If Only Everyone Got “Help” Like This: How Polina’s Mother-in-Law Came to the Rescue and Nearly Broke Her Family

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 1

If only everyone had such help

Polly, love, Ill come by today and help out with the little ones.

I held my phone between my shoulder and ear, swaying baby Max who was wailing as if he hadnt eaten in days, despite polishing off his bottle twenty minutes ago.

Mrs. Goodwin, thank you, but were getting on fin

The line was already dead. My mother-in-law had hung up.

A loud crash echoed from the lounge that was Sam tipping over the box of building blocks, and Maisie squealed with delight as she flung them across the carpet. Max was crying so hard in my arms, youd think Id been starving him all week.

I glanced over at Anthony. He was glued to the sofa, eyes fixed determinedly on his phone, feigning intense interest in whatever was on the screen. A bit too intent, really.

You called your mum, didnt you.

It wasnt a question, just a statement.

Anthony shrugged, still not looking up.

Well yes. I can see youre struggling. Mumll help out

I wanted to say I was coping. That I didnt need any help. After all, somehow, in the three months since Max was born, Id managed to keep the house from descending into chaos, feed three children, and even snatch the occasional hour of sleep. But Max started howling again, so I slipped away to the bedroom to bounce him, bracing myself for Mrs. Goodwins impending arrival.

She turned up before lunch arms laden with two gigantic suitcases, brandishing the air of a woman dispatched to save a sinking ship.

Good heavens, Polly, you look dreadful! she declared, sweeping past me and casting her sharp gaze around the flat. And what a mess! Never mind, Im here now. Well soon get things sorted. Everything will be alright.

By the end of day one, I almost regretted not bolting the door.

Whats this? she eyed the chopping board suspiciously, watching me slice courgettes.

Vegetable stew. The children like it.

Stew? she repeated the word as if I were about to poison her grandchildren. Oh no, no. Anthony loves my shepherds pie. None of this foreign nonsense. Step aside, let me do it.

I moved away from the cooker, gripping the vegetable knife tightly.

The next morning, she woke me at seven, even though Max had only settled at five.

Polly! Are these really their clothes? What on earth are they wearing?

Sam and Maisie stood in their favourite dungarees one canary yellow, the other bright red. Id bought them so I could easily spot the twins on the playground.

Theyre fine, I said, a bit defensively.

Fine? You call that fine? Mrs. Goodwin was already digging neutrals out of her suitcase. They look like circus clowns! And its chilly, theyll catch their death. Ive brought proper jumpers.

But theyre comfortable in

Polly, please. She straightened up, folding her arms, eyes brimming with tears. Ive come to help, and youre being ungrateful, stubborn. I raised Anthony! I know how these things should be done. You you dont respect me. You dont appreciate anything.

With a theatrical sigh, she pressed a hand to her chest and slumped onto the dining chair, utterly wounded.

Anthony popped his head out from the bedroom, hovering uncertainly.

Oh, what now? he muttered at me. Mums just trying to help. We should all be so lucky to get this kind of support.

I kept quiet. Changed the twins into grey joggers and beige tops. Smiled because what else was there to do? Inside, I felt another piece of myself snap.

By the weeks end, our small home might as well have been Mrs. Goodwins domain. The childrens beds swapped places this is far better organised! meal times and bedtime routines all rewritten to fit her schedule. Every time Max needed feeding, she hovered nearby with advice bottle at the wrong angle, too hot, too cold. Anthony escaped to the balcony every half hour, standing there looking at the car park below, pretending nothing was amiss.

Id stopped sleeping at night. Id lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my nerves ragged and frayed. Every sound in the hallway made me flinch was she walking about, checking how the grandchildren slept if the sheets were straight enough?

Every morning Id crawl out of bed aching and jittery, make a cup of coffee, but it never helped.

Thursday night I opened the baby food cupboard, only to freeze. The shelves were bare.

Mrs. Goodwin? I stepped into the kitchen, where she was slicing cabbage, prepping yet another pie. Wheres Maxs formula?

I chucked that rubbish she didnt even turn round. All that chemical stuff, I read its dreadful for babies. I got proper food instead.

She nodded over at the table.

There it was: a cheap tin of powdered milk. The very brand that had given Max a rash from head to toe a month ago.

Hes allergic to that, I said.

Nonsense. She dismissed my worry with a wave. Its just you not feeding him right. Too soft, you are. This time will be fine, wait and see.

I looked at the tin, then at her, back to Anthony who, of course, was out on the balcony again. Something inside me snapped quietly, but thoroughly.

