“I Don’t Want Any Other Daughter-in-Law, Do What You Like!” – A Mother’s Ultimatum Forces Her Son to Choose Between Love and Ambition, Changing All Their Lives Forever

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 1

I dont want any other daughter-in-law, do what you like! thats what his mum told him.

So, David was wrapping up his degree at university, and he figured it was a great time to marry his first love from sixth form, Emily! Emily was not only pretty, but she was also kind and smart. Just then, she was working on her masters dissertation. The two agreed theyd get married as soon as she graduated.

David thought he should tell his mum about their plans, but unfortunately, things didnt go how hed hoped. His mum told him, rather bluntly, that he could either marry Sophie from down the road or no one else. Then she started quizzing him: what mattered more, his career or love? His mum had always pictured him as a success, dreaming of him climbing the career ladder.

Now, Sophie was from a well-off family in town, and honestly, shed fancied David for ages. But David, his eyes were only for Emily, whose family didnt have the best reputation. Emilys mum was often talked about, and not in a good way. Can you imagine the neighbours and all their whispers?

I dont want any other daughter-in-law, so do what you want! his mum said firmly.

David tried and tried to change his mums mind, but she wouldnt budge. In the end, she even said that if he married Emily, shed cut him off completely. David lost his nerve. He kept seeing Emily for another six months, but you know how these things gothe relationship just faded.

Eventually, he ended up marrying Sophie. She truly loved him, but for David, it was never quite right. They skipped the big wedding bashall because David didnt want Emily to stumble across the pictures. Sophies family had serious money, so David moved into their big old house, and her parents even pulled a few strings to help him out at work. Still, he was never happy.

David didnt want kids. When Sophie realised shed never change his mind, she filed for divorce herself. By then, David was forty and Sophie was thirty-eight. She soon remarried, had a child, and, honestly, seemed genuinely happy.

All the while, David still dreamed about marrying Emily. He tried everything to find her, but it was as if shed vanished. Then he heardthrough a matethat after they split, Emily had married the first bloke she met, and he turned out to be an absolute rotter, violent too. She didnt survive.

It tore David apart. After that, he ended up alone in his parents dreary old flat and just drank his life away. He would sit there, looking wistfully at Emilys photo, full of regret, never able to forgive his mum.

