**Diary Entry – Reflections on Mother-in-Law’s Wisdom**
I watched my mother-in-law tending to her husband and thought, *What kind of subservient wife must she be to help him take off his muddy boots?* And not just that—he’d come home drunk, barely able to stand, yet she fussed over his toes, murmuring, *Thank goodness! Warm feet, no frostbite. And these thick wool socks I knitted—proper insulation!*
My astonishment only grew. She hauled him up from the sofa, arm wrapped firmly around his waist, and guided him to bed like a child. She tucked him in, left a jug of ale on the bedside table, and went off cheerfully to have her tea. I nearly scoffed aloud—*Where’s the shouting? The flung boots? The scolding?*
Instead, I saw only contentment on her face as she defended him: *It’s been ages since he drank—must’ve run into old mates. Poor soul needed a break, always working, working… Granted, he overdid it—his liver’s no spring chicken. But no matter, we’ll nurse him back to health.*
A year into my marriage, I’d noticed how she bent like a reed before her husband—never raising her voice, always explaining, yet somehow getting her way in the end. When he fell ill, she fluttered around him like a devoted nurse. Once, she told me, *It’s easy to cure yourself—but a husband? His temper, his stubbornness, his guilt for falling ill when chores pile up—that’s the real sickness to mend.*
I observed and tucked every lesson away, weaving them into silent strategy. At meals, if my husband slurped his stew too loudly, I’d freeze mid-bite, glaring until he ate like a chastened schoolboy. But Mother-in-law would chuckle, *No need to rush, love—the cows aren’t waiting, nor the baby crying.* If he gulped noisily, she’d say, *Must be good, if you’re afraid we’ll steal it.* He’d laugh and slow down.
Once, his friends visited. She piled the table with snacks, then left them to their stories and laughter—though they stayed far longer than I’d have tolerated. *Shouldn’t they go?* I muttered. She shook her head. *We welcome guests with open doors, and when they leave, we offer a last toast—not a pointed glance at the clock. They gather once a year—let them talk.*
The men left merry, and my father-in-law kissed her cheek, beaming. When my own husband worked late, I stewed, my face stormy. She’d soothe me: *Don’t assume the worst. Earning a wage takes time—maybe his boss held him back. And if your fears were true? Well, a straying man comes home early too.*
She was right. He *had* been toiling overtime—and returned to find me not sulking, but warm. *Thought I’d get an earful,* he admitted.
Once, she came in dusty but pleased after helping him rebuild the chicken coop. *Isn’t that men’s work?* I snipped.
She smiled. *In a household, we help where we’re needed. A good family moves as one—four hands, four feet, one voice. A bad one? Two voices, always squabbling.*
She spoke of post-war years—bare cupboards, clinging to each other. *My Ivan always took the heaviest load, but I lifted what I could. A wife stands by her man—not to boss, but to share the weight. And he’s grateful for it.*
That evening, he scolded her gently—*You shouldn’t have strained yourself*—but his eyes shone with pride. Their shared labor had brought joy.
It struck me then—her wisdom. I’d nagged, criticized, never bit my tongue. But patience, I saw, moved mountains.
On holidays, she cooked all his favorite meats. *Lydia,* she’d say, *angry or not, feed your man. A hungry husband’s a beast—reason won’t reach him. Fill his belly first, then scold if you must. But do it firm, not shrill.*
I learned. In her home, respect was the glue—no “men’s” or “women’s” work, just *ours*. She asked his opinion, nodded—then steered things her way, with him none the wiser. A quiet voice, she taught me, commands louder than shouts. *Keep hands busy, feet swift, and tongues lazy. And know when to stand firm—and when to yield.*
We left for the city soon after, but her lessons stuck. *Live and learn—preferably from others’ mistakes,* she’d say. And she never led me wrong.
