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— Needless to Say, This Is All My Fault! — My Boyfriend’s Sister Sobs, “I Never Imagined Anything Like This Could Happen! Now I Don’t Know What to Do Next or How to Save Face.” A Few Years Ago, My Boyfriend’s Sister Got Married. After the Wedding, the Newlyweds Decided to Live with the Husband’s Mum. His Parents Own a Spacious Three-Bedroom Flat and Only Have One Son. “You Can Have All but One Room—That’s Mine!” Declared the Mother-in-Law. “We’re All Well-Mannered People, So I’m Sure We’ll Get Along Just Fine.” “We Can Always Move Out!” The Husband Told His Wife. “There’s No Harm in Trying to Live with Mum. If it Doesn’t Work, We Can Always Rent Our Own Place…” And That’s Exactly What Happened, because Living Together Turned Out to Be Quite the Challenge. Both Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Tried, but Things Got Worse Every Day. Old Grievances Boiled Over, and Arguments Became More Frequent. “You Said If We Can’t Live Together, We’d Move Out!” The Wife Cried. “Well, Isn’t That a Bit Drastic?” The Mother-in-Law Smirked. “These Are Trivial Matters—No Reason to Pack Your Bags and Leave.” Exactly a Year After the Wedding, the Wife Became Pregnant and Gave Birth to a Healthy Baby Boy. The Grandma Quit Her Old Job Around the Same Time and Couldn’t Find Another, as No Employer Wanted Someone Nearing Retirement Age. That Meant Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Were Cooped Up Together 24/7—with Nowhere to Go—And the Tension Just Got Worse. The Husband Simply Shrugged and Listened to Complaints; He Was the Family’s Only Breadwinner. “We Can’t Leave My Mother on Her Own Now, She Has No Income. I Can’t Abandon Her, and There’s No Way I Can Afford Our Own Flat and Still Support Mum. Once She Finds a Job, We’ll Move Out!” But the Young Wife’s Patience Ran Out. She Packed Up Her Things and Her Son’s, and Moved Back in With Her Own Mum, Telling Her Husband She Wouldn’t Step Foot in His Mother’s House Again. If Family Mattered to Him, He’d Have to Sort Something Out. She Was So Sure He’d Rush to Get Their Family Back Together. But She Was Completely Wrong. Three Months Have Passed Since She Moved Back Home, and He Hasn’t Made the Slightest Effort to Bring Her Back. He Still Lives With His Mum, Communicates with His Wife and Child via Video Calls After Work, and Visits on Weekends at His Mother-in-Law’s House. He Now Gets Attention and Care from Both Women. Plus, Grandma Genuinely Pities Her Son, Now Left by His Angry Wife, and the Husband Doesn’t Even Need to Worry About Raising His Child. The Husband’s the Big Winner! And the Mother-in-Law Must Be Loving It—She Really Hasn’t Lost Anything! Meanwhile, the Young Wife Is Far From Happy. She Loves Her Husband Deeply, Even Though She Knows He Isn’t Acting Right. “What Did You Expect When You Left?” Her Husband Says, “You Can Come Back If You Want.” Chances Are, the Wife Has No Intentions of Leaving Her Mum’s and Renting a Flat—Understandably So, as She’s on Maternity Leave and Can’t Afford It. Is This Really the End of Their Family? What Do You Think—Does She Stand Any Chance of Returning to Her Mother-in-Law’s House and Saving Face Out of This Mess?

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It goes without saying that this is all my fault! Jane sobs, her voice trembling with anguish. I never imagined things would turn out like this. Now I cant see a way forward. I havent the faintest idea how to fix it all without losing my dignity.

Jane, my boyfriends sister, married a few years ago.

After the wedding, it was decided that the newlyweds would move in with her husbands mum. His parents had a spacious three-bedroom flat in Oxford, and he was their only child.

Ill keep one bedroom for myself, and the rest is yours! declared her mother-in-law with a knowing smile. Were all civilised peopleIm sure well get on splendidly.

We can always move out if it doesnt work, her husband reassured her later. I dont see any harm in trying to live under my mums roof. If it proves too difficult, we can always find our own place to rent…

That was exactly what they did. But it became clear that sharing the flat was anything but easy. Both the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law gave it their best, but tensions steadily mounted, resentment brewing until it finally bubbled over in frequent rows.

You said we could leave if it became impossible to live together! Jane cried one evening, her face streaked with tears.

Well, havent we managed so far? her mother-in-law replied, a glint of superiority in her voice. You cant just pack your bags over trivial matters.

