You Should Give Notice—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?! – My Mother-in-Law Shouted I’m a Daughter-in-Law: Ordinary, Working, and Unpretentious. My Husband and I Own Our London Flat, Juggling the Mortgage, Council Tax, and Jobs from Dawn to Dusk. My Mother-in-Law Lives in the Countryside, Along with My Sister-in-Law. It Would Be Fine if They Hadn’t Decided Our Flat Was Their Weekend Retreat. At First, It Seemed Sweet: “We’ll Pop By on Saturday.” “Just a Quick Visit.” “We’re Family After All.” But “Quick Visit” Means Staying the Night; “Pop By” Comes with Bags, Empty Pans, and Eyes Expecting a Feast. Every Weekend It’s The Same: After Work I Dash to the Shops, Cook, Clean, Lay the Table, Smile, and Spend Half the Night Washing Up. Valentina Sits and Gives Her Comments: “Why Is There No Sweetcorn in the Salad?” “I Prefer My Soup Thicker.” “We Don’t Do It Like This in the Country.” And My Sister-in-Law Adds: “Oh, I’m So Exhausted from the Journey.” “And No Dessert?” And Not Once: “Thank You,” or “Can I Help?” One Day I’d Had Enough and Told My Husband: “I’m Not a Housemaid, and I Don’t Want to Spend Every Weekend Waiting on Your Family.” “Maybe We Should Really Do Something About It,” He Agreed. Then I Had an Idea. Next Time, My Mother-in-Law Called: “We’re Coming Over on Saturday.” “Oh, We’ve Got Plans for the Weekend,” I Said Calmly. “What Plans?” “Just Our Own.” And Guess What? This Time We Really Did Have Plans—We Went to Valentina’s Place. On Saturday Morning, My Husband and I Were Standing in Her Garden. Valentina Opened the Door—Stunned. “What’s Going On?!” “We’ve Come to Visit. Just For a Short While.” “You Should Give Notice—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?!” I Looked Her in the Eye and Said Calmly: “See, This Is My Life Every Weekend.” “So You Wanted to Teach Me a Lesson?! How Rude!” She Made Such a Fuss, The Whole Neighbourhood Stared and We Went Home. And You Know What? From That Day On—No More Visits Without an Invitation. No More “We’ll Just Pop By” or Weekend Marathons in My Kitchen. Sometimes, If You Want to Be Heard, You Just Need to Show People How It Feels to Be in Your Shoes. Did I Do the Right Thing? What Would You Do in My Place?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 2

You ought to have let me knowyou know how much it costs to host guests! my mother-in-law was shrieking.

Im just a normal daughter-in-law: working, no airs or graces. My husband and I struggle along in our own little flat in London, slogging through a mortgage, council tax, and endless shifts at work.

His mother lives out in a village, with his sister nearby as well. All would have been well, really, except they decided our flat was the perfect spot for a weekend retreat. At first, it sounded quite endearing:

Well just pop round on Saturday!

Wont stay long, promise.

Were family, after all.

You know how that goeswont stay long means sleepover; pop round comes with bulging carrier bags, empty casserole dishes, and expectant faces hoping for a feast.

Every weekend, the same routine: after a week of work, I race round the supermarket, cook, clean, set the table, force a smile. Then Im up half the night scrubbing pots and tidying up. Mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, will sit and pass comment:

Why isnt there any sweetcorn in the salad?

I prefer my soup a bit heartier.

You wouldnt catch us doing it like this in the country.

And then the sister-in-law, Susan, chimes in:

Oh, its been an exhausting journey up.

Is there nothing for pudding?

Not a single thank you or Want a hand with anything?

One day Id had enough and said to my husband, Peter:

Im not the household help, and I wont spend my weekends waiting on your family.

Maybe we really should do something about this, he mumbled.

Then, as if dreamed, an idea danced into my head.

Next weekend, the phone rings. Margaret says:

Were coming to yours on Saturday!

