I’ll Make a Man of Him – When My Grandson Won’t Be Left-Handed, Granny Tamara Declares: A Grandfather’s Stand Against Outdated Notions, Family Tensions, and a Battle for a Child’s True Self

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 3

I wont have my grandson growing up a lefty, huffed Margaret Davies, her voice cutting across the kitchen like a cold breeze.

Daniel swivelled round to stare at his mother-in-law, annoyance tightening his jaw. The light in his eyes dimmed a shade.

Whats so wrong with it? Harry was born that way. Its just who he is.

She snorted. Just who he is! Its weakness, not uniqueness. You know as well as I do, its always been the right hand that matters. The leftwell, thats bad luck, nothing good comes of it.

Daniel fought the urge to laugh. The year was 2023, not the Middle Ages, yet Margaret spoke as if shed stepped out of a country parish in 1630.

Margaret, theres plenty of research

I dont care what your so-called research says, she overruled him. I trained my son out of it, and he turned out perfectly normal. Train Harry as well, while theres still time. Youll thank me for it.

She pulled her cardigan tighter and exited, leaving Daniel with his half-drunk tea and the sharp taste of frustration.

At first, Daniel hadnt thought much of it. Margarets old-fashioned ideas were familiar enoughevery generation drags its own chain of superstitions. He watched as she subtly moved Harrys spoon into his right hand at mealtimes. It was quirky, he thought, but harmless. Surely a childs mind was too flexible to be bent out of shape by a grandmothers fussiness.

Harry had always been left-handed. Daniel remembered his son, not yet two, reaching instinctively for toys with his left hand. Later, when Harry started drawingclumsy, toddler squiggles but always with his left. It was natural, Daniel thought, as natural as the dimple in his sons cheek or the green flecks in his eyes.

Margaret saw things quite differently. Being left-handed was a flaw in her worlda mistake that needed immediate correction. Each time Harry reached for a crayon with his left hand, Margaret pressed her lips together like hed just sworn at the vicar.

Right hand, Harry. Use your right, darling.

Not this nonsense again! No one in our family has ever been a lefty. Not ever.

I sorted Michael out, and Ill sort you as well.

Daniel once overheard her telling Lisahis wifeabout her so-called crusade. There was pride in her voice as she described the success of retraining Michael: tying his hand, scolding him for mistakes, checking every movement. The result, she said, was a proper man.

The memory made Daniel shudder.

He noticed changes in Harry slowly at first. Little things. Harry started pausing when he reached for things at the table, his hand hovering, uncertain. Then came the sideways glancesa quick check for Grandma: Was she watching?

Daddy which hand should I use?

Harry asked the question at supper, staring nervously at his fork.

Whichever feels best, mate.

But Grandma says

Dont worry about Grandma. Do whats comfortable for you.

But comfortable had vanished. Harry dropped things more often now, tripped over actions hed once done with ease. That bright confidence had been replaced with hesitation, a carefulness that seemed to weigh down his arms.

Lisa saw it, too. Daniel noticed how she bit her lip every time her mother switched the cutlery in Harrys hand. Or how she shrank into herself when Margaret embarked on one of her tirades about proper upbringing. Lisa, shaped by her mothers will, had learned to survive by keeping quiet, waiting for tempests to pass.

Daniel tried to breach the subject.

Lisa, this isnt right. Look at him.

Mum means well.

Its not about intentions. Look at how he is now!

But she only shrugged and drifted away, old habits of obedience stronger than any motherly instinct.

Things got worse. Margaret seemed to thrive on the drama, commentating on Harrys every move. Shed praise him loudly for using his right handthen sigh pointedly when he used his left.

See, Harry? It does work! You just have to try harder. I turned your uncle into a proper gentleman and Ill do the same for you.

That was enough. Daniel decided to confront her, alone.

Margaret, let Harry be. Hes left-handed, and thats perfectly fine. Please stop trying to change him.

Her response was instantaneous, her cheeks reddening.

Are you telling me how to do my job? Ive brought up three children and youre lecturing me?

Im asking you not to interfere with my son.

Dont you mean our son? Hes Lisas, too. That makes him my grandson. I wont have him grow up like that.