Exactly a year after the wedding, Jane fell pregnant and gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

The timing couldnt have been worse. Her mother-in-law had just left her job and struggled to find new workno one wanted to hire a woman approaching retirement age. So Jane and her mother-in-law ended up at home together, day in and day out, with neither escape nor reprieve. The tension thickened, poisoning the flat with silent hostilities.

Janes husband simply shrugged, listening to their complaints as he returned from his jobthe sole breadwinner.

We cant leave my mum now, he insisted. She hasnt the means to support herself, and I cant afford rent for us and give her a hand as well. Once she lands a new job, well move out. Until then, we have to be patient.

But Janes patience was exhausted. One morning, she gathered her own things and her babys, and moved back in with her mother. As she left, she told her husband, Ill never set foot in your mothers house again. If your family matters to you, youll find a way.

Jane was sure her husband would value his family enough to immediately try to bring her back, but she was utterly mistaken.

Three months have now passed with Jane living at her mums place. Her husband hasnt made any move to win her back. Instead, he lives comfortably with his mother, rings Jane up by video chat in the evenings after work, and visits her and their son at her mothers house on weekends.

He gets care and attention from both women, his mother genuinely dotes on the son that Janes rage left behind, and, for the rest, he neednt bother about the child much at all. The husband, in his own way, has wonand his mother probably hasnt really lost anything either.

But Jane is tormented by it all. She still loves her husband fiercely, even though she knows he hasnt acted fairly.

What did you think would happen when you left? her husband asks, almost indifferent. You can come back if you like.

The truth is, Jane likely has no intention of leaving her own mothers house or finding a flat to renton parental leave, she simply doesnt have the means.

Is this really the end for their family?

Do you think Jane even stands a chance of returning to her mother-in-laws homeof reclaiming some dignity after everything thats happened?

