“I’m Done Playing Mum to Your Son!” Declared the Daughter-in-Law as She Left for a Seaside Holiday Valentina Andrews had a son—hardworking and decent, but married to a rather peculiar woman. His wife refused to cook, clean, or help out around the house, and recently she’d become downright unpredictable. Just yesterday, she threw another dramatic tantrum. “Kieran,” she snapped at her husband, “I can’t do this anymore! You’re a grown man, but act like a child!” Kieran was bewildered; he hadn’t asked for much—just for Marina to fetch his socks, iron his shirt, and remind him about his doctor’s note. “Mum always helped me,” he muttered. “Then off you go to your mother!” Marina exploded. The next day, she packed her suitcase. “I’m off to Brighton for a month. Maybe more.” “How can it be more?” Kieran gaped. “Because I’m tired of babysitting a grown man,” Marina replied, calm but resolute. Kieran tried to protest, but Marina ignored him. She rang his mother: “Valentina Andrews? It’s Marina. If he can’t survive without a nanny, come stay with us. Spare key’s under the mat.” And with that, she was gone. Kieran sat alone in the flat, not knowing what to do. The fridge was empty, his socks were dirty, and the sink overflowed with dishes. After a few days, he phoned his mum: “Mum, Marina’s gone mad! She’s run off and left me! What am I supposed to do now?” Valentina Andrews sighed. Problems with the daughter-in-law again. “I’ll be there soon, Kieran. We’ll sort it.” She arrived with a bag of groceries and her familiar motherly determination to fix everything. But when she opened the door, gasped at the chaos: clothes piled high, the kitchen a disaster, the bathroom full of dirty laundry. And it hit her—her thirty-year-old son really had no idea how to live. She’d always done everything for him, and had, without knowing, created a fully grown child. “Mum,” whined Kieran, “what’s for dinner? Where are my shirts? When’s Marina coming back?” Valentina silently started tidying, but one thought kept swirling: What have I done? She’d protected her son from everything—chores, obstacles, real life. Now, without women, he was utterly lost. Marina? She’d simply escaped from this big, helpless child. And who could blame her? For three days, Valentina lived with her son and every day understood more—she’d raised a man-child. Kieran woke up every morning and started complaining: “Mum, what’s for breakfast? Where’s my shirt? Any clean socks?” Valentina cooked, ironed, cleaned, and observed. A thirty-year-old man not knowing how to use a washing machine, what bread costs, or how to brew a cup of tea—hopelessly burning himself with hot water and spilling sugar everywhere. “Mum,” Kieran sighed, “Marina’s gone completely wild! She used to pretend she loved me. Now she’s like a stranger!” “How do you behave with her?” Valentina asked carefully. “Just normal! I don’t expect anything special. I just want my wife to act like a wife, not a grumpy old aunt!” Valentina looked at her son, horrified. He genuinely didn’t understand. “Kieran, do you ever help Marina?” “How do you mean?” he replied, genuinely puzzled. “I work! I bring money home! Isn’t that enough?” “What about at home?” “Home? I’m tired after work—I should relax. But she keeps nagging! Wants me to do the washing up, go shopping… but those are women’s chores!” Then Valentina heard herself—the phrases she’d repeated since he was little: “Kieran, don’t touch—that’s Mum’s job!” “Don’t go shopping—I’ll run out quicker!” “You’re a man; you have more important things to do!” She’d created a monster. The more she watched, the more stunned she became. Kieran would return home, collapse onto the sofa, expect dinner, news updates, entertainment. If nothing appeared, he sulked: “Mum, when’s dinner? I’m starving!” Just like a child. Worst of all were his comments about Marina. “She’s so irritable lately,” he complained. “Always angry. Maybe she should see a doctor? Get her hormones checked?” “Or maybe she’s just exhausted?” Valentina ventured. “Exhausted from what? We both work. Anyway, running the home is a woman’s job.” “Is it?! Who told you