Olga Somerset knew she would never become that dreaded mother-in-law. She was kind and understanding, raising her son Matthew with the awareness that one day he would have his own family. And her boy owed her nothing.
So, when Matthew brought home his sweet, charming fiancée, Emily, Olga welcomed her warmly.
Emily, too, seemed eager to impress her future mother-in-law—praising her cooking, admiring her lovely flat, showering her with compliments. Olga was certain there’d be no conflict between them.
Matthew and Emily decided to move in together. Her son had even tentatively suggested they all live under one roof, but the idea didn’t sit well with Olga.
“Of course, I wouldn’t turn you away,” she said carefully. “But darling, it’s a bad idea. Young couples and parents should have their own space. Different schedules, the need for quiet—and two women in one kitchen? That never ends well.”
Matthew listened, yet renting a flat on his own proved costly. So Olga offered to help—just until they found their footing.
“I’ll cover a third of the rent to start. Then you’ll manage on your own.”
Matthew agreed gratefully. Olga was willing to pay—if it bought peace and goodwill.
She remembered her own first years of marriage, living with her in-laws. It had been a nightmare. His mother had been decent, yet still, they clashed—over meals, habits, unspoken expectations. She’d choked down dishes she despised just to avoid offence.
Matthew and Emily found a flat nearby, and Olga was relieved. She had no desire to share a home, but seeing her son? That she wanted.
Emily worked as a nursery assistant, earning little. Matthew, content with factory work, showed no ambition.
Once they moved, Olga offered to help them settle in.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily gushed. “The place is filthy—I don’t even know where to start!”
Olga arrived with cleaning supplies, rolling up her sleeves.
She sighed as she watched Emily scrub, the girl clearly unused to labor. In truth, Olga did most of it. Emily showered her with thanks, saying she ought to learn from her soon-to-be mother-in-law. But Olga was too drained to listen.
The next day, Matthew rang.
“Fancy us coming over this weekend?”
“Of course,” Olga said, genuinely pleased.
Naturally, she cooked—roast, salads, even starters. But when they arrived empty-handed, her mood faltered. A token—biscuits, wine, *anything*—would’ve been polite.
They seemed oblivious. Olga consoled herself: *They’re busy. Money’s tight.*
“Can we take the leftovers?” Matthew asked after dinner. “Save us cooking.”
She sighed. She wouldn’t have minded a break herself—but for him, she’d spare anything.
“Take what you need,” she said.
It left a bitter taste, but she shrugged it off. Young couples should enjoy themselves, not slave in the kitchen. If they wouldn’t cook, she would.
Olga worked from home, barely needing the office—a convenience now strained when Matthew called again.
“Fancy if I pop round for lunch? Trying to save, don’t want to buy out.”
She hadn’t planned to cook but couldn’t refuse.
“Of course,” she said, rushing to the stove.
She thought it a one-off. But soon, he was a daily fixture. Groceries vanished. Work was interrupted.
She bit her tongue. What mother denies her son a meal?
Once, she hinted: “Why not pack lunch?”
“Emily doesn’t really cook. Actually—fancy us coming for Sunday dinner? Your food’s brilliant!”
“Sorry,” she lied. “I’ve plans.”
Something had to change. But how to refuse without seeming petty?
Three weeks passed. Then Emily started joining. Olga nearly resigned herself to being their cook.
Until they grew bold.
Matthew rang, announcing Emily’s birthday.
“We’d love you there!”
Olga softened—until—
“Actually… could you come early? Help her clean and cook?”
Her stomach dropped.
“She can’t manage alone?”
“Don’t be silly,” he laughed. “She’s hopeless. Maybe cook at yours and bring it? Oh—and could you set up? She’s getting her hair done.”
Olga boiled over.
They hadn’t found love in her company—just free labour, a walking wallet, a servant.
“No,” she said flatly.
“*Why?*”
“Because I’m not your maid. If you want a cleaner, hire one.”
“Mum, don’t be daft—”
“Daft? Slaving for hours is *daft*? Then let Emily handle her own party!” Her voice sharpened. “And food isn’t free. Unless you’re paying me back?”
“We’re skint—”
“If Emily can afford a salon, she can feed her guests. And don’t come for lunch anymore. This isn’t a café.”
She almost added: *Pay your own rent.* But feared they’d move in. Then she’d never escape.
No apologies came. She didn’t ask how the party went.
And she realised—a good mother isn’t the one who feeds her grown son. It’s the one who cuts the cord.
He was ready to marry, yet still clung to her apron strings.
It was time they grew up.