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Max kept his regret for the hasty divorce to himself—wise men turn lovers into special occasions, but he made his into a wife Maxwell Peters’ uplifted mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered his flat. At home, predictability greeted him: slippers ready for his feet, the appetising smell of dinner, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything spotless. But it didn’t move him; after all, his wife was always home—what else is there for an older English lady to do all day? Bake mince pies, knit socks (alright, he exaggerated about the socks, but the point remained). Marina appeared with her usual smile: “Tired, love? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze, standing in trousers and her house top, hair tucked under a scarf—the way she always cooked. The professional habit of tidying her hair: she’d spent her life as a cook. Eyes lightly pencilled, a bit of gloss—she was always tidy, but today it struck Max as brash. 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He invited her to his office for a chat and, with her, drifted the scent of delicate perfume and a wave of youthful freshness. Soft features framed by light curls, bright blue eyes meeting his confidently. Juicy lips, a mole on her cheek—was she really thirty? He’d have guessed 25. She was divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. Oddly—he thought: “Good.” Chatting, he mildly flirted, saying, “Now you’ve got yourself an old boss.” Asya fluttered long lashes and replied with words he kept replaying now. His wife, over the offence, soon appeared by his chair with her ritual chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always picks the worst time!”—but drank, not without pleasure. Suddenly, he wondered: what is the young, pretty Asya doing now? And an old, forgotten feeling stabbed through him: jealousy. *** After work, Asya popped into Tesco for cheese, a baguette, and some kefir for supper. At home she was neutral, no smile, hugging her son Vasily more by routine than tenderness when he ran up. Dad tinkered in the balcony workshop, Mum cooked. Putting her shopping away, Asya announced she had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed. Really, she felt bleak. Ever since she divorced Vasily’s dad years before, Asya had only struggled fruitlessly to become someone’s “main woman.” All the good ones turned out solidly married and only wanted something easy. The last one she’d dated from work seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years. He even rented a flat for her (for his convenience, really). But when things got serious, he insisted not just on breaking up, but that she must immediately quit her job. He even found her a new position. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Mum pitied her, Dad said that at least the boy should grow up with a mother—not just grandparents. *** Marina, Max’s wife, long suspected he was struggling with a mid-life crisis. He had everything, but something vital was missing. She feared to imagine what “vital” could mean for him. She tried to soften things—making his favourite food, staying pretty, not pushing for deep conversation (though she dearly missed it). She distracted herself with their grandson, the garden, but Max was always glum, brooding. So, perhaps because they both craved change in their lives, Max and Asya’s affair flared instantly. Two weeks after she started, he asked her for lunch—then gave her a lift home from work. He touched her hand; she turned to him with a glowing face. “I don’t want to say goodbye. Shall we go to my country cottage?” Max said huskily. Asya nodded, and the car sped off. Fridays, Max finished work an hour early, but only at 9pm, the worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max had no idea how accurately he’d described the future—“talking” was pointless now. Marina understood: after 32 years of marriage, one can’t burn with passion forever. But he was so much a part of her that losing him meant losing herself. Let him scowl, grumble, and act up, so long as he stayed—right there, in his favourite armchair, having dinner, breathing beside her. Desperate for words to save her life (really, just her life), Marina didn’t sleep till morning. Out of despair, she fetched the wedding album: young, so beautiful, so much ahead! Many had wished to call her their own. Her husband should remember this. She hoped he’d see those fragments of their old happiness and realise—some things cannot be thrown away. But he came back only on Sunday, and she saw: it was over. Before her, a different Max. He was charged with adrenaline; awkwardness and shame were gone. Unlike her, fearing change, he craved and embraced it. Even planned it. He spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent. From now on, Marina should consider herself free. He’d file for divorce tomorrow. Himself. The son’s family was to move in with her—according to the law: the double-bedroom flat belonged to Max, inherited. Family games. The move into a three-bedroom with Mum wouldn’t worsen conditions for the young family—and she’d have someone to fuss over. The car: of course, his. As for the cottage—he’d keep rights to use it. