**Stubborn Mothers**
When Oliver and Emily got married, both families rejoiced.
Margaret, Oliver’s mother, even wiped away a tear outside the registry office. Victoria, Emily’s mum, hugged her new son-in-law as if she’d known him since childhood.
Neither Margaret nor Victoria had husbands. Both had raised their children alone. Both had endured their share of hardships.
Yet despite their differences—one stern and uncompromising, the other gentler—they always treated each other with respect. They refused to build their children’s happiness on borrowed nerves.
The newlyweds rented a cramped one-bed flat at first—thin walls, a chain-smoking neighbour, a noisy courtyard. But at least they had their independence.
Six months later, Emily had an idea. Oliver thought it was brilliant. Perfectly logical.
Two weeks after that, *the* conversation happened. With their mums…
***
“Mum, don’t take this the wrong way. We—Emily and I—we’ve been thinking…”
Margaret watched her son in silence. She waited, bracing herself. She knew his wild ideas well.
“So… you’ve got a two-bedroom house, Victoria’s got a three-bedder. Emily and I are stuck in this rented place. It’s expensive, and it’s a dump. We want to move into the three-bed.”
“Go on.”
“You and Victoria… well, you could live together. She’d move in with you, and we’d take her place. More space for everyone.”
He said it like he was explaining the rules of Monopoly. Calm. Unshaken.
“How long?” Margaret asked.
“Until we save up for our own place. Five years, maybe. Ten.”
Margaret didn’t shout. Her face didn’t flicker. She just said, “I’ll think about it.”
Then she stepped onto the balcony. Stood there a long time, staring at the empty street below, feeling a slow, suffocating chill crawl up her chest.
***
The next day, Victoria heard the same from Emily.
“Mum, you get on with Margaret. Not like *best mates*, but you’re civil. So why not live together? Then we could move in here…”
Victoria cut her off.
“You’re offering to rent out my *life*?”
Emily flinched.
“No! It’s just… your lives are settled now. We’re just starting…”
“*Settled*? So I’m already rubbish to you?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Oh, I understood. Thanks, love.”
***
A week later, they all sat down together.
Margaret arrived first. Victoria, second. They took their seats across from the younger couple.
Oliver and Emily looked solemn. Almost rehearsed.
“We’re not trying to cause trouble,” Oliver began. “We just want you to *understand*. We’re struggling. No savings. Planning for kids. You both own your homes. We’re throwing money away on rent. Where’s the sense in that? Is it really so hard for you to live together?”
Margaret answered first.
“Yes. Especially when your son treats you like an *inconvenience*.”
Victoria added:
“Try seeing it from our side. We’ve built our own lives. Our own quiet. Our own routines. We don’t *owe* anyone. We shouldn’t have to rearrange ourselves for you.”
“But you’re both single!” Emily pressed. “Wouldn’t it be nicer together? What’s stopping you?”
“Self-respect,” Margaret said. “And the right to a life of our own.”
“So you don’t care how we live?” Oliver’s voice cracked.
“We *do*,” Victoria said. “But there’s a difference between helping and choking yourself for someone else’s comfort. You’re asking for the second.”
The young couple exchanged glances. This wasn’t what they’d expected.
They’d braced for an argument. Tears. A reluctant *yes* at the end.
Instead, they got a quiet, unshakable *no*.
That evening, Margaret washed the dishes—slowly, methodically. Every spoon. As if peace could be found in the rhythm of it.
Victoria scrubbed her flat raw, dusting places untouched for months. Anything to stop the thoughts.
The anger faded as they worked, leaving only exhaustion.
They weren’t against their children. They wished them no harm. But after that talk, one thing was clear: to their kids, they weren’t people anymore.
Just foundations. Something solid to walk on without looking down.
Did they even see them? *People*, with their own solitude, their own rhythms, their own right to a door that closed?
***
A month passed.
Oliver and Emily never brought it up again.
They rented a bigger flat. Took out a loan.
Complained, of course. About prices. About work. About how hard it was without help.
But they never asked their mums to move in together again.
Maybe they’d listened. Or maybe the comments on their social media post—*“Are you out of your damn minds?”*—had woken them up.
Margaret and Victoria, meanwhile, grew closer. Theatre trips. Recipe swaps. Not quite best friends, but allies, certainly.
“Can you believe it?” Victoria chuckled once. “They still think we just *didn’t get* their genius plan.”
“Let them think,” Margaret shrugged. “Just so they don’t start singing that old tune again.”
***
And that’s the story.
About how children grow up, but don’t always grow *wise*.
About mothers not being furniture—something to shift around for convenience.
About how the right to a life doesn’t expire at fifty. Sometimes, that’s when it *begins*.
***
So, tell me—would *you* have agreed?
Moved in with your in-law… just because your kids found rent too steep?