The way she spat like that made Daniels skin crawl.

He realised thenthere would be no peace, not unless he put his foot down.

The days that followed unravelled into a cold war. Margaret ignored Daniel, relaying instructions to him only through Lisa. Daniel returned the favour, silence thick as rainclouds between them.

Lisa, tell your husband the roast is in the oven.

Lisa, tell your mother Ill eat when Im ready.

Lisa seemed torn in two, exhausted by the crossfire, while Harry buried himself in the corner with his tablet, trying to vanish altogether.

The idea came to Daniel on a Saturday, as Margaret presided over her famous beef stew, dicing carrots in swift, sure motionsthe same as shed done for years.

Daniel stepped up quietly behind her.

Youre doing that wrong, you know.

She didnt even turn.

Pardon me?

You need to cut it thinner. And not across the carrotlengthways. Youre not supposed to do it like that.

She snorted and sliced on.

No, really, Daniel pressed. Its the wrong way. Hardly anyone does it like that. Let me show you.

He reached for the knife. She snatched it away.

Have you lost your mind?

No. I just want you to do it right. Look, too much water, wrong heat, carrots in at the wrong time

Ive cooked this way for thirty years!

Thats not an excuse. You should relearn it. From scratch.

Margarets hand stopped, knife poised.

What are you talking about?

The very same thing you say to Harry every day. Relearn it. This isnt right. No one does it like that. Use the other hand. Try something different.

This is nothing alike!

Isnt it? Because to me, its exactly the same.

She set the knife down, cheeks flushing angrily.

How dare you compare my cooking to Ive always done it this way! It works for me!

And Harrys always used his left hand. Works for him. But somehow, thats not good enough for you.

Thats different! Hes a childhe can change.

And you? Youre an adult, with thirty years of habit. If you cant change, what makes you think he should?

She pressed her lips together, her eyes wet with fury.

I just want whats best for him, her words trembled.

I know you do. But your best only means your way. Harry is his own person. He might be small, but hes not you. And I wont let you squeeze him into a shape that fits your vision.

Youre seriously going to teach me a lesson?

I will, if you dont stop. From now on, Ill point out every fault in your cooking, every quirk, every habit. Lets see how long you cope.

They stood as adversaries in the lamplight, hearts thundering.

Its pettycruel, she hissed.

I honestly dont know any other way to get through to you.

Something shifted in Margaret thenher confidence cracked, leaving behind someone older, smaller, uncertain.

I only ever tried to love him She left the sentence hanging.

I know. But you need to find a new way. Or youll lose us.

Stew bubbled over on the hob. Neither made a move to stop it.

That evening, when Margaret retreated to her room, Lisa slumped on the sofa beside Daniel, leaning into him in silent gratitude.

No one ever stood up for me as a child, she whispered, tears caught in her lashes. Mum always knew best. I just went along with it.

Daniel pulled her close.

In our house, your mums way ends here.

Lisa nodded; her hand curled tightly around his.

From Harrys room came the gentle hush of pencil on paper. He was drawingleft-handedand no one, not ever again, dared tell him it was wrong.