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned Me — “Those clothes belonged to my mother. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly that of a stranger. “We should throw them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the closet, and I need space for the winter duvets and spare pillows. Everything’s a mess,” I replied, all practicality as I cleared his late mother’s neat blouses, skirts, and summer dresses from their hangers. Valerie Ferguson always hung her clothes with care, a habit she’d instilled in her son. Meanwhile, my own wardrobes were chaos — every morning a dive for something to wear, complaining there was nothing suitable, frantically steaming creased jumpers that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat back out by a cow. Only three weeks had passed since Steve laid his mum to rest. Valerie needed help — palliative care by the end — and peace and quiet at home. Stage 4 cancer took her quickly. Steve had brought her to live with us, and she faded in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her things dumped in the hallway like rubbish and stood dumbstruck. Was that it? That’s how things were to be — his mum cast aside and forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like Karl Marx at a factory owner?” I shot back. “Don’t touch those things,” Steve hissed through gritted teeth, the blood pounding in his head. “What do we need with all this old junk?” I snapped, losing my temper. “You want to start a living museum for your mother? She’s gone, Steve. You need to accept it! If only you’d shown this much care when she was alive. Maybe if you’d visited more, you’d have known how ill she’d become.” Steve flinched at my words as if struck. “Go. Just go, before I do something I regret,” he managed. I snorted. “Fine. Psycho.” Anyone who dared disagree with me, in my book, always had to be a bit touched. Still in his shoes, Steve marched to the wardrobe in the hall, climbed on a stool, and took down one of those old tartan bags — we had seven from our last house move. Carefully he folded every item of Valerie’s, stacking them neatly. Her coat and a bag of shoes on top. Our three-year-old son bustled around, ‘helping’, tossing his toy tractor in the bag too. At last, Steve fished out a key from the hallway drawer and slipped it in his pocket. “Where are you going, Daddy?” Steve smiled bitterly, hand on the door. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go to Mummy.” “Wait!” I called from the lounge. “You’re leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” “No thanks. I’ve had enough of how you’ve treated my mum.” “Oh, come off it. Why the drama? You’re going out at this hour?” He was already gone, firing up the car and pulling away, aimlessly following the dull traffic of the North Circular, his mind crowded with grief, everything else — work, holidays, silly memes — shrinking away. Only a single thought trudged across his mind like a great, heavy tortoise: what mattered most — his children, his wife… and his mum. All his regrets poured down: not visiting enough, always distracted, always busy — and his mum never asking for help, never wanting to trouble him. He put calls off, cut conversations short. And now, it was far too late. He stopped at a roadside café, wolfed down something quick, then drove three more hours to his old village. By nightfall, he parked outside his mum’s house — the home of his childhood. Nothing was visible in the darkness. Fumbling with the gate lock by phone light, he saw five missed calls from me. He switched to silent and left it there. The air smelled sweet and thick, heavy with the last of the lilacs, moths fluttering in the darkness. He unlocked the door; the porch lit dimly. By the second door: his mum’s battered slippers, ones he’d gifted years ago — navy blue, with two red bunnies on the toes. He stood still for a moment, staring. Hello, Mum, are you waiting for me? No, she wasn’t. The house smelled of old furniture and damp. The lounge gleamed with a newer sofa he’d bought her, a television, the fridge left open. Nobody lived here now. Her bedroom, small, neat, her bed made with a pyramid of pillows, a white throw. Steve sat on the edge, remembering this was once his room, then his brother’s. His mum had moved her things in after they left. He sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe as if expecting his mother to step out. His vision blurred with tears. He doubled over, face pressed to his knees, and sobbed. All that was left were unsaid words from her last day, memories and a thousand thank-yous that stuck in his throat, too late to utter. “Don’t look at me like that, Steve,” she’d whispered. “I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her — for his childhood, for sacrifices, for love, for the security she’d given. He’d wanted to say, “Thank you for the safe harbour you made. Thank you, for always bringing me back home, no matter how many mistakes I made.” But he’d sat there, too clumsy for the words, feeling everything he might say sounded grandiose and outdated; our modern age has no language for proper gratitude — only for cynicism and empty words. He slept on top of the made bed, wrapped in a woollen blanket from the chair. He woke at seven. Always seven, no matter what. He fetched the bag from the car. The birches lining the garden across the road shimmered in pale-green spring, like young ladies at a garden party. Steve stood and breathed in the birdsong, the freshness, feeling lucky for having grown up here, not in a concrete block. He stretched and started carefully putting his mum’s clothes back in her wardrobe, one by one, folding, hanging, arranging her shoes below. At last, he stepped back and saw her there, in those same outfits, smiling that soft, motherly smile, wordlessly saying “I love you.” He rested his hand on her dresses, hugging them close, breathing her scent. What to do with them now, he still didn’t know. Finally, he returned to the present and called work, then texted me: “Sorry I got angry. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” The garden paths burst with daffodils and tulips, and he picked a handful plus some lily-of-the-valley from behind the gooseberry bush — a strange bouquet for the graves. There were three waiting: brother, father, mother. Flowers laid, chocolate for each, and a piece of cheese for his mum — the cheese she’d always asked for from the village shop. Their smiles beamed from the gravestones as he remembered childhood mischief, dawn fishing trips with his dad, his mother’s voice calling his name across the fields. He stood and smoothed the dark soil of his mother’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… I should have done more. Life’s so empty now you’re gone, no matter how independent we thought we were. Thank you for everything. You and dad were the best parents. How did you do it? Olya and I… we’re selfish. Thank you, for everything, and you too, little brother.” Heading home along the footpath, nibbling on stalks of fresh grass, Steve ran into an old mate, already drinking and looking worse for wear. “Hey, Steve, back again?” “Yeah, just visiting,” Steve replied. “You ought to look after your mum; she’s a diamond — she won’t be here forever,” he said, brushing past. “Alright, fair enough. Take care, Steve,” the drunk mumbled after him. “Goodbye, mate,” Steve called, not looking back.