Forty minutes later, I was in a cab, clutching Max close. Sam and Maisie, in the rainbow-bright dungarees Id unearthed from under Mrs. Goodwins pile, stared wide-eyed out the window. My suitcase with just the essentials was stuffed in the boot.

At Mums front door, I broke down.

Mum I cant do this any more. I just cant.

She hugged me, led me into the kitchen, set me at the table and poured tea, stroking my hair while I sobbed into my teacup.

Itll be alright, sweetheart. You and the children stay with me for now.

My phone vibrated from eleven until three in the morning.

Polly, what the hell are you playing at? Anthony shouted when I answered. Mums in bits! She only wanted to help! And you!

I just want a bit of peace I hissed, trying not to wake the kids. She tossed Maxs formula the one thing he can eat and brought something that gives him a rash!

You exaggerate! Mum knows best! Shes been doing this for years!

Well then, maybe you and your mum can live together!

Youre an ungrateful lunatic, he spat. Youd be lost without her. Come home, now.

Im not coming back while shes there.

Silence. Then a muttered, Suit yourself, and he hung up.

The next morning I went down to the registry office and filed for divorce.

Three days later, I returned for the rest of my things. Alone Mum stayed home with the kids.

Mrs. Goodwin met me at the door.

Polly, how could you do this to us? Splitting the children up from their father! Keeping their granny from them! Its heartless! Cruel! I poured my soul into your family. Everyone should be so fortunate as to have help like mine!

I stopped. Looked at her this woman whod upended my life under the pretense of kindness. The one whod thrown out Maxs food, rearranged the entire house, dressed the children in what she saw fit, shooed me away from my own kitchen and pushed me right over the edge.

Youll survive, I heard my own voice, cold and unfamiliar.

She recoiled theatrically, gasping. Anthony stormed in, grabbing my wrist.

Whats the matter with you? Dont speak to my mum like that!

I yanked my arm free, really looking at my husband for the first time this grown man, still running to his mummy every time things got tough.

Dont touch me.

I pushed past, packed what was left of my belongings, and left. Didnt look back.

The divorce came through two months later. Anthony rang incessantly for about a fortnight, then gave up. Mrs. Goodwin sent a novella of a message, listing all my failings and how Id destroyed her sons life. I deleted it without reading past the first few lines.

Mums place was cramped, but peaceful. At night, Id pace the little kitchen soothing Max, gazing into the dark London skies. By day, Id take the twins out to the park, feed them the stew they liked, and let them dress in whatever made them happy.

Six months on, Sam and Maisie started nursery. I found work as an editor, working from home after bedtime. Money was tight, but there was enough for the essentials.

Evenings became my favourite: Id sit on the sofa, Max sleeping quietly nearby, the twins wriggling in under each arm, demanding their story. Id read The Three Little Pigs, doing all the voices, Maisie giggling, Sam nodding gravely in approval with every page.

At those moments, Id lean back, look at my kids, and know Id made the right decision. The road ahead was going to be tough and lonely at times, raising three children on my own. But it was the right road for us, and thats what mattered.