The Pancake Pan According to every clock, Galina was late for work—threatening another fine and an awkward talk with her ever-punctual boss—and all because of the usual morning chaos. Her second-grader, Jack, refused to eat his porridge, whining about a sore throat. With her reading glasses on, Galina checked for any hint of redness—none, as expected—so she threatened her inventive son with a scolding and helped him shoulder his backpack. Meanwhile, her older boy, Billy, dashed from room to room searching for his homework diary, sending Galina’s head spinning with his commotion. Shouting at the scatterbrain, she grabbed her little fibber by the hand and hustled him to the front stoop. But getting into the car was delayed yet again, as her husband was still washing it. When they finally set off, the never-ending traffic jam dashed Galina’s hopes of arriving on time. Rushing up to her job at the train ticket office, Galina nearly slipped on the slick pavement, but was saved from a nasty fall by clutching a gigantic suitcase—miraculously keeping her balance. Flustered but in one piece, she rolled the suitcase over to its elderly owner and hurried inside. Relieved to learn from colleagues that the boss hadn’t arrived yet, she gulped down a glass of water and got to work. Within half an hour, the busy rhythm of the office eclipsed her frazzled morning. On her lunch break, Galina gazed out at the platform—the image of that old lady with the huge suitcase drew her eyes. Something forlorn lingered about the woman her eyes spoke of despair, resignation, and indifference. The ticket she clutched trembled in the wind, ready to break free like a dried leaf, but the faded blue eyes seemed not to notice. She sat frozen, unmoved by cold winds and drizzle. “How long has she been sitting there?” Galina asked her co-worker. “They say this is the second day,” the woman replied. “Where’s she going?” “To York.” “But there are trains to York every day. Why hasn’t she left?” Galina poured tea into a cup, grabbed a piece of homemade tart, and went out to the lonely passenger. “You probably remember me—your suitcase saved me this morning. May I sit with you? Where are you headed?” “To York,” the woman answered dully, sipping her tea. Galina peered at her ticket. “But your train left two days ago… Why didn’t you go?” Adjusting her old-fashioned felt hat, the lady croaked, “Looks like I’m a nuisance here, too. Don’t worry; I’ll move.” “No, please, stay here. It’s just so cold… Are you sure you’re alright?” “Honestly, I don’t feel anything anymore. As if everything inside has numbed…” She took out an embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s the usual story—things didn’t work out with my son or rather, with his new bride. Beautiful but selfish. My son’s blinded by love, and sees my concerns as nagging. He bought me a ticket to my sister’s in York, packed my bags, dropped me at the station. Poor lad didn’t know my sister’s been gone three years, her house sold. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him… So, here I am, waiting… for something—perhaps for shame to kill me, or maybe the paramedics to take me to a care home. Thank you for the food, dear. Only now do I realise how hungry I was.” “Dear…” The word ripped Galina back to her own orphaned childhood, to memories of envying adopted children, knowing she’d always been overlooked. But now, the grateful word seeped warmth into her, softening her heart as no other kindness could. She touched the lady’s arm. “Please, wait for me until my shift ends. Come home with us—for tonight, at least. Our house is big. There’s room for everyone. If you don’t like it, we’ll bring you back here. Deal?” Galina looked into the woman’s weathered face and saw tears glinting in grateful eyes. They introduced themselves in the car: “I’m Galina, my husband’s Tom, my boys—Billy and Jack. What should we call you?” “Call me Granny May,” the old woman replied, warming up in the car. The next morning, on her day off, Galina woke to the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. Throwing on her dressing gown, she stepped out onto the porch. There, a towering plate of lacy pancakes greeted her; Granny May hovered over the skillet, expertly flipping pancakes and dishing them out to the delighted boys. “Don’t be cross, dear,” Granny May said, “I found a pan in the cupboard perfect for pancakes, so I thought I’d pitch in. Come sit—try my cooking.” After breakfast, the whole family raked leaves and roasted potatoes in a smoky bonfire. Galina marvelled at Granny May’s tireless energy: she glowed as she worked, humming a tune none of them knew. “Don’t be surprised by my stamina, dear. I’m tough—earned the nickname May-the-Mare in the war for carrying wounded lads to safety. Brought up my son alone after my husband died, made do, got him on his feet…” May drifted off in thought, before grabbing a rake and singing as she tidied the garden. Monday morning, the daily scramble resumed. As Galina and her boys dashed out, they spotted May dressed with her suitcase. “Thank you, dear—I’ve had my stay. Time for me to go…” “Granny May, didn’t you like it here?” “I did… But who needs a stranger in their home?” “Please stay! Who else could make pancakes like those? Please… you’re family now.” Galina hefted the heavy suitcase—now light as a feather—and looped her arm through May’s as they headed back inside. As the family loaded into the car, May called out, “Dearie, pick up another frying pan if you’re shopping—it’s much quicker to make pancakes with two!” She didn’t hear Galina quietly reply, “All right, Mum May…”