03

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your interest and your feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five cats for all your donations. Please share any stories you’ve enjoyed on social media—authors appreciate it! My daughter came home late from her shift at the trauma clinic where she works as a nurse. She took a long shower and then, wearing her dressing gown, came into the kitchen. “There are some pork chops and pasta in the pan,” I suggested, peering at her face to see what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? Why the glum mood?” “I’m not eating, I look awful enough as it is—if I gain weight, no one will even glance at me,” Lucy replied gloomily, pouring herself some tea. “Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “You’re perfectly fine—your eyes are clever, your nose and lips quite normal—don’t be so hard on yourself, Lucy.” “It’s just that all my friends have long been married, except me! Only the oddest blokes seem to like me. The ones I fall for don’t even notice me. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she asked, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your fate yet, that’s all—the time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy only grew more upset. “Right, well, ‘clever eyes’ because they’re tiny, thin lips and just look at my nose! If we had the money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re poor! So I’ve decided I’ll marry someone disabled—there are men at the clinic who got dumped by girlfriends after an accident or injury. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait any longer!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that—your dad’s never been steady on his feet. I’d hoped my son-in-law would help at the allotment—such a big help for us, or how will we manage?” I blurted out, then rushed to backtrack. “Not that you should marry anyone just for that, Lucy, but not everyone is well-off. Why go for someone disabled? Our neighbour Alex is a decent chap, interested in you for ages—strong and healthy, your children would be too, and…” “Mum, please! Alex can’t keep a job, drinks too much, and we have nothing to talk about!” Lucy protested. “You don’t have to talk with him, I’ll send him to dig up the garden with the cultivator, then we can eat, or send him to the shop. He’s a good lad, diligent—maybe something would work out?” I suggested hopefully. But Lucy just pushed away her tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. Seriously, I thought you at least thought of me as a real person, but you, like everyone else, think I’m a freak…” “Lucy, darling, how could you think that?” I called after her, but she just waved me off and closed her bedroom door in my face. She lay awake for ages, thinking of the lad who’d recently arrived at the clinic—he lost his leg below the knee. A piece of masonry had crushed it in a derelict house set for demolition—he’d gone in there for some reason and was trapped until they finally got him out, but his leg was beyond saving. No visitors came for him, and he wasn’t yet thirty. At first, he used to hold Lucy’s hand and look at her with wide, pleading eyes straight after surgery. Then, adjusting to his new reality, he’d just gaze silently at the ceiling. She felt more sorry for him than others—maybe because no one came for him. “You think I’ll ever walk again?” he asked her recently, not looking her way. “Of course you will—everything will heal, you’re young!” she replied firmly. “People always say that. Try living with just one leg—what kind of life is that?” he snapped, turning away from her as though it was her fault. “Why did you go in there anyway?” Lucy shot back, angry now. “It’s your own fault!” “Thought I saw something,” he grumbled. Now, whenever she entered, he kept turned away. Lucy studied him—pale, cold blue eyes, but a lovely face. She was sorry for him. “Pity me, don’t you?” he caught her looking one day. “It’s obvious. People like me are only pitied, never loved.” “Nobody loves people like me, either—even though I have arms and legs. I’m just not right—no one even pities me. Maybe it’d be better off if I’d lost a limb too, then at least I’d get sympathy,” Lucy snapped, tears prickling. That made Misha smile at her—really smile—for the first time. “Are you mad? You’re not ugly at all. Honestly, I look at you and can only envy the man you choose, believe it.” Lucy looked at him, and to her surprise, she believed him. She blurted out what had been on her mind: “If I chose you, would you marry me?” He was silent, so she pouted, “Silent means no—you’re just pretending! Got it!” She stood up to leave, annoyed. Misha hauled himself upright with his elbows as if to chase after her, remembered he couldn’t, and called after her: “Marry me, Lucy, I promise you soon no one will even notice my leg. I’ll recover fast—don’t go, Lucy!” Lucy and Misha She stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears, but at the same time suddenly felt—he’s the one. It didn’t matter if her nose or eyes weren’t “right”, or if he was missing a leg. They’d found each other—that’s all. Her time had come, just like Mum said… Misha threw himself into rehab with passion. He had a new purpose now—to marry his wonderful girl and walk for their future together. He wanted Lucy to smile, to never feel unwanted again. He needed her, badly—he only wanted to share his life with her. “Have you fallen in love at last, darling?” Mum asked slyly soon after. “Look at you—you’re glowing, after telling me you were ugly.” Lucy didn’t even deny it; she floated everywhere on air. Her greatest wish now was for Misha to walk comfortably and get used to his prosthesis. They spent longer and longer out together, first in the clinic yard, then along snow-swept, New Year-lit streets. “They’ve demolished the old house now—right there, that’s where it happened,” Misha showed her once. “So why’d you go in—what did you see? You never told me,” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh—I saw a stray puppy in there, skinny, black with white patches, thought I’d take him home. Didn’t want to live alone,” Misha explained. “There’s a dog over there, all ribs and big, scared eyes,” Lucy pointed. “That’s probably him!” Misha grinned, and sure enough, the dog followed them all the way home, keeping his distance. “At least Lucy’s found herself a handsome young husband, and he’s got his own flat and no mother-in-law attached!” friends joked at her wedding. Lucy’s mum even shed a tear when Misha started calling her “Mum”. He was an orphan, no family at all. But a truly warm soul—and above all, they loved each other. May they be happy. Never mind the allotment—life is bigger than vegetables, and Misha does everything anyway and it all works out! Lucy and Misha live together with their dog, Kuzma—soon to be joined by another little one: they’re expecting a daughter. Never lose hope—or you might miss out and never know your chance at happiness. Life truly is wonderful in its unpredictability.

