he’d change everything: earn more money, leave his old job, work day and night—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained unmoved, already dreaming of sailing on a white yacht and shopping in Europe’s most exclusive boutiques, something Ben could never provide. No declarations of love or promises of moving mountains could change her mind. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie found herself out of favour with her rich partner, who now had plenty of younger, flirtatious women around him. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and he lost all interest. Broke and unaccustomed to working for herself, Natalie decided to return to her ex-husband. After all, he’d promised her eternal love and said his heart would always belong to her; surely he’d be waiting. As she approached the flat they once shared, she heard movement at the door—an unfamiliar woman answered, holding a little girl in her arms. “Darling, we’ve talked about not opening the door alone,” the woman chided the child. “Who are you looking for?” she asked Natalie, who stood speechless at the threshold. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” Natalie stammered, confused. “Ben, there’s a lady here asking for you! What’s your name?” called the woman, turning to Natalie’s former husband. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise, then turned to the woman. “Love, please go inside. I need to talk.” “Who was that?” Natalie asked, shocked as she watched the woman and child leave. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and our daughter, Mary,” said Ben. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? You promised me forever. You said you’d never love anyone the way you loved me!” “It’s been so many years, Natalie. At first, I was heartbroken. But then I realised life doesn’t end when someone leaves. Then I met Olivia, fell in love, and she’s made me truly happy. She’s given me a family.” “What about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone five years, and you never cared how I was or what happened to me. You chased after someone else’s money, couldn’t think of anything but luxury. We may never have been rich, but that doesn’t excuse what you did. Now you’re back? Did you expect me to be waiting here for you all these years?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough with the theatrics. Just leave. I don’t need you anymore. I don’t want to see you. Your boyfriend dropped you, so you’ve come running back to me? It makes me sick. Just go.” Natalie burst into bitter tears, realising no one wanted her, while Ben was glad he’d moved on and, in a way, had found his own kind of justice.

— Mr. William Evans, you’ve missed the bus again! — the driver’s voice is genial, but carries a hint of reproach. — Third time this week you’ve been racing after the bus like a man possessed. The pensioner, breathless and in a rumpled jacket, leans against the handrail. His grey hair is wild, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — the old man pants, pulling crumpled notes from his pocket. — My clock must be slow. Or maybe I’m just getting on… Andrew Williams is a seasoned driver, about forty-five, his face tanned by years on the route. He’s been at the wheel for over two decades, knowing many regulars by sight. But he remembers this old gentleman in particular — always polite, quiet, takes the same bus at the same time every morning. — Don’t worry, come on board. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus sets off. Mr. Evans takes his usual seat — third row from the front, by the window, a battered carrier bag clutched in his hands. Few passengers aboard — a weekday morning. Some uni students chatter at the back, a businessman is absorbed in his phone. A typical scene. — Tell me, Mr. Evans, — Andrew calls back through the rear-view mirror — you go there every day? Isn’t it hard? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replies quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been a year and a half. I promised — every day I’d visit. Andrew feels a twinge in his heart. He’s married himself, adores his wife. Can’t imagine… — Is it far from home? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking would take me an hour — my legs aren’t what they were. And my pension just about covers the fare. The weeks go by. Mr. Evans is a fixture on the morning bus. Andrew gets used to him, even looks forward to seeing him. Sometimes the old man runs late — Andrew purposefully waits a couple of minutes. — No need to wait for me, — Mr. Evans says one day, realising Andrew has lingered. — The schedule’s the schedule. — Nonsense, — Andrew waves him off. — A few minutes won’t hurt. One morning, Mr. Evans doesn’t appear. Andrew waits — maybe he’s running late. But still, he doesn’t come. Next day, still no sign. And again. — Have you noticed that old chap who used to always go to the cemetery? He hasn’t been on for days, — Andrew remarks to conductor Mrs. Taylor. — Who knows? — she shrugs. — Maybe some family came, maybe