**Headstrong Mums**
When Oliver and Emily married, both families were over the moon.
Margaret, Oliver’s mother, even shed a tear outside the registry office. Meanwhile, Victoria, Emily’s mum, hugged her new son-in-law as if she’d known him since he was a boy.
Neither Margaret nor Victoria had husbands. Both had raised their children alone. Both had weathered their share of hardships.
Though their personalities differed—one stern and decisive, the other gentler—they had always treated each other with respect. Neither wanted to build their children’s happiness on strained relationships.
For the first few months, the newlyweds rented a flat. A tiny one-bed, a chain-smoking neighbour next door, a noisy courtyard. Still, it was theirs.
About six months in, Emily had an idea. To Oliver, it seemed brilliant—perfectly logical.
Two weeks later, *that* conversation happened. With the mums…
***
“Mum, don’t take this the wrong way. Emily and I have been thinking…”
Margaret watched her son in silence. She was used to his wild notions by now.
“Well… you’ve got a two-bed, and Victoria’s got a three-bed. And here we are, stuck in some rented place—expensive, cramped. We want to move into her flat.”
“Go on.”
“You and Victoria… you could live together. She’d move in with you, and we’d take her place. More space for everyone.”
He spoke as though explaining the rules of a board game. Calm. Certain.
“For how long?” Margaret asked.
“Well… until we buy our own place. Maybe five years. Or ten.”
Margaret didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. She only said, “I’ll think about it.”
Then she stepped onto the balcony. Stood there for a long time, staring at the empty garden below, feeling a slow, creeping chill settle in her chest.
***
The next day, Victoria heard the same from her daughter.
“Mum, you and Margaret get on alright. Not best mates, but you’re friendly. So why not live together for a bit? We’d take this place, and—”
Victoria cut her off.
“You’re offering to *rent out* my life?”
Emily blinked.
“No! It’s just… your lives are settled. Ours is just starting…”
“Settled? So I’m already old news?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Oh, I understood perfectly. Thanks, love.”
***
A week later, they all sat down together.
Margaret arrived first. Victoria second. The young couple faced them, solemn as judges.
“Mums, we don’t want a fight. We’re asking you to understand. We’re struggling. No savings, plans for kids. You’ve both got homes. We’re stuck paying rent. Where’s the sense in that? Would it really be so hard to share?”
Margaret spoke first.
“Yes. Especially knowing my own son sees me as… an inconvenience.”
Victoria continued,
“Kids, try seeing it our way. We’ve each got our own lives. Our own quiet. Our own rhythms. We don’t owe anyone, and we won’t bend ourselves backwards.”
“But you’re both single! It’d be fun, wouldn’t it? What’s the problem?” Emily pressed.
“Self-respect,” Margaret said. “And the right to my own life.”
“So you don’t care how we live?” Oliver’s voice carried hurt.
“We do,” Victoria said. “But there’s a difference between ‘helping’ and ‘cutting your own throat.’ You’re asking for the latter.”
The couple exchanged glances. This wasn’t the reaction they’d expected.
They’d braced for arguments. Tears. Eventually, surrender.
Instead—a firm, steady *no*.
That evening, Margaret washed dishes—slowly, methodically. Each spoon, as if peace lay in the motion.
Victoria, for the same reason, scrubbed her flat spotless. Dusted, polished. Anything to quiet her mind.
As they worked, the anger faded into weariness.
No, they weren’t against their children. Didn’t wish them harm. But after that talk, both knew: to their kids, they were no longer *people*.
Just foundations to tread on without looking down.
As if they weren’t human—with their own solitude, their habits, their right to a space untouched.
***
A month passed.
Oliver and Emily dropped the subject.
They rented a bigger flat. Took out a loan.
Still complained, of course. About bills, about chores, about how hard it was without help.
But they never asked their mothers to live together again.
Maybe they’d listened. Or maybe they’d sobered up after posting about their “headstrong mums” online and reading the replies. Nearly every comment began with: “Are you having a laugh?”
As for Margaret and Victoria? They grew closer. Went to the theatre, swapped recipes. Not quite bosom buddies, but allies, certainly.
“Can you believe it?” Victoria chuckled once. “They still think we just ‘didn’t get’ their genius idea.”
“Let them think,” Margaret shrugged. “Just so long as they don’t bring it up again.”
***
There you have it.
A story about grown children who never quite grew up.
About mothers who aren’t furniture to be rearranged at will.
About how the right to a life of your own doesn’t expire at fifty—sometimes, it’s only just beginning.
***
So—would *you* agree?
Move in with your in-law just because your kids find rent a slog?