02

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Said — “Those clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth did you pack them up?” my husband demanded, his voice suddenly so unfamiliar. — “We should just throw them away, Steve. We don’t need them cluttering half the wardrobe! I need the space for winter blankets and spare pillows — you know how everything’s always scattered about.” With brisk determination, Olivia kept pulling her late mother-in-law’s modest cardigans, skirts, and light dresses off their hangers, while Valeria’s things had always been neatly arranged to keep everything tidy — a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. Olivia, on the other hand, was forever lost in the chaos of overflowing wardrobes each morning, sighing about having “nothing to wear” and then frantically steaming out the creases from tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve had said his last goodbye to his mum. Valeria had needed treatment — mostly hopeless by then — and peace. Her cancer was already at stage four and progressing without mercy. Steve had taken her in, but she’d faded away in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her clothes tossed in a pile like unwanted rubbish in the middle of the hallway. He felt frozen in shock. Was that it then? Was this how his mother was to be remembered — thrown out and instantly forgotten? — “Why are you staring at me like that, as if you’re the ghost of Christmas past?” Olivia retorted, shifting to the side. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Steve hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely he momentarily couldn’t feel his hands or feet. — “We don’t need that old tat!” Olivia snapped, losing her temper. “What do you want, a museum at home? Your mum’s gone — deal with it! You should’ve cared more while she was alive. Visited more, then you might have realised how ill she was!” Steve flinched at her words, as if she’d lashed him across the face. — “Leave before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice shaking. Olivia snorted: — “Please do. Psycho…” To Olivia, anyone with an opinion different from her own was automatically “mental.” Not bothering to take off his shoes, Steve marched to the hallway wardrobe, flung open the top doors and, balancing on a step-stool, grabbed one of their checkered shopping bags — the ones that had been so handy for their move. He carefully folded all of Valeria’s things into it, not just tossing but folding each into a neat rectangle. Her old coat and a bag of shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son toddled round, helping Daddy — even dropped his toy tractor into the bag to keep Grandma company. When Steve was done, he rummaged through the drawer, found the keys, and slipped them in his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Steve gave a sad smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, matey. Go find Mum.” — “Hold on!” Olivia called, appearing in the doorway. “Are you leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “I’ve had enough of how you treat my mum’s memory, thanks.” — “Oh, come on, what’s got into you now? Take your coat off. Where are you off to at this time?” With his back to her, Steve stepped out with the bag, started his car, pulled out of the drive, and headed for the M25. He drove, letting the motorway roar drown out his thoughts. Everything else receded — work projects, summer holiday plans, even the funny posts he used to love online. Only one thought crept, slow and heavy, through his mind, eclipsing everything: of all that filled his days, what truly mattered were his kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for her death — for not noticing, not making time, for always being too busy. She’d never wanted to be a burden, so he visited less, called less. Now it was too late. He made a brief pit stop at a roadside café for a snack, then drove the next three hours without a break. Only the sunset distracted him for a moment: a burst of crimson split the grey sky as if the sun clung desperately to the edge of the world. It was full dark when he arrived at his childhood village, shuffling along unpaved lanes until he pulled up outside his childhood home. Artist: Shaun Ferguson He couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Fumbling with the gate, using his phone for light — five missed calls from his wife, no, he couldn’t talk to anyone now. The air was sweet and heavy with blossom, attracting night moths. The chalk-white flowers glimmered ghostly in the dark. The old windows mirrored the night sky. Steve let himself in, feeling his way to the light switch in the hall. His mum’s gardening slippers waited by the door. By the inner door, her blue house shoes, worn out, with two red bunnies by the toe. Steve had bought them for her eight years ago. He paused, stared, shook his head, and opened the next door. Hello, Mum. Have you been waiting? No, no one waited for him in this house anymore. Inside, it smelled of old furniture and damp, musty as if the cellar breathed up from below. The house needed constant heating to keep off the mould. Her hairbrush and little collection of cosmetics still sat on the dresser; near the door, a see-through bag marked “Value” brimmed with pasta. The only new thing in the lounge was the