**Diary Entry**
I asked my future daughter-in-law to slice the cheese, and she just carried on chatting with my son. Now I don’t know how to move forward with her.
I’m fifty-five, and my whole life I’ve believed that clashes between a mother-in-law and daughter-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 personalities and views, common ground could always be found. I thought so… until last weekend at the cottage. That’s a memory I’ll carry, and not fondly.
My son is getting married soon. His fiancée, Isabella, is someone I’ve only met a handful of times, never properly spoken to. To get to know her better, we all went to the cottage for some fresh air and quiet time. I prepared everything—planned the meals, cooked enough for days. Wanted it to feel warm, like a proper family evening.
When they arrived on Saturday, I greeted them with a smile, happy to see them. As they settled in, I asked Izzy to help—just slice some bread and lay out the cutlery. Nothing complicated, no peeling or marinating. But at my request, she didn’t even stir. Just stayed beside my son, talking as if nothing was said. I let it go, thinking maybe she hadn’t heard. I laid the table myself, didn’t ask again—it felt awkward.
After lunch, the young ones went off to rest while my husband and I cleaned up. That evening, while setting out tea before the barbecue, I tried again: “Izzy, could you slice the cheese, please?”
What she said next made my blood run cold: “When you’re a guest, it’s best not to interfere. The hostess knows best.”
I was stunned. Since when is slicing cheese “interfering”? And since when is a polite request something to take offense at?
The whole evening followed that tone. When the men went to grill, she didn’t lift a finger—just lounged nearby while I rushed with plates. No offer to clear the table or wash up after dinner. My son noticed my irritation and started tidying himself. But her? Acted oblivious. Not even a simple “Shall I help?”
Next morning, they slept till noon, then took their time packing for London. The bed they’d slept in? Left unmade. Apparently, still afraid of “interfering.”
I love having guests. Friends, nieces, even my husband’s old colleagues visit often, and every single one, even first-timers, offers to help—clearing plates, chopping veg, washing cups. My sister always says, “You cooked, now it’s my turn.” Friends bring food so I’m not overburdened. That’s respect. That’s gratitude.
But Isabella’s attitude was a slap in the face. Like I should do everything simply because “it’s my house,” and she’s just here to be served. No respect in word or gesture—just indifference, passive consumption.
I bit my tongue, but inside, I seethed. And now I don’t know where to go from here. The wedding’s in months. Like it or not, we’ll have to coexist. I don’t want to be the enemy, nor do I want to play housemaid to a grown woman who thinks slicing cheese is beneath her.
What next? Will she always keep this distance, treating my home as if it’s none of her concern? And if they have children? Will I raise the baby while she relaxes, only to hear, “Grandmothers should help”?
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Maybe it’s the fashion now to be this kind of “guest”—all charm and no effort. But that’s not family to me. Family means support, involvement, sincerity. Not strangers at the same table.
My son doesn’t see it yet. He loves her, and I’d never come between them. But I won’t stay silent either. Because later? Later will be too late.
**Lesson:** Hospitality is a two-way street. Respect isn’t just given—it’s shown.