he’s ill… But Andrew can’t shake the feeling. He’s grown accustomed to the quiet nod of thanks, the sad little smile. A week passes. No Mr. Evans. Andrew decides to look for him — on his lunch break he heads to the end of the route, near the cemetery. — Excuse me, — he asks the woman on duty at the gate, — an elderly gent, William Evans — grey hair, glasses, always with a carrier bag. Have you seen him at all? — Oh, him! — she brightens. — Came every day to his wife. — Not lately, though? — Not for a week. Maybe he’s unwell. He once gave me his address — doesn’t live far. Garden Close, number 15. And you are…? — Bus driver. Took him every day. Garden Close, 15. An ageing brick block, paint peeling. Andrew climbs to the second floor, knocks on a random door. A man in his fifties, stern face. — Yes? — I’m looking for William Evans. Bus driver, he’s a regular on my route… — Ah, the old boy from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softens. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke last week. Andrew’s heart sinks. — Which hospital? — St. Mary’s, on Queen’s Avenue. It was touch and go, but they say he’s slowly getting better. That evening, after his shift, Andrew visits the hospital. He finds the ward and asks the nurse. — William Evans? Yes, he’s here. And you are…? — A friend, — Andrew hesitates, unsure how to explain. — Room six. He’s still very weak, though. Don’t tire him. Mr. Evans lies by the window, pale but conscious. At first he doesn’t recognise Andrew, then his eyes widen in surprise. — Andrew? Is that you? How…how did you find me? — Just had to look, — Andrew smiles awkwardly, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — You went missing. I was worried. — You…worried about me? — there’s a glimmer of tears in the old man’s eye. — But I’m no one to you… — What do you mean? You’re my regular passenger. I look for you every morning now. Mr. Evans falls silent, gazing at the ceiling. — And the cemetery… haven’t been for ten days now, — he whispers. — First time in a year and a half. Broke my promise… — Please don’t fret, Mr. Evans. I’m sure your wife would understand. Illness isn’t your fault. — Maybe… — the old man shakes his head. — I’d go every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m here, she’s alone there… Andrew sees how much this weighs on him, and the answer comes on its own. — Would you like me to go? To your wife. Tell her you’re in hospital, that you’re getting better… Mr. Evans turns, hope and disbelief flickering in his eyes. — You’d do that? For someone you barely know? — Aren’t we more than strangers? — Andrew shrugs. — Eighteen months we’ve seen each other every morning. Feels like family. Next day, on his day off, Andrew visits the cemetery. He finds the grave — the headstone shows a youthful woman with kind eyes. “Anne Evans, 1952–2024.” He hesitates at first, but the words come more easily than expected. — Hello, Mrs. Evans. I’m Andrew, the bus driver. Your husband took my bus to see you every day. He’s in hospital now, but recovering. He wanted me to tell you he loves you, and he’ll be back soon… He speaks a little more — of what a good man William Evans is, how much he misses her, how devoted he’s been. He feels rather foolish, but something inside tells him it’s the right thing to do. At the hospital, he finds Mr. Evans at tea. Already stronger, with more colour in his cheeks. — I went, — Andrew says simply. — Told her everything, just as you wished. — And how… how was it? — the voice trembles. — The plot’s neat, there were fresh flowers — probably from nearby families. She’s waiting for you to come back. Mr. Evans closes his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr. Evans is discharged. Andrew meets him outside the hospital, drives him home. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — he asks, as the old man steps from the bus. — You will, — Mr. Evans nods. — Eight a.m., just like always. And sure enough, next morning, he’s back in his usual seat. But something has changed between them — they’re more than driver and passenger now. — Tell you what, Mr. Evans, — Andrew says one Saturday, — why don’t I take you at weekends in my car? No bus, just us. My wife thinks you’re a wonderful chap, says we must help. — Oh no, you needn’t… — Course I do. I’m used to you now — besides, my wife says if someone’s good people, you look out for them. And so it becomes a habit. Weekdays — the regular bus ride, weekends — Andrew takes Mr. Evans in his own car, sometimes with his wife along. They become friends. — You know, — Andrew says to his wife one evening, — at first I thought it was just a job — bus, timetable, passengers. But now I see: every person on that bus has a life, a story. — That’s how it is, — she nods. — It’s good you didn’t just walk on by. And Mr. Evans tells them one day: — After Anne died, I thought that was it — life finished. Who would need me? But it turns out… some people care. That means a lot. *** And what about you — have you ever witnessed ordinary people perform extraordinary deeds?