Oh, weve got plans, I reply, feeling eerily calm.

What sort of plans?

Our own sort.

But heres the twist: instead of mysterious plans, we turned upat Margaret Williams house. Early Saturday, Peter and I stood on her doorstep as though wed fallen out of the sky. Margaret opened the door and froze, stupefied.

Whats going on?!

We thought wed pop in! Just for a bit.

You ought to have let me knowI havent prepared anything! You know how much it costs to host guests!

I looked right at her and replied quietly:

You see, thats how I live every weekend.

So you wanted to teach me a lesson? How dare you!

Her voice echoed across the village green, neighbours peered out from behind their net curtains, and we made a quick exit back to our flat.

The strangest thing? After that, there wasnt a single unannounced visit. No more well just pop by weekends lost to my kitchen. Sometimes, to be understood, you must pull others into your strange shoeseven if its only for a surreal Saturday.

What do you reckon, did I do the right thing? How would you have handled it, drifting through this odd dream of family duty?

“— Michael, we’ve been waiting five years. Five. The doctors said we’d never have children. But now… — Michael, look! — I froze by the garden gate, unable to believe my eyes. My husband awkwardly stepped inside, bent beneath the weight of a bucket of fish. The cool July morning chilled to the bone, but what I saw on the bench made me forget the cold. — What’s there? — Michael set the bucket down and came over. On our old bench by the fence stood a woven basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded blanket, lay a child. His huge brown eyes stared straight at me—without fear, without curiosity, just stared. — My God, — Michael breathed, — where did he come from? I gently ran my finger through his dark hair. The little boy didn’t stir, didn’t cry—just blinked. In his tiny fist was a piece of paper. I carefully unfolded his fingers and read the note: “Please help him. I just can’t. I’m sorry.” — We need to call the police, — Michael frowned, scratching his head, — and let the council know. But I’d already scooped the baby into my arms, holding him close. He smelled of dusty roads and unwashed hair. His dungarees were worn, but clean. — Anna, — Michael looked at me in worry, — we can’t just take him. — Yes, we can, — I met his gaze. — Michael, we waited five years. Five. The doctors said we’d never have children. But now… — But there are laws, papers… The parents might come back, — he protested. I shook my head: They won’t. I can feel it—they won’t. The boy suddenly smiled wide at me, as if he understood our conversation. And that was enough. Through friends, we arranged for guardianship and paperwork. Nineteen ninety-three was a hard year. Within a week, we noticed something odd. The boy I named Eli didn’t react to sounds. At first, we thought he was just thoughtful, lost in his own world. But when the neighbour’s tractor rattled by the window and Eli didn’t so much as flinch, my heart clenched. — Michael, he can’t hear, — I whispered one night as I laid Eli in an old cradle passed down from my nephew. Michael stared long at the fire, then sighed: We’ll take him to Dr. Nicholas at Riverside. The doctor examined Eli, then shook his head: Congenital deafness. Complete. Surgery isn’t possible—not in this case. I cried all the way home. Michael was silent, his knuckles white on the wheel. That night, after Eli was asleep, he fetched a bottle from the cupboard. — Michael, maybe don’t… — No, — he poured half a glass and downed it in one. — We’re not giving him up. — Who? — Him. We won’t send him away, — he said firmly. — We’ll cope ourselves. — But how? How do we teach him how to…? Michael cut me off with a gesture: — If needs be—you’ll learn. You’re a teacher. You’ll figure something out. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking: “How do you teach a child who can’t hear? How do you give him everything he needs?” By dawn it hit me: he has eyes, hands, a heart. That’s enough. The next day I took out a notebook and started a plan. Find books. Invent ways to teach without sounds. From that moment, our lives changed forever. That autumn, Eli turned ten. He sat by the window, drawing sunflowers. In his sketchbook they weren’t just flowers—they danced, swirling in their own secret ballet. — Michael, look, — I touched my husband as I entered the room. — Yellow again. He’s happy today. Over the years, Eli and I learned to understand each other. I mastered fingerspelling, then sign language. Michael was slower with it, but the most important words—“son”, “love”, “pride”—he learned straight away. There was no school for children like Eli, so I taught him at home. He picked up reading quickly: alphabet, syllables, words. He learned to count even faster. But most of all—he painted. Everywhere, on everything he could find. First, his finger on steamy window glass. Then on a board Michael patched together for him. Later—paints on paper and canvas. I ordered paints from town by post, scrimping on myself so Eli could have good materials. — That mute of yours scribbling away again? — our neighbour Sam snorted from over the fence. — What good will it do? Michael raised his head from the vegetable patch: — What use are you, Sam, besides flapping your tongue? It wasn’t easy with the village folk. They didn’t understand us. They