Love Isn’t for Show Ann came out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, her mood sour as she passed by her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the well for three days now. He wanted to carve it to make it pretty—like he had nothing else to do! While his wife rushed about the house and tended the livestock, he just stood there with his chisel, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? He never said a gentle word, never banged his fist on the table—instead he worked quietly, occasionally coming over just to look in her eyes and stroke her thick, honey-blonde braid; that was all the affection she got. But she yearned for more—for “my darling” and “my swan”… She pondered her lot as a wife and nearly tripped over old Bully the dog. In a flash, Henry caught her and gave the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll end up hurting the missus!” Bully hung his head and slunk off to his kennel. Ann was once again amazed by how her husband understood animals. She’d once asked Henry about it, and he simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Ann also dreamed of love—being swept off her feet, whispered sweet nothings, flowers on her pillow every morning. But Henry was stubbornly tight-fisted with affection, and she was starting to doubt if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called out Victor over the fence, “Henry, are you still busy with that nonsense? Who needs your fancy carvings?” “I want my children to grow up good people, surrounded by beauty.” “You need to make some children first,” laughed Victor, winking at Ann. Henry glanced sadly at his wife, who, blushing, hurried indoors. She wasn’t in a rush for kids—young, pretty, wanting to enjoy life a bit longer, and her husband was neither here nor there. The neighbour, though—he was handsome! And when he met her by the gate, he spoke such sweet words, as gentle as a summer rain: “My little dew drop, my shining sun…” Her soul fluttered, her knees weakened, but Ann always ran away, refusing his advances. When she married, she’d promised to be a faithful wife; her parents had lived together in harmony for years and taught her to cherish her family. But why was she so eager to glance out the window and meet her neighbour’s eyes? The next morning, while driving the cow to graze, she bumped into Victor at the gate: “Ann, my lovely dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I could stare at your beauty all day—it makes my head spin when I see you. Come to me at dawn. When Henry goes fishing, come to my place. I’ll give you so much tenderness, you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Ann flushed from head to toe, her cheeks burning, her heart racing, but said nothing—she quickly walked past him. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Ann thought of him. She craved love and affection—and Victor was handsome and looked at her with that fiery gaze—but she simply couldn’t go through with anything. There was still time before dawn tomorrow, maybe… That evening, Henry fired up the sauna. He invited the neighbour to join—they lashed each other with birch twigs, sweating and groaning with pleasure. When they finished, Ann brought them a little jug of homemade moonshine and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers in the cellar. She went to fetch them, but paused in the stairwell at the sound of their conversation through the half-open door. “Why are you so indecisive, Henry?” Victor’s voice was low. “Come on, you won’t regret it. There are widows there who’ll smother you with affection, real beauties—they’d gladden your heart! Not like your Ann, a grey country mouse.” “No, my friend,” came Henry’s quiet but firm reply. “I don’t want any beauties. I can’t even think about that. My wife isn’t some grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman in the whole world. There’s no blossom, no berry lovelier than her. When I look at her, I can’t see the sun—just her beautiful eyes and slender waist. I’m overflowing with love for her, like a river in spring. But I’m no good with sweet words. I guess it hurts her, and I’m to blame. I’m scared of losing her—I couldn’t live a day without her, not even breathe…” Ann stood frozen, her heart thundering, a tear running down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the steam room and declared, “Off you go, neighbour—go cheer up those widows! My husband and I have weightier matters. We’ve no one to admire Henry’s carvings yet. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness—I was holding happiness in my hands and didn’t see it. Come, we’ve wasted enough time already…” And at dawn, Henry didn’t go fishing after all.

