“You Have to Let Me Know First! I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Even Realise How Expensive It Is to Host Guests?” – My Mother-in-Law Yelled I’m an ordinary working daughter-in-law, nothing special, no crown on my head. My husband and I live in our own flat in the city, which we pay for ourselves – mortgage, bills, work from dawn till dusk. My mother-in-law lives in the countryside, as does my sister-in-law. All would be well, except they’ve decided our flat is their weekend holiday resort. At first it sounded quite sweet: “We’ll pop round on Saturday.” “Just for a bit.” “We are family, after all.” Except “a bit” means overnight stays, “pop round” means arriving with bags, empty pots, and expectant looks, waiting for a feast. Every weekend, it’s the same: after work, I run round shops, cook, clean, lay the table, smile, and spend half the night washing dishes and tidying up. Valentina Ivanovna sits and comments: “Why isn’t there sweetcorn in the salad?” “I like my borscht richer.” “We don’t do things this way back in the village.” And my sister-in-law adds: “Oh, I’m so tired from the journey.” “No dessert?” And never once: “Thank you”, “Can I help?” One day, I snapped and told my husband: “I’m not a housemaid, and I don’t want to serve your family every weekend.” “Maybe we should really do something about this.” That’s when an idea struck me. Next time, mother-in-law calls: “We’re coming round on Saturday.” “Oh, we’ve got plans for the weekend,” I say calmly. “What plans?” “Just our own.” And you know what? We really did go out – not to our ‘plans’, but to Valentina Ivanovna’s. Saturday morning, my husband and I are standing in her yard. My mother-in-law opens the door – and freezes. “What’s this?!” “We’ve come to visit you. Just for a bit.” “You have to let me know first! I didn’t prepare anything! Do you even realise how expensive it is to host guests?!” I look at her and respond quietly: “See, that’s how I live every weekend.” “So you wanted to teach me a lesson?! How rude!” She shouted so much, the neighbours came out to see, and we went home. Funny thing? Ever since – not a single visit without an invitation. No more “we’ll just pop round” and no more weekends in my kitchen. Sometimes, to be heard, you just have to show people what it’s like to be in your shoes. Do you think I did the right thing? What would you do in my situation?

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 1

You cant just turn up without warning, I havent prepared anything! Do you realise how much it costs to host guests? my mother-in-law shouts.

Im the daughter-in-law, nothing special, just a regular working woman with no airs about me. My husband and I live in our own flat in London, and we manage it ourselves mortgage, bills, both of us working all hours, barely a moment to breathe.

My mother-in-law lives out in the countryside, along with my sister-in-law. All would be well, except theyve decided our flat is the perfect spot for a weekend getaway. At first, it sounded quite sweet:

Well pop round on Saturday.

Just for a bit.

Were family, after all.

Yeah, just for a bit somehow means staying the night; pop round really means turning up with bags, empty pots and pans, and hungry looks expecting a feast.

Every weekend is déjà vu: after work, Im dashing round Sainsburys, cooking, tidying up, setting the table, pretending Im delighted, and then half the night scrubbing dishes and cleaning. Valerie, my mother-in-law, sits there and passes comment:

Whys the salad missing sweetcorn?

I like stew more hearty than this.

We never do it this way back in the village.

And my sister-in-law chips in:

Oh, Im exhausted after the train journey.

No pudding tonight?

And never a single thank you or Can I help?

One evening, I finally lost it and said to my husband:

Im not your familys housemaid, and I dont fancy spending every weekend catering for them.

Maybe youre right, we should do something.

That gave me a spark of an idea.

Next time Valerie called:

Were coming to yours on Saturday.

Oh, we actually have plans this weekend, I reply calmly.

What sort of plans?

Just our own.

And do you know what? We really did have plans but our plans were to visit Valerie instead. Saturday morning, my husband and I stood on her front lawn. She opened the door and froze.

Whats all this?!

Weve come to yours. Just for a bit.

You could have at least warned me, I havent made a thing! Do you know how expensive it is to host people?

I looked at her and replied quietly:

You see, thats exactly how Ive been living every weekend.

So youre teaching me a lesson?! The cheek!

She shouted so loud, the neighbours all peeked out, and we went straight home.

And you know the best part? Since then, Ive not had a single uninvited visit. No more well just pop round, no more weekends spent in my kitchen. Sometimes, the only way people understand is if you show them what its like to walk in your shoes.

Do you think I did the right thing? What would you do if you were in my place?