teased Eli, called him names. Especially—the children. One day he came home with his shirt torn and a scratch on his cheek. Quietly, he showed me who did it—Colin, the son of the village boss. I wept, tending his wound. Eli wiped my tears with his fingers and smiled, as if to say don’t worry, it’s fine. That night Michael disappeared. He came back late, didn’t say a word, but there was a bruised eye. After that, nobody bothered Eli again. By his teens, Eli’s artwork changed. A style appeared—strange, as if from another world. He painted a world without sound, but in those works was such depth it took your breath away. Every wall in the house was covered with his paintings. Once, an inspection team came from the council to check my home schooling. A stern-faced lady entered the house, saw the art, and stopped in her tracks. — Who did these? — she whispered. — My son, — I said, with pride. — You must show these to experts, — she removed her glasses. — Your boy… he has a real gift. But we were afraid. The world outside the village seemed huge, dangerous for Eli. How would he manage without us, without familiar gestures and signs? — We’ll go, — I insisted, packing his things. — It’s the district artists’ fair. You must show your work. Eli was now seventeen. Tall, thin, long-fingered, with a keen gaze that seemed to notice everything. He nodded reluctantly—there was no point arguing with me. At the fair, his pictures were hung in a far corner. Five small paintings—fields, birds, hands holding the sun. People drifted past, glancing without stopping. Then she appeared—a grey-haired woman with upright posture and sharp eyes. She spent ages in front of the paintings, unmoving. Then whirled round to me. — Are these yours? — My son’s, — I nodded to Eli, who stood beside me, arms crossed. — He doesn’t hear? — she asked, noticing how we signed. — No, since birth. She nodded: — I’m Vera Sterling, from the London Art Gallery. This piece… — she paused, gazing at the smallest picture, sunset over a field. — It has something most artists spend years chasing. I want to buy it. Eli froze, searching my face while I clumsily translated her words with signs. His fingers trembled, doubt flickered in his eyes. — You seriously won’t consider selling? — her voice had that relentless professional edge, someone who knows the value of art. — We never… — I faltered, blushing. — We never thought of selling. It’s just his soul on canvas. She took a leather purse and, without haggling, counted out a sum it would take Michael six months to earn. A week later, she came for another—hands cradling the sunrise. By mid-autumn, the postman brought a letter. “In your son’s work is rare honesty. Profound understanding without words. That is the kind of art collectors crave today.” The capital greeted us with grey streets and cold glances. The gallery was a tiny space in an old building somewhere off the main road. But every day, people came with intent eyes. They studied the paintings, discussed composition and colour. Eli kept his distance, watching lips and gestures. He never heard the words, but expressions spoke for themselves: something special was happening. Then the grants began—internships, features in magazines. He was nicknamed “The Artist of Silence.” His works—silent cries of the heart—found an echo in every viewer. Three years passed. Tears streamed as Michael saw our son off to his own solo exhibition. I tried to hide my feelings, but inside I was humming. Our boy was grown. Independent. Yet he came back. One sunny day, he appeared on the doorstep with an armful of wildflowers. He hugged us, took our hands and led us through the village as neighbours watched, to a distant field. There stood a House. New, white, with a balcony and huge windows. The whole village had wondered about the wealthy man building here, but nobody knew the owner. — What is this? — I whispered, stunned. Eli smiled, produced keys. Inside, bright rooms, a studio, bookshelves, new furniture. — Son, — Michael looked around, shaken, — is this… your house? Eli shook his head and signed: “Ours. Yours and mine.” Then he led us outside, where on the wall was a huge painting: a basket by the gate, a woman with a radiant face holding a child, and, signed above in gestures, “Thank you, Mum.” I froze, unable to move. Tears fell and I let them. Michael, always reserved, suddenly stepped forward and hugged his son so tightly he could barely breathe. Eli squeezed back, then held out a hand to me. That day, we stood together in the field, under the open sky by our new home. Now Eli’s paintings hang in the world’s finest galleries. He opened a school for deaf children in the city and funds outreach programs. The village is proud—our Eli, who hears with his heart. And we, Michael and I, live in that same white house. Every morning I step out with a cup of tea and look at the picture on the wall. Sometimes I wonder—what if we hadn’t gone out that July morning? What if I’d missed him? What if I’d been scared? Eli now lives in town, in a big flat, but comes home every weekend. He hugs me and all doubts melt away. He’ll never hear my voice. But he knows every word. He’ll never hear music, but he creates his own—from paint and line. And seeing his happy smile, I realise—sometimes the most important moments in life happen in total silence. Leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments below!