that?” Valentina snapped. Kieran was taken aback; his mother had never yelled at him. On the fourth night, she couldn’t take anymore. Kieran sat on the sofa, phone in hand, sighing now and then, bored without his wife. The kitchen was a mess, socks were strewn on the floor, the bed unmade. “Mum?” he whined, “what’s for dinner?” Valentina was at the stove, making borscht, as she had for thirty years. And suddenly—enough was enough. “Kieran,” she said, turning off the gas, “we need to talk.” “I’m listening,” he replied, without looking up. “Put down your phone and look at me.” Something in her voice made him obey. “Son,” Valentina began quietly, “do you understand why Marina left you?” “She’s just, what’s it called, emotional. Women get like that. She’ll come back after she cools off.” “She won’t come back.” “What do you mean, she won’t come back?!” “She’s tired of being a mother to a grown child.” Kieran jumped up: “Mum! Come on, a child? I work, I bring home money!” “And? What about at home? Are your arms broken? Are your eyes blind?” Kieran paled. “How can you say that? I’m your son!” “That’s exactly why I’m saying it!” Valentina sat down, her hands trembling. “Mum, are you sick?” Kieran asked in alarm. “Sick!” she laughed bitterly. “Sick with love. Blind mother’s love. I thought I was protecting you—but really, I raised an egotist! A thirty-year-old man who is useless without a woman, who thinks the world owes him!” “But…” “No buts!” Valentina interrupted. “You really think Marina should be your second mum—washing, cooking, cleaning up after you? Why?” “I work.” “So does she! And she manages the household too. What do you do? Lie on the sofa and wait to be served!” Kieran’s eyes grew teary. “Mum, but everyone lives like this.” “Not everyone!” Valentina shouted. “Real men help their wives—washing up, cooking, raising kids! But you? You don’t even know where the washing powder is kept!” Kieran sat there, face buried in his hands. “Marina’s right,” Valentina said quietly. “She’s tired of being your mum. And so am I.” “Tired? What do you mean?” “I mean I’m leaving.” Valentina grabbed her bag. “You’re staying here, alone. Try to finally become an adult.” “Mum! Wait! I can’t be alone! Who’ll cook and clean?” “You will!” She barked. “You will—just like any normal, grown adult!” “But I don’t know how!” “You’ll learn! Or you’ll be a lonely, pathetic man-child forever!” Valentina put on her coat. “Mum, don’t go!” Kieran pleaded. “What am I supposed to do on my own?” “What you should have learned to do twenty years ago,” she replied. “Live independently.” She left. Kieran was alone, in a dirty flat, truly by himself for the first time. Alone with reality. He sat on the sofa until midnight. His stomach rumbled, dishes stank, socks littered the floor. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered—and for the first time in thirty years, washed the dishes himself. He botched it—plates slipped, his hands stung from the soap. But he did it. He tried to fry eggs; burned them the first go. Second try—edible. And by morning, he realised: Mum was right. A week passed. Every day, Kieran learned to live for himself—laundry, cleaning, shopping, handling money, planning his time. Turns out, it was hard work. And finally, he realised what Marina put up with. He called her on Saturday. “Hi, Marina?” Her voice was cold. “You’re right,” Kieran said. “I acted like a big kid.” She was silent. “I’ve lived alone for a week now… I understand how hard it was for you. I’m sorry.” Long silence. “You know,” Marina said at last, “your mum rang me yesterday too. Asked my forgiveness—for raising you wrong.” A month later, Marina came home. She returned to a clean flat. Her husband had cooked dinner and greeted her with flowers. “Welcome home,” he said. Valentina Andrews called once a week—asked how they were, but never invited herself over. And one evening, while Kieran did the dishes and Marina made tea, she said: “You know, I like this new life.” “Me too,” he answered, drying his hands with a towel. “Shame it took so long to get here.” “At least we got here,” Marina smiled. And that was the truth.