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Heartfelt Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, your thoughtful comments and reviews on my stories, your subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five kitties for all your generous donations. If you enjoy my stories, please share them on social media—it means so much to this author! Late one evening, Lucy returned home from her shift as a nurse in the trauma ward. She spent ages in the shower and finally came into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are cutlets and pasta in the pan,” her mum said, peering at her daughter’s face, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? Why the long face?” “I’m not hungry. I’m already ugly enough—if I eat any more, no one will ever look at me,” Lucy muttered, pouring herself some tea. “Oh, don’t be daft!” her mum fussed. “You’re perfectly fine—clever eyes, a normal nose and lips—don’t put yourself down, Lucy!” “All my friends are married, but not me! Only the bad eggs seem interested in me, and the good ones don’t even glance my way. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” Lucy scowled, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your fate yet, love. Your time will come,” her mum tried to reassure her, but Lucy only grew more agitated. “No, Mum, it’s all the ‘pretty eyes’—mine are tiny. My lips are thin, my nose… just look at it! If I had money I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re poor, so I’ve decided I’ll marry one of those disabled blokes at the clinic—ones who got dumped after accidents. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three already, time’s running out!” “Oh, don’t say that, Lucy. Look at your own dad, his legs aren’t great. I’d hoped for a son-in-law who’d help out at the allotment—now that would really help us. How will we manage otherwise?” her mum blurted out, then hastily tried to explain. “Don’t get me wrong, but not everyone lives the high life—why tie yourself down with a disabled man? Shurley, next door, is a good lad, always had his eye on you! He’s strong, he’d give you healthy children—” “Mum, honestly, not you too. Your Shurley can’t hold down a job, likes a drink, and what would I talk to him about?” Lucy protested. “What do you need to talk about? I’ll tell him to dig the garden, then we’ll have tea, or he’ll pop to the shop. He’s hardworking, you know—maybe it would work out?” her mum pleaded, but Lucy just pushed away her half-finished tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. I thought you saw me as a person, but just like everyone else, you think I’m a freak…” “Lucy, darling—” her mum rushed after her, but Lucy only waved her hand. “That’s it, Mum!” She closed the door to her room right in her mother’s face. Lucy lay awake, thinking of the young man they’d brought in recently, who’d lost his leg below the knee. A building had collapsed, trapping his leg; by the time they pulled him out it was too late to save it. No one visited him—he was young, not thirty yet. At first, after his operation, he’d looked at Lucy with pleading eyes, holding her hand, searching her face for hope. Once he’d understood what had happened, he just stared up at the ceiling in silence. For some reason, she felt sorrier for him than for anyone else. “Do you think I’ll ever walk again?” he asked her quietly during a recent night shift, still not looking at her. “Of course you will—the wound will heal, you’re young!” Lucy replied, determined and confident. “Everyone says that. I’d like to see you manage without a leg—what sort of life is that?” he snapped, turning away from her as if she were at fault. “And what were you doing in that building anyway?” Lucy retorted. “No one to blame but yourself!” “I… I saw something,” he mumbled, turning his face to the wall for the rest of her shift. Lucy often found herself thinking about him—his pale blue eyes like frosty ice chips, his handsome face. It was just so unfair. “You feel sorry for me, don’t you?” he caught her eye one morning. “I can see it. No one could love me now—pity is all I’ll get.” “They don’t love girls like me either, not really, even though my arms and legs are all there. I’m just not right somehow—not even pity, really. Might as well be missing a limb—at least then someone would feel sorry for me,” Lucy shot back, the words coming faster as tears clouded her vision. Misha—his name was Misha—smiled at her for the first time. “You? Not pretty? Are you kidding? I envy the bloke you’ll choose, honestly.” Lucy gazed at him, and, somehow, she believed him. She blurted out the question she’d wanted to ask him for weeks, “And if I chose you, would you marry me? You’re not saying anything, so you must be lying!” She made for the door, face flushed. Misha propped himself up on his elbows, as if to run after her. Realizing he couldn’t, he called out after her, “Marry me, Lucy! I swear, soon nobody will even notice my leg. I’ll recover, just don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy and Misha. She paused in the corridor, close to tears, but felt, with a sudden certainty, that this was HIM. It didn’t matter if her nose was squat or his leg was missing—this was fate. Her time had come, as her mum had always said. Misha tackled rehab with fierce determination. He had a goal: He wanted to marry this wonderful girl and needed to get back on his feet for their future together. He couldn’t stand the thought of Lucy feeling unwanted—she was everything to him. “You’re in love, aren’t you, sweetheart?” her mum asked slyly a few weeks later. “Just look at you glowing!” Lucy didn’t argue—she floated through the house on cloud nine, only wishing that Misha would master his prosthetic soon. They began to stroll for hours—first in the hospital courtyard, then through snowy, festively lit December streets. “That’s the spot where the house collapsed on me,” Misha pointed out one evening. “And what were you doing in there, anyway? You never told me,” Lucy reminded him. “You’ll laugh. I’d spotted a stray puppy—thin, black, with white patches. I thought I’d rescue him, bring him home—didn’t want to live alone…” Suddenly, a scruffy dog crept toward them, wary but hopeful. “That looks like him!” Misha exclaimed, and the dog trotted along with them all the way home. “At least Lucy’s found herself a handsome younger husband—with a flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends joked at her wedding. Lucy’s mum even shed a tear when Misha started calling her “Mum” too. Misha, raised in foster care, had no family at all. But he was kind and loving—and most importantly, he and Lucy truly loved each other. Happiness, at last. Who cared about the allotment? Although, as it turned out, Misha was willing to help with everything, and always did well! For now, Lucy, Misha, and their dog Kuzma live together. But there will soon be four of them—their daughter is on the way… Never give up—otherwise, you might miss out on the happiness that’s just around the corner. After all, life is so wonderfully unpredictable…