You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?! Screamed My Mother-in-law I’m Just a Normal, Working Daughter-in-law—No Crown on My Head. My Husband and I Live in Our Own City Flat, Juggling Mortgage, Bills, and Jobs from Morning till Night. My Mother-in-law Lives in the Countryside, Along with My Sister-in-law. It Would All Be Fine, If Only They Didn’t Treat Our Place Like a Weekend Getaway. At First, It Seemed Sweet: ‘We’ll Just Pop Over This Saturday.’ ‘Just for a Bit.’ ‘We’re Family, After All.’ Just for a Bit—Means They Stay the Night; Pop Over—Means They Arrive with Empty Bags, Pots, and Eyes Expecting a Feast. Every Weekend It’s the Same: After Work, I Rush Through Supermarkets, Cook, Clean, Set the Table, Smile for Hours, Then Stay Up Washing Dishes. Valentina Sits and Critiques: ‘Why’s the Salad Missing Sweetcorn?’ ‘My Favourite Borscht Is Thicker Than This.’ ‘We’d Never Make it Like This in the Village.’ My Sister-in-law Chimes In: ‘Oh, The Journey Was Exhausting.’ ‘No Dessert?’ And Never a ‘Thank You,’ or ‘Need a Hand?’ One Day I Said to My Husband: ‘I’m Not a Maid, and I Don’t Want to Spend Every Weekend Catering Your Family.’ ‘Maybe We Really Should Do Something About This.’ That’s When I Had an Idea. Next Time My Mother-in-law Called: ‘We’re Coming Over Saturday!’ ‘Oh, We’ve Got Plans for the Weekend,’ I Said Calmly. ‘What Plans?’ ‘Just Our Own.’ And You Know What? We Did Have Plans—But at Valentina’s Place. Saturday Morning, My Husband and I Were Standing on Her Doorstep. She Opened the Door—And Froze. ‘What’s This?!’ ‘We’re Visiting You. Just for a Bit.’ ‘You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests!?’ I Looked Her in the Eye and Said Calmly: ‘See? This Is How I Live Every Weekend.’ ‘So You’re Trying to Teach Me a Lesson? How Dare You!’ She Yelled So Loud The Neighbours Looked Over—and We Went Home. Here’s the Best Part: Since Then, No More Visits Without an Invitation. No More ‘Just Popping Over’ and No More Weekends Gone in My Kitchen. Sometimes, To Be Heard, You Just Need To Show People What It’s Like To Walk in Your Shoes. Do You Think I Did the Right Thing? What Would You Do in My Place?