**Saturday, 12th October**
I’ve always believed, at fifty-five, that clashes between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law could be avoided if both women acted sensibly. 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 truly believed that… until last weekend, when we decided to spend time at our cottage. That weekend will stay with me—and not for the best reasons.
My son is soon to marry. His fiancée, Eleanor, I’ve only met a handful of times, never properly spoken to. Hoping to get to know her, we invited them to the cottage—fresh air, relaxed conversation. I prepared carefully, planned the menu, cooked everything from starters to mains. I wanted a cosy family evening.
They arrived Saturday afternoon. Pleased to see them, I greeted them warmly. While they settled in, I began setting the table and, casually, asked Eleanor to help—just slice the bread and lay out cutlery. Not peel potatoes, not marinate meat, just the simplest task. But when I spoke, she didn’t stir. She stayed perched beside my son, still chatting as if I’d said nothing. I left it, thinking perhaps she hadn’t heard. I set the table myself, didn’t repeat the request—it felt awkward.
After lunch, they went to rest while my husband and I cleared up. Come evening, I laid everything out again—tea before the barbecue. This time, I asked Eleanor directly: *”Could you slice the cheese, please?”*
Her reply chilled me: *”When you’re a guest, it’s best not to interfere. The hostess will handle things as she sees fit.”*
I was stunned. How could cheese be sliced *wrong*? And since when is a polite request *interference*?
All evening, she kept to this odd stance. When the men went out to grill, she didn’t step into the kitchen or offer a hand. Just lingered nearby, chatting cheerfully, while I dashed about with plates. Not once did she suggest clearing up or washing dishes. My son noticed my irritation and started tidying himself. But her? As if nothing were amiss. Not even a simple *”Shall I help?”*
Next morning, they slept till noon. They left leisurely for London, their bed still unmade—no attempt to tidy it. Too afraid to *”interfere,”* I suppose.
I love having guests. Friends, nieces, my husband’s old colleagues visit often. Even first-timers chip in—clearing the table, chopping veg, washing mugs. My sister always says, *”You cooked, now it’s my turn.”* Friends bring dishes to ease the load. That’s respect. That’s gratitude for hospitality.
But Eleanor’s behaviour? A bucket of cold water. As though I should do everything alone because *”I’m the hostess,”* and she’s there simply to enjoy herself. Not a shred of respect in word or deed. Just indifference, passive consumption.
I hid my hurt, but inside, I stewed. Now, I don’t know how to proceed. The wedding’s in months. Like it or not, we’ll have to forge some kind of relationship. I won’t be the enemy in my own family—but I won’t be a maid to a grown woman who thinks helping is *”not her place.”*
What next? Will she always stand aside, treating the home as someone else’s concern? And if they have a child? Will I mind the grandbaby while she relaxes, then hear *”grandmothers ought to help”*?
Am I just old-fashioned? Is this the new way—play the charming guest, chat and smile, but never lift a finger? To me, family means support, involvement, sincerity. Not strangers at a shared table.
My son’s oblivious. He loves her—and that’s as it should be. I won’t come between them. But silence isn’t an option. Wait too long, and it’ll be too late.
**Lesson:** Hospitality is a two-way street. Kindness without effort is just words.
(Word count preserved within 1% of original.)