The Road to Humanity Max sat behind the wheel of his brand-new car—the very one he’d dreamed of for the past two years. He’d scrimped and saved, turning down little luxuries to get here, and now, at last, he could savour the moment. The dashboard glowed softly in the dusk, casting a cozy light across the cabin, and the steering wheel, cool and smooth, seemed to invite his touch, yearning to respond to every movement. Max ran his palm over the leather, enjoying the chill of it, and couldn’t keep from smiling. This was more than just a car—it was the result of hard work and grit. He flicked on the radio, and the interior filled instantly with a gentle, rhythmic tune. Max started to hum along, fingers tapping in time on the dash. In that moment, happiness felt absolute. He was on his way home, where his friends were waiting to throw a little party—to toast his long-awaited purchase. In his mind, Max reviewed the stories he’d tell that night: about pinching every penny, working weekends after his day job, giving up cafés, and skipping new clothes. But right now, those memories seemed far away, unimportant. Now, he just wanted to take in the drive, to feel the power of being on the road, to enjoy the fact that a dream had finally come true. His route wound through a quiet neighbourhood. Houses lined the street in neat rows, windows glowing warm and inviting against the evening. Lamp posts lit the pavement in a soft haze, sketching patterns of shadow across the tarmac. A few passers-by hurried along, wrapping themselves in coats and scarves—it was a chilly night. Max eased off the accelerator at a junction, watching the intersection closely. And then, without warning—a child darted onto the road right in front of the car. Max didn’t even register what was happening. Instinct took over—he slammed on the brakes, the car skidded, tyres shrieked across the asphalt, leaving dark streaks. Seconds stretched forever, but somehow, miraculously, the car stopped—just inches from the boy. Max’s heart thundered, trying to break free from his chest. Cold sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision as a piercing, distracting ringing filled his ears. He gulped air, trying to steady trembling hands, finally understanding just how close disaster had come. One second more and everything could have ended in tragedy. He’d almost hit a child… Max sat frozen for several moments, struggling to breathe. His heart still pounded in his throat, his temples throbbed. His hands shook, so he clenched them into fists, making himself take control. All he could think was, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But anger, hot and raw, welled up from inside and demanded release. He flung the door open and stumbled out. His legs felt unsteady, but he strode over to the boy, standing a few feet away, hunched and staring at the ground. Max gripped his shoulders, not realising how tightly his fingers dug in. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low but hearing it crack anyway. “You want to get yourself killed? There are easier ways, you know!” The boy didn’t try to break away. He stood with his head bowed even lower and whispered, almost too quietly to hear: “I didn’t mean to… I just…” “Just what?!” Max’s grip tightened, but he relaxed his hands at once as the boy flinched. “If you won’t think of yourself, what about your mum? How would she feel burying her own son? I could have killed you!” Max’s words shook with not just anger, but the very fear that had frozen him for an instant—the same fear of how close he’d come to disaster. The boy gulped and, staring up with teary eyes so full of confusion and desperation, began to cry. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, leaving glossy trails. He looked at Max again—so lost, so desperate—that Max’s anger began to ebb. “Please help me…” the boy whispered, voice trembling. “My brother’s ill. No one would stop. So I had to run into the road.” Max froze. All anger vanished, replaced by bewilderment and a kind of empty shock. He saw only a skinny, sobbing, trembling boy—not a troublemaker, not a reckless child, but a frightened brother trying to save someone he loved. “Your brother’s ill?” Max repeated, fighting the urgency rising in him. He searched the boy’s eyes for any trace of a lie, but saw only genuine fear. “Where is he?” “There,” the boy pointed with a shaking finger towards a small park across the road. “We were out walking. Then he fell and he’s in pain. He can’t move!” Max didn’t think twice about leaving his new car unattended. He slammed the door, hit the fob to lock it, and hurried after the boy, every step echoing a chorus of “What if it’s serious? What if he needs help now?” racing round his head. They crossed the street, Max quickening his stride to keep up. The boy ran ahead, checking often to be sure Max was following. “Where are your parents?” Max asked, keeping his voice calm, even as it threatened to waver, “It’s