The Mother-in-Law
Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching milk quietly simmer on the stove. She had already forgotten to stir it three times, each time remembering too late—the foam would rise up and spill over, leaving her to wipe the mess in irritation. In those moments, she felt it clearly: it wasn’t about the milk at all.
Ever since her second grandchild was born, it felt as though her family had come off the rails. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes retreating straight to his room. Anna noticed, and thought: how can you leave a woman to manage alone?
She spoke up. Softly at first, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she soon noticed a strange thing: after she spoke, the house didn’t become lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew gloomier, and Anna returned home feeling as though somehow, she had done everything wrong again.
That day, she went to see Father Michael—not for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to take these feelings.
“I must be a terrible person,” she said, not looking at him. “I do everything wrong.”
The priest put down his pen.
“Why do you think that?”
Anna shrugged.
“I just wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angrier.”
He regarded her, kindly, not sternly.
“You’re not terrible. You’re just tired. And very anxious.”
She sighed. That sounded about right.
“I’m scared for my daughter,” she admitted. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” she waved her hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.”
“Have you noticed what he does do?” Father Michael asked.
Anna thought for a moment. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one saw. How, on Sunday, he took the pram for a walk, even though he looked like he longed to just collapse and sleep.
“He helps… I suppose,” she conceded. “But not in the right way.”
“What’s the right way?” the priest asked calmly.
Anna was ready to answer, but suddenly realised she didn’t know. In her mind, it was simply: more, better, more attentive. But what exactly—she couldn’t say.
“I just want it to be easier for her,” she said.
“Then say that,” Father Michael replied softly. “But don’t say it to him—say it to yourself.”
She looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, right now, you’re fighting not for your daughter, but with her husband. And fighting means tension. It tires everyone. You, and them.”
Anna was silent for a while. Then she asked:
“So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?”
“No,” he said. “Just do what helps. Deeds, not words. And not against someone—but for someone.”
On her way home, she thought about that. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her, but simply sat beside her when she cried. Why was it so different now?
The next day, she dropped in unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed.
“I won’t stay long,” Anna said, “Just came to help.”
She sat with the children while her daughter napped. Quietly left, without saying a word about how hard they had it, or what they ought to do.
A week later, she returned. And again the following week.
She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she noticed something else: the way he gently picked up the baby, the way he covered her daughter with a blanket in the evening, thinking no one noticed.
One day, in the kitchen, she finally asked him:
“Is it hard for you right now?”
He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked.
“It is,” he admitted after a pause. “Very.”
He said nothing more. But after that, something sharp seemed to leave the air between them.
Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But she needed to start with herself.
She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” She simply listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to be angry.
But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—quieter. Without the constant tension.
One day, her daughter told her:
“Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.”
Anna thought about those words for a long time.
She understood something simple: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone decides to stop fighting first.
She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That never went away.
But alongside it, something else lived—something more important: she wished for peace in the family.
And every time the old urge—indignation, resentment, the impulse to say something sharp—rose up, she asked herself:
Do I want to be right—or do I want to make things easier for them?
The answer, almost always, told her what to do next. Margaret was sat in the kitchen, watching milk gently simmering on the hob. Shed already forgotten to
I still remember the day I snatched a spare set of keys from my motherinlaw after catching her asleep
The grandchildren only get fruit once a month, and yet she buys that posh food for her cats!
So, listen to this. On Wednesday morning, while we were having breakfast, Charles asked if he could borrow
My grandchildren only get fresh fruit once a month, but shes buying expensive food for her cats, my daughter-in-law
I stopped ironing Simons shirts the day he called my whole day at home just sitting around.
The Most Important Thing Sophies temperature soared suddenly. The thermometer showed 40.5, and almost
DEAR DAUGHTER-IN-LAW Mother, Im marrying Eleanor. Were expecting in three months, my son said, leaving
Arthur settled himself comfortably at his desk, laptop open, mug of tea steaming away. There were a few
I Called Out the Window, “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” She Turned, Waving Her Shovel: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones.” The Next Day, Mum Was Gone…
Even Now I Can’t Pass Our Garden Without My Heart Breaking: Each Time I See That Path, It Feels Like Someone’s Gripping My Chest.
I Took That Photo on the Second of January—Just Passing By, I Saw Mum’s Footprints in the Snow and Stopped.
Snapped a Picture Without Knowing Why; Now, It’s All That Remains From Those Days…
We Always Celebrated New Year Together as a Family. On the 31st, Mum Was Up Early, Making Her Legendary Fried Cutlets, Calling Me Down in Her Peach-Print Apron.
Dad Brought Home a Giant Tree (“Blimey, Dad, Did You Chop Down the Whole Forest?”), Mum Dusted Off Our Old Decorations—Including the Glass Angel She Got Me for My First Christmas.
My Brother Showed Up With Champagne, My Sister and I Decorated, and at Midnight We All Went Outside. Sparklers, Mum by My Side, Whispering, “Isn’t Life Wonderful?”—And I Whispered Back, “The Best, Mum.”
We Laughed Until We Cried, Mum Dancing in Her Wellies, Dad Spinning Her Round.
The Next Morning, Mum Was Back in the Kitchen (“Save Room, It’s Only the Start of the Holidays!”), and On the 2nd, I Saw Her Clearing the Snow-Covered Path, Just Like Always (“Or You Lot Will End Up Trudging Through Drifts Till Spring—Put the Kettle On, Will You?”).
That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice.
On the 3rd, She Murmured, “Girls, My Chest Hurts a Bit…”—Brushed Off the Ambulance (“Just Tired, Love”), Joked as Always, but Suddenly, Something Was Deeply Wrong—Her Last Words, “I Love You So Much… Hate to Say Goodbye.”
Everything Happened in a Blink: One Day She Was Dancing Under Fireworks, and the Next, She Was Gone.
I Stood in the Snow, Staring at Her Footprints from Gate to Porch—The Last Path She Cleared for Us, and I Couldn’t Bear to Let the Snow Hide Them.
That Photo of Mum’s Final Tracks—I Look at It Every Third of January, Staring at the Bare Path Where Her Footprints Once Were, Realising: Beneath That Snow, She Left Her Last Mark.
And Somehow, I’m Still Following Her Steps… I remember calling out of the window, Mum, what are you doing outside so early? Youll catch your death!
