**Diary Entry**
I’ve always believed, at fifty-five, that clashes between a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law could be avoided if both women acted sensibly. After all, we share love for the same person—my son. I thought even with different temperaments and opinions, common ground could be found. I truly believed that… until last weekend at our countryside cottage, a stay I won’t forget—though not fondly.
My son is soon to marry. I’d only met his fiancée, Isabella, a handful of times before, never properly chatting. To get to know her better, we invited them to the cottage—fresh air, relaxed conversation. I threw myself into preparations, planning the menu, cooking everything from appetisers to mains, dreaming of a cosy family evening.
They arrived Saturday afternoon. I was happy to see them, greeting them warmly. While they settled in, I began setting the table and, casually, asked Bella to help—just slice bread and lay out cutlery. Nothing difficult, no peeling potatoes or marinating meat. Yet she didn’t stir. She stayed seated beside my son, chatting as if I hadn’t spoken. I let it go—perhaps she hadn’t heard. I finished setting up myself, not repeating the request—it felt awkward.
After lunch, the young couple went to rest, while my husband and I cleared up. That evening, as I set out tea before grilling supper, I tried again:
“Bella, would you mind slicing the cheese?”
Her reply sent a chill through me:
“Guests shouldn’t interfere. The hostess knows best.”
I was stunned. How does one slice cheese *wrong*? Since when is a simple request considered meddling?
The entire evening followed this odd logic. When the men went to barbecue, she stayed clear of the kitchen, chatting idly while I rushed with plates and cutlery. Not once did she offer to clear or wash up—even after supper. My son, sensing my frustration, stepped in himself. She? Acted oblivious.
Next morning, they slept till noon. When they finally stirred, they dawdled over packing. Their bed? Left unmade—apparently, tidying would be “interfering.”
I adore hosting. Friends, nieces, even my husband’s old colleagues visit often—and every one, even first-timers, offers to help: clearing plates, chopping veg, washing mugs. My sister always says, “You cooked; I’ll handle this.” People bring dishes to ease my load. That’s respect. Gratitude for hospitality.
But Bella? A bucket of cold water. As if I alone should toil because I’m “hostess,” while she’s here to revel. Not a shred of courtesy—in word or deed. Just detachment.
I bit my tongue, but inside, I seethed. Now I’m at a loss. Their wedding’s months away. Like it or not, we’ll share a family. I refuse to be an enemy—or a maid to a grown woman who thinks slicing cheese is beneath her.
What next? Will she always withdraw, treating the home as none of her concern? And if grandchildren come? Will I raise them while she lounges, then hear “grandmothers should help”?
Am I old-fashioned? Is this the new norm—smiling, chatting, contributing nothing? But family, to me, means support. Participation. Not strangers at a table.
My son’s oblivious. He loves her—and I’m glad. I won’t come between them. But silence isn’t an option. Because one day, it’ll be too late.
