Well, Your Ann Has Become Awfully Stuck-Up! People Say Money Spoils You, and Now I Don’t Even Understand What I Did to Offend Anyone Once Upon a Time, I Had a Wonderful Marriage—A Loving Husband and Two Kids—Until Everything Fell Apart the Day My Husband Was Killed in a Car Accident. The Grief Was Almost Too Much, but Mum Told Me I Had to Stay Strong for My Children. I Threw Myself Into Work, and, When My Kids Grew Up, Headed Abroad to Earn Money, as I Had No Support at All. First, I Landed in Poland, Then Came to England. I Changed Countless Jobs Before Finally Making Decent Money. I Sent Money Home Every Month, Eventually Bought Each Child a Flat, and Refurbished My Own Place. I Was So Proud of Myself and Even Thought of Moving Back to Ukraine for Good. But Last Year, Everything Changed When I Met a Man—A Fellow Ukrainian Who’s Lived in England for Twenty Years. We Hit It Off, and I Started to See a Future With Him. But Doubt Festers. Arthur Can’t Move Back to Ukraine, While My Heart Longs for Home. Recently, I Returned and Reunited First With My Kids, Then My Parents. Only My Late Husband’s Parents I Couldn’t Quite Visit—I Had Too Many Things On. Then My Friend, a Local Shop Assistant, Came By and Told Me This: “Your Mother-in-Law Is Really Upset With You!” “How Do You Know?” “I Overheard Her Talking to Someone—She Said You’ve Gone Posh, That Money’s Changed You, and That You Never Send Them Any Help.” Hearing That Hurt So Much. I Raised My Kids Alone and Gave Them Everything—I Couldn’t Possibly Support My In-Laws Too. I Needed Something for Myself, Didn’t I? After That, I Didn’t Want to Visit, But I Forced Myself. I Brought a Shopping Bag Full of Food and Went Over. It Started Fine, But I Couldn’t Forget That Conversation, and Finally I Said: “Don’t You Understand How Hard Life Was? I Did Everything for the Kids Because I Had No One to Help Me.” “But We’ve Had No Support Either,” She Said. “Everyone Else’s Children Help Them—But We’re Left Alone. You Should’ve Moved Back and Helped Us!” My Mother-in-Law Really Shamed Me. I Didn’t Even Dare Mention I Have a Partner in England. I Left Their House Upset, Now Unsure What to Do Next. Am I Truly Obliged to Look After My Late Husband’s Parents Too? I’m at My Wits’ End!

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 2

That Olivia of yours has become so high and mighty! They say money changes people! I didnt really understand what they were getting at, or how I had managed to offend anyone.

Once upon a time, my life seemed picture perfect. I had a lovely marriage, a husband and two children. Then, one day, it all fell apart. My beloved was on his way home when he was caught in a tragic accident. For a while, I thought Id never survive the grief, but my mother convinced me that I had to stay strong, for my childrens sake. So I pulled myself together, threw myself into work and, when the kids were older, I headed abroad to earn a living. There was no one to support us, so I had to find a way.

That’s how I first found myself in Germany, and later ended up in England. I went through plenty of jobs before I started earning a decent wage. Every month, Id send money back to the kids, eventually I bought them both a flat, and did up my own place as well. I was proud of myself. Id even started to think about heading home to Manchester for good, but then, last year, everything changed. I met a man. Hes English, but his family is originally from Manchester, although he’s lived in London for over twenty years. We started talking and, before I knew it, I felt there might be something real there.

Yet I couldnt shake my doubts. David couldnt move back to Manchester, and, after all, I longed for home. Only the other day, I finally made the trip. I saw my children first, then my parents, but somehow, visiting my late husbands parents never quite happened. There just weren’t enough hours in the day; everything kept piling up. Then my friend Rachel, who works as a cashier, came by for a cuppa and told me something:

Your mother-in-law is really upset with you!

Why would you think that?

I overheard her talking about you with her friend. Said youve become stuck up, that money has gone to your head. Worse, she told people that you never helped them out financially.

Hearing that stung. Id raised my children myself and given them everything I could. I simply couldnt afford to send money to my in-laws as well. I had to keep something for myself, you get it?

After that, I lost all desire to visit them. But I made myself go bought a load of groceries and headed round. At first, things seemed fine, but those words kept echoing in my mind. In the end, I said:

You know, its been tough for me all these years. I did everything for the children, because there was no one else to help.

Well, we were left alone too. Everyone elses kids help out, but weve had to manage ourselves. Were orphans as well! You ought to move back and support us.

My mother-in-law put me right on the spot. I didnt even dare mention David or my life in London. I left feeling heavy-hearted. Now I dont know what to do next. Am I really supposed to take care of my late husbands parents? Im at my wits end.

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?

“— 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?

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