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unattractive, but she couldn’t hold back tears. They caught in her throat, making speech garbled. She begged him to stop, look back, think of his health, at least… That last bit infuriated him. He approached, whispered, almost shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” *** It would be foolish to claim Asya loved Maxim—she accepted his proposal on their very first night together at the cottage. Being a wife was appealing; she also found great comfort in showing her ex-lover, who’d rejected her, that she’d moved on. She was tired of living in her parents’ flat with Dad’s strict ways. She wanted stability. Maxim could give her that. Not a bad deal, really. Despite nearing sixty, he didn’t look like a grandad—fit, sharp, still a department head. Intelligent, pleasant, even considerate in bed. She liked that there were no rented flats, no cash struggles, no theft. All pluses? Well, she had doubts over his age. After a year together, disappointment grew. She still felt young, craved excitement—frequent, not once a year and dignified. She loved concerts, dreamed of waterparks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, meetups with friends. Her youth and energy meant juggling all that with housework and family was easy. Even her son, now living with her, didn’t slow her down. But Max was clearly flagging. At work, the expert legal manager handled endless tasks briskly; at home, she got a tired man who mostly wanted quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre, beach—allowed, but only in small doses. He was open to intimacy, but then straight to sleep—even at 9pm. Plus, she had to account for his sensitive stomach—no fried food, sausages, supermarket ready meals. The ex-wife had spoiled him. He even felt nostalgic at times for her steamed meals. Asya cooked to suit her son, couldn’t understand why pork cutlets made his side ache. She couldn’t memorise his tablets list either—surely a grown man could sort his own meds. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son as a companion, choosing activities to suit him, teamed up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live faster. They didn’t work together anymore—the directors found it unseemly, and Asya switched to a notary office. She felt relieved not to spend all day with her husband—he was starting to remind her of her father. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Was that too little or just enough for two people to be happy? Max’s sixtieth loomed, and Asya craved a lavish celebration. But her husband booked a table in a familiar, modest restaurant, one he’d visited often. He seemed bored, but that’s normal at his age, she thought. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends from the Marina years—it was awkward to invite them; family was far away, and they hadn’t understood his marriage to a much younger woman. His own son had cut him off. But doesn’t a father have the right to live his life as he chooses? Honestly, when marrying, he’d thought “choosing” would look rather different. That first year with Asya was a honeymoon. He enjoyed being in public with her, encouraging her to spend (not too much), keep up with friends, do fitness classes. He coped with concerts, wild movies, made Asya and her son co-owners of his flat. Later, he even gave her his half of the cottage, previously shared with Marina. Meanwhile, Asya, behind his back, persuaded Marina to sell her half, threatening to offload it to unsavoury buyers. Buying it (of course with Max’s money), she registered the place solely to herself. Her rationale: the river, the woodland—perfect for children. Now, for summer, Asya’s parents and her son moved in at the cottage. In fairness, this worked well: Max was not fond of the boy, who was noisy and lively. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s offspring. The old family took offence. After getting the money, they sold their own three-bed and went separate ways—his son’s family found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Max didn’t care how they lived. Family games. *** Now, Max’s sixtieth: so many wished him health, happiness, love. But he was missing the spark. Each year brought that familiar discontent. He loved his young wife, sure. But couldn’t keep pace with her, that was it. And to “press down”, to rule her, didn’t work. She’d smile and live in her own way. Never crossed a line—he could feel it, but it frustrated him. If only he could transplant his ex-wife’s soul into Asya! Someone who’d bring him chamomile tea, tuck him in if he dozed off. Max would love slow walks in the park together, late-night kitchen chats—but Asya couldn’t bear his long stories, and seemed to be bored in bed now. He grew anxious, which didn’t help. Max kept inside his regret at rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into rare treats; he’d made his into a wife. Asya, with her temperament, maybe ten more years would stay the playful filly. But even at forty, she’d still be much younger than him. That gulf would only widen. If he was lucky, perhaps life would end quickly—but if not? Such “un-festive” thoughts pounded, making his heart race. He scanned for Asya—there she was, dancing, radiant. Happy, though, of course—it’s wonderful to wake with her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing the moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, longing for air, to shake off the gloom. But colleagues flocked over. Uncertain how to deal with the growing pain inside, he bolted for the waiting taxi and urged the driver to hurry. He’d decide the destination later. He yearned for somewhere he was truly appreciated—where arriving meant someone was waiting just for him. Where his time was cherished, he could relax, never feel old or weak or foolish. He rang his son, pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. Receiving a bit of well-earned scorn, he insisted—this was a matter of life and death. He let slip it was his birthday, after all. His son softened slightly and said his mum might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. The surname’s—something funny, Bulkovich?” “Bulkevich,” Max corrected, jealousy flaring. Yes, he’d fancied her once—many did. She was beautiful, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkevich, but Max stole her away. Long ago, but yesterday enough to feel more real than life with Asya. His son asked, “Why do you want it, Dad?” The word “Dad” startled Max, and he realised how much he missed them all. So he answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” Son gave him the new address. The driver stopped. Max got out—he didn’t want to speak with Marina in front of witnesses. He checked the time: nearly nine—she was an owl, who also was his lark. He buzzed at the door. But the answer was a muffled male voice—not his ex-wife’s. She was busy. “What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” Max inquired, nervous. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband—even now! You must be Mr Bulkewich!” Max snapped. “‘Mr’? You’re her ex-husband, so you have no rights to bother Marina,” came the reply. Didn’t bother explaining: the friend was just taking a bath. “What, old flames never rust?” Max asked, gearing up for a long spat with Bulkewich. But he only replied, “No, they turn to silver.” Max never got through that door…