I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, Only for Her Father to Go Back to Her Biological Mother Ten Years. For ten years, I raised that child as if she were my own. I changed her nappies when she was little. Took her to lessons every week. Helped her with homework, taught her how to look after herself, hugged her when she had her first heartbreak. And she called me “Mum.” Not “Dad’s wife.” Not “stepmum.” Mum. When her fifteenth birthday was coming up, I’d been planning her party for months. I hired a lovely venue, bought her a dress, organised music and food for loads of guests. I spent all my savings, but I thought she was worth it. She was my child. Or so I believed. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother turned up. The woman who’d been gone for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly she was in our house, emotional, insisting she wanted a new start. I should have known something was wrong. But I believed her. On the day of the party, I arrived early to check on everything. The hall was ready—decorated, set up, just right. As I made sure everything was sorted, someone tapped me on the shoulder. They told me I’d better leave. That this was a “family moment.” That I didn’t belong there. I tried to explain I’d raised this child. That I’d paid for everything. But my words made no difference. The man I’d shared my life with for years just said it was “what’s best for the child.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just left. That night, as I was packing my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. She was there—in her party dress, in tears, exhausted. “I left,” she said. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to tell her she ought to be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there for me.” I held her tightly. She told me that when they thanked the “family” at the party, she asked where I was. They said I’d chosen not to come. So she told the truth—in front of everyone. And left. She stayed with me. We watched films late into the night, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt peaceful. The next day, I got loads of calls. I didn’t answer. A few months later, everything was officially over. I started a new life. She carried on with her studies and chose to stay with me. She keeps that dress in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I wonder: Who really abandoned whom that day?