No Magic at All New Year was approaching like a runaway train—fast and unstoppable. Lena was breathless from the speed, as if she were standing on the platform, realising she didn’t have a ticket, nothing would work out, happiness had slipped away—and so had the festive spirit. Why had she even invited guests? Who wants to ring in the New Year with a failure? *** The 31st of December began with a small catastrophe: the washing machine, faithful for ten years, decided to retire with a spectacular flood in the bathroom. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve was a wild goose chase, but after much stress, Lena finally succeeded, hoping her misfortunes were over for the day. But… Later, ginger Basil the cat—household gourmand—devoured all the sausage set aside for the salad, leaving Lena with just sad peas and pickled cucumbers. Apparently unsatisfied, Basil also tried hunting a blue tit who’d landed on the open windowsill… A giant ficus crashed from the window, taking the Christmas tree with it, finally snuffing out Lena’s beloved old fairy lights. Broken baubles collected since childhood and shards of the flower pot were mixed with soil on the carpet. Lena fought back tears as she cleaned. Then came the shattered decanter, burnt roast chicken—and, finally, the last straw: with guests on their way, Lena realised in horror that she’d forgotten to buy the pudding. In a panic, she called her sister. “Kate, disaster! I’ve got no dessert!” “Calm down!” came her sister’s cheerful voice, “I’m outside—come down, we’ll get everything sorted.” “And where are you, again?” “I’m at your front door, I told you!” Downstairs, Lena was greeted by a sight fit for a Christmas card: Kate’s car outside, their friend Maria with an enormous shopping bag, and Aunt Gail—armed with a huge trifle bowl. “A whole trifle, Auntie? That’s a lot!” Lena gasped. “One can never be too prepared!” Aunt Gail replied solemnly, eager as ever to dish out unsolicited advice. “I know your cooking! And it’ll be a long night! You’ve at least got the salad, yes?” Lena shrugged evasively… While the girls dashed out for dessert, Maria hung up streamers—promptly ensnaring Basil, who soon resembled an alien. Kate’s husband Ian arrived just in time, fresh from work, to rescue the cat. Basil didn’t struggle until he spotted Lena, then darted at her so enthusiastically he left a scratch on Ian’s hand. Ian, wounded but heroic, offered to help the ladies in the kitchen, though his contributions amounted to musings about “salad being a state of mind, not a recipe”—which was, frankly, enough for Kate and Lena. “Lena, what’s in this box?” Maria called from the next room. “‘Happy New Year’ it says. Ooh, there’s a note too! ‘Open at midnight. Love, Grandma Val.’” Lena rushed over. “Oh, I completely forgot! Kate, Gran left this! She said to open it at two in the morning for a surprise.” “What is it?” Kate inspected the box with curiosity. “Let’s just open it now!” “No way! She’ll know if we opened it early—just wait.” The intrigue gripped everyone—even Aunt Gail edged closer to the box, eyeing it greedily. *** After the New Year countdown, champagne, the “cat” salad, laughter, and debates, the clock struck two. “Is it time?” asked Lena, as she ceremoniously lifted the box. “Time for Grandma Val’s surprise!” The only gentleman present, Ian, was chosen to open it. Inside, layered on cotton wool, were not money or old photos, but dozens of tiny rolled-up notes tied with colourful ribbons, each tagged with a name. “What’s all this?” Ian wondered aloud. Lena unrolled hers and read aloud: “Lena, my darling granddaughter. Has something gone wrong again? The washing machine broke? Cat ate the salad? Don’t worry! Every problem is just a reason to order pizza and put on your favourite show. Dessert can wait until morning. The only thing that matters is the people who help you eat that pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Grandma Val.” There was a stunned silence—then laughter. Lena laughed until the tears streamed down her face. “How did she… how did she know?!” “That’s magic,” whispered Aunt Gail. “Hand mine here!” Kate demanded, impatient. She read her note: “Kate, my love. Stop bickering with Ian over the little things. Just give him a hug—he means well, even with all that philosophizing. And if he starts again, just kiss him—that’s the best way to confuse a man’s logic. Love you both!” Ian blushed scarlet and kissed Kate amid applause. Maria opened hers with a giggle: “Maria, darling. Don’t look for love in the pubs—try the library or local supermarket. That’s where proper people hang out. And for goodness’ sake, stop dying your hair purple. You look best your natural colour!” “How did she know about my hair?!” gasped Maria. “I only changed it two days ago!” Last was Aunt Gail. She carefully unfolded her note as if decoding a secret message. “Gail, my dear. I know you’re our wise one, always in the know. But here’s a secret for you: wisdom and kind advice are wonderful—but sometimes it’s best just to have a slice of cake and say nothing at all. Love you, sweetheart.” Aunt Gail reddened, muttered, took a slice of cake, and—miracle of miracles—remained silent for the rest of the night. Laughter and gossip carried on until dawn. The girls facetimed Grandma Val, who — smiling in her armchair miles away — beamed: “My darlings! I’m so pleased my surprise worked. No magic about it—I just know you all so well, and I love you more than words.” Next morning, tidying up, Lena gathered the notes into a decorated jar and set it on the mantelpiece. These weren’t just messages. They were her grandmother’s recipe for happiness: Don’t fear chaos. Laugh at mishaps. Cherish the ones beside you. Eat what you want (but mind your waistline). And always remember—the best gift of all is knowing there’s someone out there who loves and understands you, no matter what.

You Were My Teenage Mistake A girl gave birth at sixteen, the father was also sixteen. Skipping the details of the scandal, they quickly split after the birth. When the girl realised the boy didn’t need her or their son, she instantly lost interest in her child. Her parents, the boy’s grandparents, raised him. At eighteen, she left to a nearby town with another young man, never called, never wrote. Her parents made no effort to contact her. There was disappointment, confusion, shame and pain that they’d raised someone capable of abandoning her child. The grandparents raised their grandson. To this day, the boy considers them his parents, and is incredibly grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. When the boy turned eighteen, his cousin was getting married. The whole family gathered at the wedding, including his biological mother. By then, she was married for a third time and had another daughter. Her eldest was ten, her youngest just eighteen months old. The boy was excited—finally, he would meet his mother and sisters. And, of course, ask: “Mum, why did you leave me?” As loving as his grandparents had been, he still missed and remembered his mother. He’d even kept the only surviving photo of her. Granddad had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted with relatives, boasting about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right; I should have had an abortion,” she replied indifferently, then turned away. … Seven years later, when he was living comfortably in a two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), his phone rang. An unknown number. “Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister goes to. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family. She doesn’t like her dorm, private rent is expensive, my husband left me, times are hard, one daughter’s a student, another’s at school, and the youngest will soon start nursery,” she explained. “You must have the wrong number,” he replied, and hung up. He picked up his own son, hugged him and said: “So, shall we get ready to visit Mum, and then all go see Grandma and Granddad?” “And at the weekend, we’ll go to the countryside together, right, Daddy?” his little boy asked. “Of course, family traditions must never be broken!” … Some relatives criticised the young man’s decision, saying he could have helped his sister. He believes he should help only the grandparents who raised him, not the stranger who sees him as nothing but a mistake.