Anna parked her car a street away from her mother-in-law’s house. The clock read 5:45 p.m.—she’d arrived earlier than planned. “Maybe she’ll finally appreciate my punctuality this time,” Anna thought, smoothing the creases from her new dress. The gift—an antique brooch she’d spent months hunting down from collectors—rested carefully wrapped on the backseat.
As Anna approached the house, she noticed the ground-floor window was ajar. Her mother-in-law’s voice rang out clearly from inside:
“No, Beatrice, can you believe it? She didn’t even bother to ask what kind of cake I like! She went and ordered some trendy dessert… Our son has always loved classic Victoria sponge, and she—” There was a pause. “—doesn’t even understand. Seven years of marriage!”
Anna froze. Her feet felt glued to the pavement.
“Of course I’ve told you before—she just isn’t right for David. She works day and night at that clinic, barely home at all. What sort of housewife is that? I popped by yesterday—dirty dishes everywhere, dust on the mantel… Naturally, she was off performing some complicated operation!”
Inside, Anna went numb. She leaned on the garden gate, feeling her knees tremble. For seven years, she had tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law: cooking, cleaning, remembering every birthday, popping in when her mother-in-law was ill. And all for this…
“No, no, I’m not saying anything really, but is that the kind of woman our David needs? He deserves a proper family, warmth and care… and she’s always away at conferences or working nights. She doesn’t even think about children! Can you imagine?” Family Games
Anna’s head buzzed. Mechanically, she pulled out her phone and dialed her husband.
“David? I’ll be a bit late. Yes, everything’s fine, just… traffic.”
She turned and walked back to her car. Sitting down, Anna stared blankly ahead. The harsh words echoed in her head: “Maybe a little more salt?” “In my day, women stayed home…” “David works so hard, he needs extra attention…”
Her phone vibrated—a message from her husband: “Mum’s asking where you are. Everyone’s here.”
Anna drew a deep breath. A strange smile crept onto her face. “Right,” she thought, “if they want the perfect daughter-in-law, they can have her.”
She started the engine and drove back to her mother-in-law’s house. The plan had formed in an instant.
No more trying to please. It was time to show them just what the “ideal” daughter-in-law could really be like.
Anna burst through the door wearing her brightest smile. “Mummy dearest!” she exclaimed, wrapping her mother-in-law in an exaggeratedly enthusiastic hug. “Sorry I’m late—I went to three different shops to get the exact candles you love!”
Her mother-in-law froze, startled at the display. “I thought…” she began, but Anna was already barreling on:
“Oh, and guess what—I ran into your lovely friend Beatrice on the way! Such a delightful woman, always so honest, isn’t she?” Anna gave her mother-in-law a knowing look, watching her face pale.
Through dinner, Anna laid on the performance: heaping the choicest bites onto her mother-in-law’s plate, loudly admiring every comment, endlessly seeking advice about running a home.
“Mummy, do you think borscht should simmer for five or six hours? And carpets—best cleaned morning or night? Maybe I should give up my job—after all, David needs a proper family, doesn’t he?”
David stared in shock; the relatives exchanged glances. Anna kept going:
“I was thinking—maybe I should sign up for housekeeping classes? This silly surgery business, perhaps it’s not for me… A woman should be the heart of the home, shouldn’t she, Mummy?”
Her mother-in-law began tapping her fork nervously against her plate. Her poise crumbled with every minute.
And what happened next? Well, some stories are best read all the way to the end… Monday, 5th June I parked the car one street away from my mother-in-laws house, glancing at the dashboard clock.