sofa and telly he’d bought her. The fridge was open, a reminder no one lived here now. In her room — her side of the bed piled high with neatly covered pillows. Steve sat on the edge. This had once been his room, with a brother sharing the other bed, desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine stood in its place — Mum had loved her sewing. The second bed replaced by a wardrobe for her things. He sat in perfect silence, staring at the wardrobe as if a ghost might step out. His eyes glazed. He cupped his head in his hands, bent double, and sobbed into his knees. He wept for never having replied when she squeezed his hand that last day. He’d sat, numb, mute, seeing her fade, swallowing all the words he’d never say. “Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t look at me like that… I was happy with you.” And he’d so badly wanted to thank her for his carefree childhood, for every sacrifice, every bit of love, for the safe home she’d built — a place to return, no matter how badly you’d messed up. But he’d sat speechless, unable to find the words. Sometimes, all you can think of sounds so stilted, so old-fashioned, you’re embarrassed even to try. Ours is an age that hasn’t come up with words for real emotion — we’re excellent at cynicism and banter, not much else. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep, fully clothed, careful not to crush the made-up bed. Woke at seven, as always, amazed at his body’s routine. Out to the car for the bag. The birch trees across the lane, fresh in green, stood like spring bridesmaids. Morning sun warmed the branches to life. He stood on the porch a minute: birdsong, crisp air — how lucky to have grown up here and not in some concrete city. A stretch, a deep breath, then back inside to unpack his mum’s things. One by one, he placed them carefully back on the shelves and hangers, her shoes neatly below. When everything was in order, he stepped back to check — was it tidy enough? He half-saw her, floating in those outfits, always smiling that warm, wordless “I love you.” Running a hand along the hanging blouses and dresses, he hugged the row, breathed in the old familiar scent… and just stood there. He had no idea what to do next. Eventually, remembered the present: found his phone. — “Hi, Mr Thompson. I won’t make it in today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a quick message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” Along the garden, flowers crowded the path. Daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, and near the gooseberry bushes — lilies of the valley. Strange bouquet… He split it in three: at the cemetery, he’d visit three graves. When he passed the shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten, bought milk, a bread roll — and a chocolate bar. — “Oh, Steve! You’re back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs Harris, was surprised. — “Yeah… Came to see Mum,” Steve mumbled, looking away. — “I understand. Want some cheddar? Just in, special delivery. Your mum always bought it.” He blinked — was she having a dig? No, she was just a simple soul. — “No, it’s fine. Well, actually — why not. And you, Mrs H., are you alright?” — “Oh!” she waved it off. She and Valeria had been best friends. “Don’t ask. My Terry’s gone completely off the rails. Always drunk.” Steve ate breakfast right there at the cemetery, laid out the flowers: daffodils, lilies, tulips. Brother, dad, mum. His brother had been first — fell off the roof fixing tiles. Just twenty. Five years later, dad died. Now mum. A bit of chocolate for each, and for mum, a piece of cheddar. He chatted with them in his head. He remembered the mischief he and his brother got up to. How at dawn he’d go fishing with Dad — his cast was wild, cowboy style. And Mum! How she’d belt out “Ste-e-eve! Dinner!” across the whole village — her voice carried for miles, and he’d squirm in front of his mates. Oh, if only she’d call him in now. He touched the temporary cross on his mother’s grave. The earth still fresh, the mound dark in the sun. “Mum… forgive me. I should’ve done more. We lived apart, but why does life feel so empty without you? There’s so much I want to tell you — and you, Dad. You were amazing, the very best parents. Thank you… How did you do it? Me and Olivia — we’re so much worse, so selfish. All I ever think is me, me, my… Thank you for everything. You too, Tom.” Time to go. Steve walked back by the fields, pulling up grass to chew. On the first street, he bumped into Terry, Mrs Harris’s son — drunk already, looking a mess. — “Oi, Stevo! Back again?” Terry slurred. — “Yeah… Visiting the family. You still drinking?” — “Of course. It’s a special day!” — “Oh really? What’s that then?” Terry fished a calendar from his shorts, flicked a page. — “World Turtle Day! See?” he declared wisely. — “Right…” Steve smirked. “Terry, look after your mum. She’s a gem, you know. And she won’t be around forever.” He walked on, leaving Terry baffled. Only after a moment did he call out: — “Yeah, alright… Cheers, Steve.” — “Yeah, take care,” Steve replied, not looking back.

018

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

“I Don’t Want Any Other Daughter-in-Law, Do What You Like!” – A Mother’s Ultimatum Forces Her Son to Choose Between Love and Ambition, Changing All Their Lives Forever