Lydia watched her mother-in-law and thought, “What kind of saint do you have to be to take your husband’s muddy boots off for him? Not only is he three sheets to the wind—can’t string two words together, let alone remove his own shoes—but she’s fussing over his toes, cooing, ‘Thank heavens! Nice and warm, not frostbitten. And these woolly socks—thick as a hedgehog’s coat, knitted them myself.'”
The new bride was gobsmacked. Her mother-in-law hauled her son-in-law off the sofa, tucked him under her arm like a rolled-up newspaper, and shuffled him to bed. She swaddled him in a quilt, plonked a giant mug of ale on the bedside table, and trotted off to brew a cuppa, chuffed as a badger in a berry patch. Lydia nearly snorted:
“Where’s the stomping? The boot-flinging? The grumbling?”
Instead, she saw her mother-in-law’s smug smile and heard her making excuses for the man: “Haven’t seen him this squiffy in ages—must’ve bumped into his mates. Needs a kip, poor lamb, works himself to the bone. Liver’s shot now, mind. But no matter—a week of oat milk and early nights’ll sort him.”
Lydia had been married a year and noticed her mother-in-law bent like a willow branch around her husband—never raised her voice, always “explained things thoroughly” (then did exactly as she pleased). If her father-in-law so much as sniffled, the woman turned into a fluttering nurse.
Once, when asked why she coddled him, the mother-in-law chuckled, “Myself? Easy to fix. But a poorly husband? That’s a trifecta: the illness, his tantrums about pills, and the rage at catching the sniffles when he’s up to his eyeballs in work.”
Lydia watched, filing it all away. At supper, if her own husband slurped his pea-and-ham soup too loud, she’d freeze, spoon mid-air, eyes like saucers. He’d panic, gulping scalding broth to avoid her glare. But her mother-in-law? She’d just say, “No rush, love—the cows won’t milk themselves.” If he gobbled, she’d tease, “Must be good if you’re guarding it like crown jewels!” And like magic, he’d slow down.
One night, his mates came round. The mother-in-law laid out pickled eggs, pork pies, and scarpered. The lads nattered for hours, the odd “bloody hell” slipping out. Lydia fumed. “Shouldn’t they shove off? Bagsy not being hostess forever.”
Her mother-in-law waved a hand. “Door’s for welcoming, not booting folks out. Let ’em be—it’s not like they’re huddled in the shed. Pass the crisps and ask if they’re thirsty.”
The men left merry, her father-in-law planting a smacker on his wife’s cheek. Meanwhile, if Lydia’s husband worked late, she’d glower like a storm cloud. Her mother-in-law soothed, “Men don’t lug bricks for fun. Might’ve been held up—or maybe he’s avoiding your face like last week’s leftovers.” Turned out he’d taken overtime. He slunk home, braced for fireworks, and gaped at his smiling wife. “Thought I’d get an earful!”
Lydia winced. Was she really the sort of wife who made a man dread his own front door?
Once, her mother-in-law trudged in, knackered but grinning. “Helped Ivan lug timber—re-roofing the henhouse.” Lydia balked. “Since when is that women’s work? Fetch your son!”
The older woman laughed. “Teamwork, duck. Four hands, four feet, one mouth—that’s a happy home. Two mouths? Recipe for rows. We chatted while stacking planks—remembered the war years. No ‘men’s’ or ‘women’s’ jobs then. Just survival.” Later, her husband fretted, “Didn’t have to help!” But his grin said otherwise. The shared labour had warmed them both.
Lydia chewed it over. Her mother-in-law never nagged—just steered quietly. At Sunday roasts, she piled the men’s plates with beef and Yorkies. “However livid you are,” she told Lydia, “feed him first. A hungry man’s a bear. Stuff his belly, then serve the lecture—calmly, mind. And remember: you’re always right. Even when you’re wrong.”
The lesson stuck. Though Lydia soon moved to London, she’d learned: love bends but doesn’t break.
“Live and learn,” her mother-in-law often said. “Preferably from others’ mistakes.” And, bless her, she never taught a bad one.