06
— Dad, please meet my future wife—and your daughter-in-law—Barbara! Boris beamed with happiness. — Who?! — Professor Roman Philipson, Doctor of Science, asked in surprise. — If this is a joke, it’s not very funny! He eyed the “daughter-in-law’s” rough fingers with distaste, especially her nails. It seemed to him this girl had never heard of soap and water—how else to explain that ingrained dirt under her nails? “My God! How lucky my Lara didn’t live to see this disgrace. We tried so hard to teach Boris the best manners,” raced through his mind. — I’m not joking! — Boris declared defiantly. — Barbara will be staying with us, and in three months we’re getting married. If you won’t participate in your son’s wedding, I’ll manage without you! — Hello! — smiled Barbara, striding confidently to the kitchen. — Here are pies, raspberry jam, dried mushrooms… — she listed foods pulled from a well-worn tote. Roman Philipson clutched his heart as Barbara ruined his pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth with spilled jam. — Boris! Come to your senses! If you’re doing this just to spite me—it’s not worth it… It’s too cruel! What backwater did you bring this uncouth girl from? I won’t let her live under my roof! — the professor cried in despair. — I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live in my home! — Boris smirked mockingly. Roman Philipson knew his son was tormenting him. Not wishing to argue further, he silently retreated to his room. Relations with his son had changed drastically since his wife’s death. Boris had become unruly, dropped out of university, spoke rudely to his father, and led a wild, reckless life. Roman Philipson hoped his son would change—become thoughtful and kind once more. But each day Boris grew farther apart. And now, Boris had brought this village girl home, knowing full well his father would never approve… Soon Boris and Barbara were married. Roman Philipson refused to attend the wedding and accept the unwelcome daughter-in-law. He was bitter that the place of Lara—the perfect homemaker, wife, and mother—was now filled by this uneducated girl who struggled to string two sentences together. Barbara seemed oblivious to her father-in-law’s dislike, trying to please him—but only making matters worse. He saw no good in her, only poor manners and ignorance… After his stint as the model husband, Boris resumed drinking and partying. His father often overheard their quarrels, secretly pleased—hoping Barbara would leave the house for good. One day, Barbara burst in crying. — Roman Philipson! Boris wants a divorce, and he’s throwing me out in the street. Plus, I’m expecting a child! — Why out on the street? You’re not homeless.… Go back to wherever you came from. Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship, — the man said, inwardly rejoicing that he’d finally be rid of the annoying daughter-in-law. Barbara packed in despair, unable to understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or why Boris had treated her like a pet then cast her out. So what if she was just a village girl? She had a heart and feelings too… *** Eight years passed… Roman Philipson was living in a nursing home. In recent years, the elderly man had grown frail, and Boris had quickly took the opportunity to send him away—relieving himself of any further trouble. Resigned, the old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. He’d taught thousands of students love, respect, and care. He still received letters of thanks from former pupils. But he’d failed to raise his own son to be a decent person… — Roman, you have guests, — his roommate said, returning from a walk. — Who? Boris? — the old man blurted out, though deep down he knew it was impossible; his son would never visit—his bitterness toward his father ran deep… — Don’t know. The nurse told me to come get you. What are you sitting there for? Run along! — his roommate smiled. Roman took his cane and slowly made his way out of the small, stuffy room. Descending the stairs, he saw her from afar—and instantly recognised her, though it had been years since their last meeting. — Hello, Barbara, — he said softly, head bowed. Perhaps he still felt guilt over not defending that sincere, simple girl all those years ago… — Roman Philipson?! — the rosy-cheeked woman was startled. — You’ve changed so much… Are you ill? — A little…, — he smiled sadly. — How did you find me? — Boris told me. You know, he refuses to speak to his son. But the boy keeps asking to visit his dad—and his granddad… Ivan’s not to blame that you won’t acknowledge him. He desperately needs family. It’s just the two of us…, — Barbara said with a trembling voice. — Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have disturbed you. — Wait! — the old man pleaded. — How old is Ivan now? I remember your last photo—he was only three. — He’s just at the entrance. Shall I call him? — Barbara asked, hesitantly. — Of course, dear, bring him in! — Roman Philipson brightened. In came a ginger-haired boy—Boris’s spitting image in miniature. Ivan hesitantly approached the grandfather he’d never met. — Hello, sonny! You’ve grown so much…, — the old man teared up, embracing his grandson. They talked for ages, strolling through the autumn park beside the nursing home. Barbara spoke of her tough life—about losing her mother young and raising her son and farm alone. — Forgive me, Barbara. I owe you a great apology. For all my learning and education, it’s only now I understand—people should be valued not for wit and manners, but for their sincerity and kindness, — the old man said. — Roman Philipson, we’d like to make a suggestion, — Barbara smiled, nervous and stammering. — Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’s so important to have family close by. — Granddad, come on! We can go fishing together and hunt mushrooms in the forest… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room at home! — Ivan pleaded, not letting go of his grandfather’s hand. — Alright! — Roman Philipson smiled. — I missed my chance with Boris, but maybe I can give you what I couldn’t give your father. Besides, I’ve never been to the countryside—maybe I’ll like it! — You’ll love it! — Ivan laughed.