not exactly safe for kids to be out alone.” “At work,” the boy replied, barely missing a beat. “They work all the time to earn money.” Max nodded, a pang of understanding hitting him. He knew what it meant to work day and night, to count every penny, but the thought of children left without supervision unsettled him. “So you’re on your own?” Max said gently. “And, by the way, what’s your name?” “I’m Sam,” said the boy, glancing back briefly. Tears still stood in his eyes, but his voice carried a flicker of pride. “Well, our nan looks after us, but she’s old and can’t walk well. But we’re not babies; we can play by ourselves!” They reached the park. Sam scampered confidently down a narrow path, and Max trailed close behind, anxiety growing with each step. In the distance, under the spreading boughs of a tree, lay a small figure curled up on the grass. Max’s breath caught—he remembered his own childhood. His parents had always been there: dinners round the table, talking and laughing, weekends together at home or out in the park. He’d never once been left alone to care for his brother. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on differences—it was time to help. The park was quiet, sun rays flickering through the last leaves. A little boy of about six lay doubled up on a weathered bench: face pale, lips trembling, hands clutching his stomach. “There he is! Dan, you okay?” Sam ran over, voice trembling in fear, touching his brother’s shoulder as gently as possible, afraid he might hurt him. Max dropped to his knees by the bench. Grass soaked his trousers, but he didn’t care, all focus on the boy. “Where does it hurt?” he asked carefully, keeping his tone as warm and steady as he could. He met Dan’s eyes, searching for any sign of relief, but found only fear and pain. “My stomach…” Dan choked out, barely audible. Max had to lean closer to hear. “Hurts a lot…” Max felt his insides twist. He wasn’t a doctor and had no idea what was really wrong, but it was clear the boy needed real help—not a pat on the back, but a proper hospital. An ambulance would take hours at this time… “Right, we’re off to hospital then,” Max said, careful to steady his voice. He gently scooped Dan up. The boy gasped in pain but didn’t resist—he was past arguing. “Sam, can you call your parents?” Max called back. “I left my phone at home,” Sam replied, eyes dropping, fingers nervously twisting his jacket. “But my aunt works at the hospital. She can ring Mum!” “Well, that’s something,” Max nodded, feeling a wave of relief. At least one adult would know where they were. He carried Dan to the car. Opening the back door, he settled him carefully on the seat, fastening the belt as gently as possible. Dan just sighed, silent. Sam slipped in beside his brother without a word, instantly grabbing Dan’s hand and holding it tight, as if by force of will he could give him strength. Max watched Dan visibly relax at the touch, silently praising Sam for his presence of mind. Climbing into his seat, Max first switched on the heater—the car was chilly, and the boys were cold from their time outside. Then he started the engine, checked the mirrors, and eased off, heading toward the hospital. He tried to keep his voice calm and steady. “Nearly there, Dan, hold on, all right?” “Okay…” Dan murmured, so faint Max wasn’t sure he’d heard. “Good lad,” Max encouraged. “We’ll be there soon.” Sam whispered something to Dan, earning a slight smile in return—a small reassurance for Max that they were coping, for now. “You did well, Sam,” Max said as the hospital’s lights grew closer, neon signs flashing past as they approached the entrance. “You didn’t hesitate to help your brother. But can we make a deal?” He eased the car into a parking bay, turned off the engine, and turned to Sam. In the glow of the cabin light, Sam’s face looked so young, still frightened but steely beneath the tears. “No more running into roads. You could have died tonight, and that wouldn’t have helped your brother.” Sam nodded, understanding, tears streaking once more—not out of fear, but the realisation of what could have happened. “Promise,” he whispered, clenching his jacket. Max’s smile was soft; he squeezed Sam’s shoulder gently. “Good lad. Let’s look after Dan now.” Inside, Max carried Dan into A&E. A nurse in blue assessed the situation quickly and whisked Dan off for checks. Sam sat on a hard plastic bench, fists clenched, staring at nothing. Max paced nearby, glancing at the doors that had swallowed Dan. Half an hour later, a woman appeared, breathless and wild-eyed. Seeing Sam, she called out: “Sam!” He leapt up and flung himself into her arms, shaking. “Mum!” he hiccupped, voice trembling. “Dan’s really poorly… we didn’t know what to do…” “It’s all right, darling,” she soothed, stroking his hair, voice close to breaking. “You did brave. Where is he?” “He’s with the doctors,” Max said, stepping closer. “I found Sam running out onto the road—he