I asked my daughter-in-law to slice the cheese, but she carried on chatting with my son. Now I don’t know how to move forward with her.
At fifty-five, I’d always believed that clashes between mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law could be avoided if both women acted reasonably. After all, we’re bound by love for the same person—my son. I thought that even with different temperaments and views, common ground could always be found. I thought so… until last weekend, which we decided to spend at the cottage. That weekend will stay with me for a long time—and not in a warm way.
My son is soon to be married. Until now, I’d only met his fiancée, Isabella, a handful of times and hadn’t properly spoken with her. To get to know her better, we invited the young couple to the cottage for some fresh air and quiet conversation. I prepared with genuine care, planned the menu, cooked up a feast—from cold starters to hot dishes. I wanted to create a cosy family evening.
They arrived on Saturday afternoon. I was happy to see them, greeting them with a smile. While they settled in, I began setting the table and, in passing, asked Izzy to help—just to slice the bread and arrange the cutlery. Not peel potatoes, not marinate meat—just the simplest tasks. But when she heard me, she didn’t stir. She stayed beside my son, deep in conversation, as if nothing had been said. I fell silent, wondering if she hadn’t heard. I brought everything out myself, laid the table, and didn’t repeat the request—it felt awkward.
After lunch, the young couple went to rest, while my husband and I stayed to wash up. That evening, as I laid out tea before grilling the meat, I turned to Isabella again.
“Izzy, could you slice the cheese, please?”
What she said next sent a chill through me.
“When you’re a guest, it’s better not to interfere. The hostess will handle things as she sees fit.”
I was stunned. Could cheese really be sliced the *wrong* way? And since when is a simple, polite request considered interference?
All evening, she clung to this odd stance. When the men stepped out to grill, she neither joined me nor helped in the kitchen. She just lingered sweetly nearby while I scurried with plates and cutlery. She didn’t even offer to clear the table or wash up after dinner. My son noticed my irritation and began clearing plates himself. And her? As if nothing had happened. Not even a simple “Let me help.”
The next day, they slept till noon. Then, unhurriedly, they packed for the city. The bed they’d slept in remained unmade—no effort to tidy, as if fearing they might “interfere.”
You see, I adore having guests. Friends, nieces and nephews, even my husband’s old colleagues often visit—and every one of them, even first-timers, offers to help: clearing dishes, chopping vegetables, washing mugs. My sister always says, “You’ve cooked—now it’s my turn.” Friends bring food so as not to burden me. That’s respect. That’s gratitude for hospitality.
But Isabella’s behaviour was a bucket of cold water. As if I should do everything alone because I’m “the hostess,” while she simply enjoys her leisure. Not a shred of respect—not in gesture, not in word. Just indifference and passive consumption.
I tried not to show my hurt. But inside, I seethed. Now, I don’t know what to do. The wedding is months away. Like it or not, we’ll have to forge some kind of relationship. I don’t want to be an enemy in my own family. But I won’t be a servant to a grown woman who thinks it’s “not her place” to slice cheese.
What next? Will she always keep her distance, pretending the home isn’t her concern? And if a child comes along? Will I raise the baby while she rests, then listen to how “grandmothers should help”?
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. Maybe it’s the fashion now to be such a “guest”—smiling, chatting, never lifting a finger. But I prefer a different way. Where family means support, involvement, sincerity. Not strangers sharing a table.
My son doesn’t understand yet. He loves her—and that’s wonderful. I won’t come between them. But I can’t stay silent. Because later… it’ll be too late.