012
While Waiting for the Bus: A London Autumn, a Chance Encounter, and How Missing the Number 24 Changed Everything
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Recently I Visited My Daughter-in-Law, and Was Shocked to Find Another Woman Responsible for the Housework and Cleaning I Always Told My Son That His Future Wife’s Financial Status Didn’t Matter to Us—So He Happily Married Mary, Who Never Had Much Money and Was Generally Spoiled by Life After the Wedding, the Kids Moved into the House We Bought and Renovated for Them, and My Husband and I Have Been Helping Them Financially and Bringing Them Groceries—My Daughter-in-Law Just Had My Grandchild, Isn’t Working Right Now, and My Son’s Job Isn’t Amazing or High-Paying So Imagine How I Felt When I Walked In, Only to Find a Stranger Cleaning the House—My Daughter-in-Law Hired a Housekeeper, but She Doesn’t Lift a Finger Herself! How Can She Afford This? Doesn’t She Have Any Shame? I Drove the Cleaner Away—After All, It’s Still My House, and She Was Cleaning with My Money! Where Would My Son and Daughter-in-Law Get the Money for a Housekeeper Anyway? I Waited for My Daughter-in-Law, Who Was Out with My Grandchild, and Didn’t Delay the Conversation When She Returned—She Told Me, “Mum, I Became a Blogger During My Maternity Leave and Actually Earn a Good Income, Plus I Really Need the Cleaner Since I Work So Much!” But What Even Is a Blogger? Is That a Real Job? Can You Really Earn Money Like That? I Don’t Want a Stranger Cleaning My House. I Told Her, “If You Have So Much Money, Pay Me Instead and I’ll Clean—No Need for Strangers Here!” She Just Mumbled and Went Off to Feed My Grandson—I Waited for My Son to Tell Him the Family News, and He Said, “Mum, I Knew About the Cleaner. Mary Works Very Hard, and I Want to Spend Time with Our Son After Work—So I Have No Objection.” I Just Don’t Understand Young People—How Can They Afford This? I Rushed Off to My Husband, and You Know What He Said? “You Shouldn’t Interfere in the Young Couple’s Lives! They’re Adults—Let Them Sort It Out Themselves!” I Haven’t Been This Angry in Ages—I’m Convinced I’m Doing and Saying the Right Thing! What Do You Think?
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— Needless to Say, This Is All My Fault! — My Boyfriend’s Sister Sobs, “I Never Imagined Anything Like This Could Happen! Now I Don’t Know What to Do Next or How to Save Face.” A Few Years Ago, My Boyfriend’s Sister Got Married. After the Wedding, the Newlyweds Decided to Live with the Husband’s Mum. His Parents Own a Spacious Three-Bedroom Flat and Only Have One Son. “You Can Have All but One Room—That’s Mine!” Declared the Mother-in-Law. “We’re All Well-Mannered People, So I’m Sure We’ll Get Along Just Fine.” “We Can Always Move Out!” The Husband Told His Wife. “There’s No Harm in Trying to Live with Mum. If it Doesn’t Work, We Can Always Rent Our Own Place…” And That’s Exactly What Happened, because Living Together Turned Out to Be Quite the Challenge. Both Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Tried, but Things Got Worse Every Day. Old Grievances Boiled Over, and Arguments Became More Frequent. “You Said If We Can’t Live Together, We’d Move Out!” The Wife Cried. “Well, Isn’t That a Bit Drastic?” The Mother-in-Law Smirked. “These Are Trivial Matters—No Reason to Pack Your Bags and Leave.” Exactly a Year After the Wedding, the Wife Became Pregnant and Gave Birth to a Healthy Baby Boy. The Grandma Quit Her Old Job Around the Same Time and Couldn’t Find Another, as No Employer Wanted Someone Nearing Retirement Age. That Meant Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Were Cooped Up Together 24/7—with Nowhere to Go—And the Tension Just Got Worse. The Husband Simply Shrugged and Listened to Complaints; He Was the Family’s Only Breadwinner. “We Can’t Leave My Mother on Her Own Now, She Has No Income. I Can’t Abandon Her, and There’s No Way I Can Afford Our Own Flat and Still Support Mum. Once She Finds a Job, We’ll Move Out!” But the Young Wife’s Patience Ran Out. She Packed Up Her Things and Her Son’s, and Moved Back in With Her Own Mum, Telling Her Husband She Wouldn’t Step Foot in His Mother’s House Again. If Family Mattered to Him, He’d Have to Sort Something Out. She Was So Sure He’d Rush to Get Their Family Back Together. But She Was Completely Wrong. Three Months Have Passed Since She Moved Back Home, and He Hasn’t Made the Slightest Effort to Bring Her Back. He Still Lives With His Mum, Communicates with His Wife and Child via Video Calls After Work, and Visits on Weekends at His Mother-in-Law’s House. He Now Gets Attention and Care from Both Women. Plus, Grandma Genuinely Pities Her Son, Now Left by His Angry Wife, and the Husband Doesn’t Even Need to Worry About Raising His Child. The Husband’s the Big Winner! And the Mother-in-Law Must Be Loving It—She Really Hasn’t Lost Anything! Meanwhile, the Young Wife Is Far From Happy. She Loves Her Husband Deeply, Even Though She Knows He Isn’t Acting Right. “What Did You Expect When You Left?” Her Husband Says, “You Can Come Back If You Want.” Chances Are, the Wife Has No Intentions of Leaving Her Mum’s and Renting a Flat—Understandably So, as She’s on Maternity Leave and Can’t Afford It. Is This Really the End of Their Family? What Do You Think—Does She Stand Any Chance of Returning to Her Mother-in-Law’s House and Saving Face Out of This Mess?