Margaret Whitmore knew she would never be the dreaded mother-in-law. She was a kind and thoughtful woman, and she had raised her son, Daniel, with the understanding that one day he would have his own family. Daniel owed her nothing.
So when he brought home his fiancée, a sweet and pleasant girl named Emily, Margaret welcomed her warmly.
Emily, for her part, clearly wanted to make a good impression. She praised Margaret’s cooking, admired her well-kept home, and showered her with compliments. Margaret was certain there would be no tension between them.
Daniel and Emily decided to move in together. He briefly mentioned the possibility of living with his mother, but Margaret wasn’t keen on the idea.
“Of course, I wouldn’t turn you away,” she said carefully. “But love, it’s not a good arrangement. Young couples should have their own space—different routines, the need for quiet. And two women in one kitchen? That never ends well.”
Daniel listened, but renting a flat in London was expensive. Sensing his struggle, Margaret offered to help until they were settled.
“I’ll cover a third of the rent at first, and then you’ll manage on your own.”
Daniel agreed happily. Margaret was willing to pay—for peace of mind and harmony.
She remembered the first three years of her own marriage, living with her husband’s parents. It had been like a never-ending headache. Her mother-in-law hadn’t been unkind, but there were still arguments, misunderstandings, hurt feelings. Meals were a struggle—they preferred different dishes, and though she forced herself to eat what was served, resentment simmered beneath the surface. It had worn on them both.
Daniel and Emily found a flat just down the road. Margaret was glad. She didn’t want to live with them, but she did want to see her son.
Emily worked as a nursery teacher, earning very little. Daniel, content with his factory job, showed no ambition to climb higher.
When the couple moved in, Margaret offered to help them clean.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily exclaimed. “The place is filthy—I don’t know where to start.”
Margaret arrived with cleaning supplies and got to work. Each swipe of the cloth only confirmed her suspicions—Emily barely knew how to hold a mop. By the time they finished, it was Margaret who had done most of the scrubbing, though Emily thanked her profusely, insisting she had much to learn. Margaret, exhausted, barely listened.
The next day, Daniel called to suggest a visit.
“We’ll come over this weekend, if that’s all right?”
“Of course,” she said, pleased.
Naturally, she spent the afternoon cooking—roast, salad, starters—only for them to arrive empty-handed. No wine, no dessert. Not that she needed anything. But it would have been polite.
They didn’t seem to notice, though. Margaret told herself they were just distracted, settling in. Money was tight, after all.
“Mum,” Daniel asked after dinner, “can we take the leftovers? Save us cooking tomorrow.”
She sighed. She wouldn’t have minded a break from cooking either, but for her son, she’d do anything.
“Of course, love.”
It stung, but she brushed it off. Young couples wanted to enjoy life, not slave over a stove. She could manage.
Margaret worked from home now, rarely needing to go into the office—a small mercy.
When Daniel called the following week, she never expected what came next.
“Mum, can I pop round for lunch? I’m trying to save, don’t fancy the canteen.”
She froze. She hadn’t planned to cook, but how could she say no?
“Alright, come by,” she said, hurrying to the kitchen.
She told herself it would be a one-off, but soon Daniel was turning up daily. Each visit ate into her groceries. Worse still, it pulled her away from work.
But she stayed silent. What mother refuses her son a meal?
Once, she dared to ask, “Why don’t you bring food from home?”
“Oh, Emily doesn’t really cook,” he said breezily. “Actually, why don’t we come over for dinner this weekend? Your food’s always brilliant!”
“I’m busy,” she lied. “Meeting an old friend.”
“Shame.”
Something had to change. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it outright—didn’t want to seem stingy.
Yet the strain on her wallet was real. She was still paying part of their rent.
Margaret decided to grit her teeth. She’d cook extra on weekends—easy reheats. Maybe drop hints about groceries. But she couldn’t push.
Three weeks passed like this. Daniel now came for lunch daily. Then Emily started joining. Margaret had become their personal chef.
But then, the final straw.
Daniel called about Emily’s upcoming birthday.
“We’d love you to come,” he said cheerfully.
“Oh, how kind. But won’t there be friends? I don’t want to intrude.”
“Nonsense! You’re family!”
Her heart swelled. Words like that could excuse anything… but not everything.
“Listen,” he continued. “Could you come early? Help Emily clean and cook.”
Just like that, the illusion shattered.
“She can’t manage alone?” Margaret asked flatly.
Daniel laughed. “Oh, come on. She’s rubbish at cooking. You could even make the food at home and bring it—just come early to tidy up. There’s loads to do, and I’ve got work in the morning.”
Margaret’s grip tightened on the phone. “What about groceries?”
“Just get whatever you need. We’re not picky,” he said breezily. “Oh, and you’ll set the table, yeah? Emily’s got a salon appointment for her hair. Busy day!”
Margaret’s temper snapped. This wasn’t love—this was exploitation. A free cook, a cleaner, an ATM. She paid their rent, bought their food, cooked their meals—now they wanted her to scrub their floors too.
“No. I won’t be coming,” she said coldly.
“What? Why not?”
“Because I’m not your maid. Or your personal caterer.”
“Mum, don’t be dramatic. It’s just cooking!”
“Just cooking?” She hissed. “Standing for hours in a hot kitchen isn’t ‘just cooking’! If Emily can afford a salon, she can afford a bloody takeaway! And no, you’re not eating here anymore. This isn’t a canteen.”
She nearly told him to start paying their own rent, but fear stopped her—what if they moved in? Then she’d never escape.
Neither Daniel nor Emily apologised. How they managed the birthday, she didn’t know.
But she finally understood something. A good mother wasn’t one who fed her grown son forever. It was one who cut the apron strings in time. He wanted to be a husband—yet he was still at his mother’s table. It was past time they stood on their own two feet.