You’ll Find Your Fate—No Need to Rush, Everything Comes in Its Own Time Polly had an old, rather quirky tradition: every year, just before New Year’s Eve, she’d visit a fortune teller. Living in bustling London made it easy to find a new psychic each time. The thing was, Polly was lonely. No matter how she tried to meet a wonderful young man, it was all in vain. It seemed all the decent guys were already taken… “This year you’ll meet your destiny!” declared the dark-eyed fortune teller, gazing into a sparkling crystal ball. “But where? Where will I meet him?” Polly asked impatiently. “Every year it’s the same promise. The years keep moving on, and I haven’t found my fate yet.” “You came recommended as the strongest psychic in town. I demand to know the exact place! Otherwise, you’ll be getting some very bad reviews from me…” warned Polly. The fortune teller rolled her eyes, realising she was dealing with a difficult customer who wouldn’t leave easily. She knew if she didn’t give Polly an answer now, the girl would camp out all evening, clogging up the queue of others hoping to glimpse their future. “On a train—you’ll meet him on a train!” the psychic intoned, closing her eyes. “I see him clearly… tall, blonde, very handsome. Just like a fairytale prince…” “Oooh!” Polly squealed with excitement. “Which train? And when exactly?” “Right before New Year’s!” The fortune teller played along. “Go to the station. Your heart will guide you to the right ticket window…” “Thank you!” said a delighted Polly, flashing a happy smile. Polly hurried from the psychic’s flat, grabbed a cab to King’s Cross Station, and joined the line at the ticket window. Her spark of enthusiasm dimmed as she stared, bewildered, at the departures board, not sure at all what ticket to buy… “Cashier! Speak up!” barked an annoyed attendant, snapping Polly out of her confusion. “Manchester… For December thirtieth. A compartment seat, please,” Polly mumbled. She imagined herself in a cosy train carriage, sipping tea, when suddenly the door would swing open and in would walk her prince… Once home, Polly began hurriedly packing her essentials. Her train was late that night… She didn’t think about the consequences, or what she’d do alone in a strange city on New Year’s Eve. All she wanted was for the fortune teller’s prediction to come true as quickly as possible. It was so painful to feel unwanted—especially at holiday time. Everyone else, it seemed, was shopping with family, buying gifts for each other… Everyone except her. A few hours later, Polly sat in her compartment with a cup of tea, just as she’d imagined. Now all she had to do was wait for her prince to step through the door. “Good evening!” greeted an elderly lady, hoisting a massive suitcase into the compartment. “Where’s the other seat?” “Here…” said Polly, blinking in confusion and gesturing to the opposite berth. “Are you sure this is your carriage?” “No mistake, dear,” smiled the granny, settling comfortably on the spare seat. “Excuse me, let me through,” Polly stammered, realising she’d made a foolish mistake. “I want to get off—I’ve changed my mind about this trip!” “Wait a moment, let me stow my bag,” replied the old lady, not understanding the drama. “Well… the train’s moving now,” Polly sighed heavily. “What now?” “Why did you want to get off so suddenly? Forget something?” the woman asked. Polly ignored the question and turned to gaze out the window, realising the lady was blameless—it was her own fault for believing in fortune tellers. Meanwhile, Mrs. Smith dug into her bag and produced some warm homemade pasties, offering them to Polly. “Went to visit my daughter,” she explained. “Now I’m rushing home—my son and his fiancée are coming for New Year’s. We’ll celebrate together.” “Lucky you… I’ll probably spend New Year’s at the station,” Polly said sadly. One conversation led to another, and at last Polly poured out her whole story to the kindly old lady. “Oh, you silly thing! Why do you trust these charlatans?” the woman scolded. “You’ll find your fate—there’s no need to rush. Everything has its time…” The next day, Polly stepped onto the platform of a city she’d never seen before, helping her fellow traveller off the train and pausing with no clue what to do next. “Thank you, Polly! Happy New Year to you!” Mrs. Smith said warmly. “And you!” Polly replied, though her smile was tinged with sadness. The woman looked at Polly, wondering how to cheer up the poor girl. She understood that seeing in the New Year at a train station wasn’t the happiest prospect. “Polly, come with me!” Mrs. Smith suddenly suggested. “We’ll decorate the Christmas tree, lay out a festive spread…” “Oh—no, I shouldn’t,” Polly stammered, embarrassed. “And sitting in the station is better?” the old lady smiled. “Come along, it’s settled!” So Polly accepted the invitation. Mrs. Smith was right—a blizzard had burst outside and wandering the station made no sense. “Sasha and Lisa are already home,” Mrs. Smith beamed. Sasha spotted his mum arriving in a taxi, and hurried to the lift to take the heavy bag from her. “Sasha, darling! And I’m not alone—I brought a guest. This is the daughter of an old friend of mine, Polly,” Mrs. Smith winked at Polly. “Brilliant!” Sasha smiled. “Come in, please, Polly!” Polly blushed when she saw the tall, handsome blonde. She realised he matched the very image she’d imagined on the train. Fate, it seemed, was playing tricks on her again… “And where’s Lisa?” his mother asked. “Mum, Lisa’s gone, and she won’t be coming back. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Sasha frowned. “All right…” his mother murmured, unsure. That evening they all sat down together, seeing out the old year. “Polly, how long will you stay with us?” Sasha asked, smiling as he passed her another helping of salad. “Not long—I’ll be off in the morning,” Polly replied, somewhat sadly. She found herself not wanting to leave the warmth of this home so soon. Polly felt as though she’d known Mrs. Smith and Sasha all her life. “I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry!” Mrs. Smith protested. “Polly, stay a while longer!” “Really, Polly, stay! We’ve got a fantastic ice rink, we can visit tomorrow evening. Don’t rush off,” Sasha suggested. “All right, you’ve convinced me,” Polly smiled. “With pleasure, I’ll stay.” The following New Year’s, there were four at the table: Mrs. Smith, Sasha, Polly—and little Arthur… Do you believe in New Year’s miracles?