Margaret Whitmore swore she’d never become one of those dreadful mothers-in-law. She was a kind, caring woman who’d raised her son, James, knowing full well he’d one day start his own family. And James owed her nothing.
So when he brought home his sweet, charming fiancée, Emily, Margaret welcomed her warmly. Emily, for her part, clearly wanted to impress her future mother-in-law. She praised Margaret’s cooking, admired her lovely flat, and showered her with compliments. Margaret was sure they’d get along splendidly.
James and Emily decided to move in together. He hinted at living with his mother, but Margaret wasn’t keen on the idea.
“Of course, I’d never turn you away,” she said. “But honestly, darling, that’s a terrible plan. Young couples and parents should live separately—different routines, different peace and quiet. And two women in one kitchen? That never ends well.”
James listened, but renting a flat was expensive. Margaret offered to help until they were settled.
“I’ll cover a third of the rent to start. After that, you’ll manage on your own.”
James eagerly agreed. Margaret didn’t mind—small price for peace and harmony.
She still remembered her own first three years of marriage, living with her husband’s parents. It had been a nightmare, even though her mother-in-law wasn’t a bad woman. Still, they’d clashed over everything—different tastes, misunderstandings, hurt feelings. The food was the worst—her mother-in-law’s cooking was unbearable, but she’d choked it down to avoid offence.
James and Emily eventually found a flat just down the road. Margaret was relieved—living together was out of the question, but she still wanted to see her son.
Emily worked as a nursery assistant, earning very little, while James was content with his factory job.
Once they’d moved in, Margaret offered to help them settle.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily gushed. “The place is filthy—I don’t even know where to start.”
Margaret brought cleaning supplies and got to work—while Emily hovered, clearly out of her depth. In the end, Margaret did most of it herself. Emily showered her with praise—”I should learn from you!”—but Margaret was too exhausted to care.
The next day, James called and invited himself over for the weekend.
“Mum, we’ll pop round, yeah?”
“Of course,” Margaret said, forcing a smile.
Naturally, she spent half the day cooking—a proper spread. But when they arrived, empty-handed, her mood soured. Not that she expected gifts—but a box of biscuits would’ve been nice.
James and Emily saw no issue, of course. Margaret consoled herself: they were still settling in, money was tight.
“Mum, can we take the leftovers?” James asked after dinner. “Save us cooking.”
Margaret sighed. She wouldn’t have minded a break herself, but for James, she’d give anything.
“Sure, take it,” she said.
It was all a bit off, but she tried not to dwell. Young couples wanted to enjoy life, not slave over a stove. Fair enough—she could cook.
Margaret worked from home, only rarely going into the office. So when James rang the next week, she expected anything—except this.
“Mum, can I come round for lunch? I’m skint, don’t want to eat out.”
She was stunned. She hadn’t planned to cook, but she couldn’t say no.
“Alright, come over,” she said, already heading to the kitchen.
She assumed it was a one-off, but James kept coming—daily. The fridge emptied faster than she could fill it, and work was constantly interrupted.
Still, she stayed quiet. What mother denies her son a meal? She did once ask why he couldn’t pack lunch.
“Emily doesn’t really cook,” he said. “Oh, and can we come for dinner this weekend? Your food’s brilliant!”
“Sorry, I’m busy—off to see a friend,” she lied, ashamed.
“Ah, shame.”
This couldn’t go on. But she still couldn’t bring herself to say no—she didn’t want to seem petty in front of James and Emily.
Her bank balance disagreed. She was still paying part of their rent.
In the end, she decided to suffer in silence. She’d cook extra on weekends—ready meals, really. Maybe she could hint that James should chip in for groceries. But no, she couldn’t.
Three weeks passed. James came for lunch, then Emily started dropping by. Margaret had unwittingly become their personal chef.
Then they got bold.
James called to announce Emily’s upcoming birthday.
“You’re invited, of course!” he said cheerfully.
“Oh, lovely. Though I’m sure you’d rather have friends over.”
“Nonsense! We want you there—you’re family!”
Margaret melted. Those words covered a multitude of sins—but not all of them.
“Listen,” James continued, “could you come early? Help Emily clean and cook?”
Just like that, she was back on earth.
“She can’t manage?” Margaret asked flatly.
“Course not!” James laughed. “She’s hopeless. You could even cook at yours and bring it over. Just come early—got to clean up too. I’ll be at work.”
“And the groceries?” Margaret asked, stunned.
“You’ll buy them, yeah? We don’t know what you’re making. But we’ll eat anything!” he said. “Oh, and could you set the table? Emily’s got a hair appointment. Busy day!”
Margaret reached boiling point. This wasn’t about love—this was about free labour. She paid their rent, bought their food, cooked their meals—and now they wanted her to clean their flat too?
“No, James, I won’t be coming,” she said.
“What? Why?”
“I’d come as a guest. Not as your maid.”
“Mum, don’t be daft! It’s just a favour!”
“Daft? Spending half the day slaving over a stove is daft? If it’s so easy, let Emily do it! It’s her birthday! And by the way—groceries aren’t free. Do you have any idea how much a proper spread costs? Or were you planning to stiff me on that too?”
“Mum, we’re broke—”
“If Emily can afford a salon, you can afford food. And stop coming for lunch. This isn’t a canteen—you’re distracting me from work!”
She nearly told them to pay their own rent—but feared they’d move in instead. Then she’d really be trapped.
Neither James nor Emily apologised. How they managed the birthday, Margaret never found out.
But she realised one thing: a good mother isn’t one who feeds her son forever. It’s one who cuts the apron strings in time. He was getting married—yet still clinging to her kitchen. It was past time they grew up.
