Stubborn Mothers
When Oliver and Emily got married, both families were overjoyed.
Natalie, Oliver’s mother, even shed a few tears outside the registry office. Meanwhile, Victoria, Emily’s mum, hugged her new son-in-law as if she’d known him since childhood.
Neither Natalie nor Victoria had husbands. Both had raised their children alone. Both had been through a lot.
Despite their differences—one strict and decisive, the other gentler—they had always respected each other. Neither wanted to build their children’s happiness on someone else’s nerves.
At first, the newlyweds rented a flat. A tiny one-bedroom, with a chain-smoker next door and a noisy courtyard. But at least they were their own bosses.
About six months later, Emily had an idea. Oliver thought it was brilliant—simple and logical.
Two weeks later, *that* conversation happened. With the mums…
***
“Mum, don’t take this the wrong way. Emily and I have been thinking…”
Natalie just stared at her son, waiting. She was used to his wild ideas by now.
“Well… you’ve got a two-bed, and Victoria’s got a three-bed. Meanwhile, we’re stuck in a rented flat—expensive and cramped. We’d like to move into hers.”
“Go on.”
“You and Victoria… well, you could live together. She’d move in with you, and we’d take her place. More space all around.”
He said it like he was explaining the rules of a board game. Calm. As if it were obvious.
“For how long?” Natalie asked.
“Well… until we can buy our own place. Maybe five years. Or ten.”
Natalie didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. She just said,
“I’ll think about it.”
Then she stepped out onto the balcony. Stood there a long time, staring at the empty street below, feeling a slow, creeping cold rise in her chest.
***
The next day, Victoria heard the same thing from her daughter.
“Mum, you and Natalie get along fine. Not best friends, but you’re civil. So why not live together? Then we could move in here—”
Victoria cut her off.
“So you’re asking me to rent out my life?”
Emily faltered.
“No! It’s just… your lives are settled. Ours is just starting…”
“Settled? So I’m already obsolete?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. Thanks, love.”
***
A week later, they all sat down to talk.
Natalie arrived first. Then Victoria. They took their seats across from the young couple.
Oliver and Emily looked solemn. Almost formal.
“Mums, we don’t want a fight. We’re asking you to understand and meet us halfway. We’re struggling. No savings. We’re planning for kids. You’ve both got homes, and we’re stuck renting, throwing money away. Where’s the sense in that? Is it really so hard to live together?”
Natalie answered first.
“Yes. Especially when it means realising your own son sees you as… an inconvenience.”
Victoria picked up:
“Try seeing it from our side. We’ve each got our own lives. Our own peace. Our own rhythms. Our *homes*. We don’t owe anyone anything, and we’re not obliged to rearrange ourselves for anyone.”
“But you’re both single! You’d have company. What’s the problem?” Emily pressed.
“Self-respect,” Natalie said. “And the right to our own lives.”
“So you don’t care how we live?” Oliver’s voice dripped with hurt.
“We do care,” Victoria replied. “But there’s a difference between helping and trampling yourself into the dirt. You’re asking for the second one.”
The young couple exchanged glances. Clearly, they hadn’t expected this.
They’d braced for an argument. Maybe tears. And in the end, compliance.
Instead, they got a quiet, firm *no*.
That evening, Natalie washed the dishes—slowly, methodically. Every spoon. As if searching for peace in the motion.
Victoria, with the same aim, launched into an impromptu deep clean. Scrubbing, polishing. Anything to keep her mind blank.
As she worked, the anger faded, leaving only exhaustion.
No, they weren’t against their kids. They didn’t wish them ill. But after that talk, one thing was clear: to their children, they no longer mattered as people.
They were just foundations—something solid to walk over without looking down.
Their kids didn’t care that they were human. With habits. With loneliness. With a right to their own space.
***
A month passed.
Oliver and Emily never brought it up again.
They rented a bigger flat. Took out a loan.
They still complained, of course. About prices. About chores. About how hard it was without help.
But they never again asked their mothers to move in together.
Maybe they’d listened. Or maybe they’d sobered up after posting about their “stubborn mums” online and reading the comments. Nearly every one started with: “Are you out of your minds?”
Meanwhile, Natalie and Victoria grew closer. They went to the theatre, swapped recipes. Not quite best friends, but allies.
“Imagine,” Victoria chuckled once, “they still think we just didn’t *get* it.”
Natalie shrugged. “Let them. Just so long as they don’t start singing that tune again.”
***
And that’s the story.
About how children grow up—but don’t always grow wiser.
About how mothers aren’t furniture to be rearranged at will.
About how the right to a life of your own doesn’t expire at fifty. Sometimes, that’s when it really begins.
***
So—would you do it?
Move in with your in-law just because the kids can’t afford rent?