Did your friend visit again? The fridge is always empty when shes been! James, has your little Emily
When I married Patrick, I truly believed our marriage would be built on love and respect. But, over the
The winter of 1987 is etched into my memory, along with many others in the city. People dont talk about
Lucy, darling, pleaseIm asking youher mother bent down beside Lucy, crouching down at her levelWe have
Spring 1992, in a small English town: Every morning, a quiet man named David sat on a bench outside the railway station—not begging, not talking, just staring at the tracks with a battered carrier bag at his feet. Once a train driver before the strikes and closures of the late ’80s, he was left behind when the world changed. At 54, silence clung to him. At eight, he’d arrive as if reporting for old shifts, staying until noon, known by locals only as “the one who worked for British Rail.” One day, a nervous 19-year-old with a battered rucksack and a crumpled letter sat nearby, anxiously checking the time. “Is there a train to Manchester?” he asked, without looking up. “Quarter to four,” David replied. The lad confessed he’d made it to university but didn’t have fare to get there. David said nothing, walked away, and returned minutes later—leaving behind his old railway pass and some cash. “I don’t need these anymore,” he said. “I’ve arrived where I’m meant to be. It’s your turn.” The boy tried to refuse, but David insisted: “If someday you make it, help someone else. That’s all.” Years passed. The young man succeeded and returned to repay the debt, but David said simply, “Keep it going.” A decade later, visiting home, the man learned David had lost a leg in an accident but still kept that dignified gaze. He brought David a new wheelchair and quietly slipped an envelope of money in the pocket—“So you can keep moving, just as you once helped me.” In a world where so much is lost—friends, trains, years—kindness comes back around if we don’t break the chain. If you’ve seen or received a kindness that kept the chain unbroken, share your story. We need more tales that bring us together. A like, comment, or share helps keep the kindness going. Back in the spring of 1992, in a small English town, there was a man who sat on a bench outside the railway
You’re Not Welcome: How a Daughter Rejected Her Mother Because of Her Appearance
I’m Sorry, Mum… Please Don’t Come Over Right Now — whispered my daughter quietly, almost offhand, as she laced up her trainers in the hallway. — Thank you for everything, really, but right now… it’s best if you stay home and rest.
I already had my bag in hand and was slipping on my coat, ready as usual to go look after my granddaughter while my daughter went off to yoga. It was always so well-rehearsed — I’d arrive, babysit, then catch the bus home to my little bedsit. But today, everything was different. After her words, I just stood there, frozen.
Had something happened? Had I put the baby down wrong? Buttoned up the wrong babygrow? Fed her at the wrong time? Or maybe, just maybe… was I simply caught looking “wrong”?
But no, the truth was much more ordinary — and hurtful.
It was about her in-laws. Wealthy, influential, holding all the right positions, they’d suddenly decided to visit their granddaughter every day. With serious faces, they unwrapped presents and sat at the dining table they’d picked out themselves. They’d gifted the young couple the flat as well.
The furniture, the tea — all from them. They brought over posh Darjeeling and made themselves at home. Apparently now claiming my granddaughter as “theirs”. And me… I was in the way.
Me, the retired railway worker with thirty years’ service, just an ordinary woman, no titles or frills, no fancy clothes or designer hairstyle.
“Mum, look at yourself,” said my daughter. “You’ve put on weight. Your hair’s gone grey. You look… untidy. Those jumpers are hideous. And you smell like the train. Do you understand?”
I stayed silent. What can you say to that?
After she’d left, I stared into the mirror. I saw a woman with tired eyes, lines around her mouth, a stretched out pullover, and red cheeks burning with embarrassment. Disgust at myself welled up inside me, sudden as a downpour on a sunny day. I went out for some air as my throat clenched tight and traitorous, bitter tears slid down my face.
Then I returned to my tiny flat on the edge of town. I sat on the sofa and scrolled through old photos on my brick of a mobile. My daughter — just a little girl, with a hair ribbon at her first day of school. Prom. Graduation. Her wedding. My granddaughter, smiling from her cot.
My whole life in these pictures. Everything I’d lived for. Everything I’d poured myself into. And now, being told “don’t come over”, well, maybe that’s how it’s meant to be. My time had passed. I’d played my part. Now my job was to keep out of the way. Not to be a burden. Not to upset their lives with my unfashionable face. If they needed me, they’d call. Maybe.
Some weeks passed. Then one day, the phone rang.
“Mum…” her voice sounded strained. “Could you come by? The nanny’s quit, the in-laws… well, they’re showing their true colours. André’s out with his mates. I’m on my own.”
I paused for a moment. Then answered calmly:
“I’m sorry, love. I can’t just now. I need to look after myself. Become ‘worthy’, as you put it. If that ever happens — maybe then I’ll come.”
I hung up. And for the first time in ages, I smiled. Sadly. But with pride. Forgive me, Mum, but please dont come over just now, all right? my daughter said, quietly and rather
I remember the evening I stepped out of my sons home, leaving behind a piping hot casserole and my apron
Oliver is only twelve, yet the course of his short life has already been marked by difficulties.
Olivia had spent the whole day preparing for New Years Evecleaning, cooking, setting the table.