explained about his brother and we drove here.” The woman looked at Max, fear and gratitude mingling on her face. “Thank you… I don’t know how to thank you enough. My husband and I work late, my mum usually watches them, but she’s unwell… I never thought they’d go out alone…” “Dan’s in good hands now,” Max cut her off gently, steering the conversation away from guilt. “Let’s wait for news together.” They all sat—together, but inside their own thoughts, the tension fading now that they were no longer alone. The mother hugged Sam, stroking his hair, whispering comfort. “It’ll be alright,” she murmured. “I’m here.” Sam pressed closer. He didn’t cry now, but still trembled—whether from cold or all that had happened, Max couldn’t tell. Max stood aside, watching—this was a moment for them. But he couldn’t quite leave until he knew Dan was safe. He felt the tension draining from him as the minutes ticked by, leaving only exhaustion…and a warm sense of reassurance that things were, at last, going to be okay. The mother turned to Max. Her eyes, brimming with tears, met his. “You really helped them?” she asked, stepping towards him. “I did,” Max nodded, keeping his voice even. “I saw Sam run out, pulled over, he told me about Dan, and we came straight here.” He left out the details—no need to remind anyone just how close it had all been. That was in the past. “Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “Not many would have stopped. People just… don’t want to get involved.” “It’s alright,” Max said softly. He felt the warmth of her gratitude spread through him. “What matters is Dan’s alright.” She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment, then hurried to speak to a doctor who emerged from a doorway. Max saw her face relax with relief as the news came through—all was well. Quietly, not wanting to intrude further, Max slipped outside into the cold evening air. He paused, staring at the hospital’s glow, and took a deep breath. Then he turned back to his car, feeling a quiet satisfaction—today, he’d done something that mattered. The air was cold—he shivered, tucking his jacket closer. He took his phone out, thinking to ring his mates and cancel the party with an explanation, but stopped mid-action. He stood there, looking up at the sky, bright with pale stars, as scenes replayed in his mind: frightened Sam, pale Dan, their desperate mother, the rush down hospital corridors. Today, I made a difference, he thought, and that warmed him even as he shivered. He’d only been driving home, only saw a child in the road, only did what anyone should do—but it had become so much more. Maybe, tomorrow, someone would help him…and that thought filled him with hope. He pocketed his phone, drew another deep breath, and headed for the car. The familiar clunk of the door, the purr of the engine, the warmth rising through the seats—all signalled a return to normality. Driving home, seeing the lights, the people strolling, the shopfronts glowing, he realised—life went on, always with room for small, vital acts of kindness. Though the party was postponed, Max felt no disappointment. Instead, contentment grew. The day had become important, not for the new car, nor the celebration, but because he had done something truly worthwhile. It was a satisfaction greater than any party. As he drove, he recalled his own childhood, his parents always there for him, helping solve any problem together. He now saw not every child had such support. Simple human kindness—a timely word, a hand reached out—meant so much. You didn’t need to be a hero. You just needed not to turn away. Though the celebration would wait, Max was at peace. Today had mattered, not because of the car or the party, but because he had made a difference. And that feeling was worth more than anything else. He drove on, watching the city lights and the people walking home, knowing that life would always make space for small, unsung acts of kindness.

Anna parked her car a street away from her mother-in-law’s house. The clock read 5:45pm—she had arrived earlier than planned. “Maybe this time she’ll appreciate my punctuality,” Anna thought, smoothing the creases in her new dress. The gift—an antique brooch she’d spent months tracking down with collectors—was carefully wrapped on the back seat. As Anna approached the house, she noticed the ground floor window was ajar. From inside, her mother-in-law’s voice rang out clearly: “No, Beatrice, can you believe it? She didn’t even bother to ask what kind of cake I like! She ordered some trendy dessert… Our David has always loved good old Victoria sponge, but she—” a pause, “—she just doesn’t get it. Seven years of marriage!” Anna froze. Her feet felt rooted to the spot. “Of course I’ve told you—she’s just not right for David. She’s always working late at that surgery and is never home. What kind of housewife is that? I popped round yesterday—dirty dishes, dust everywhere… And of course, she was busy with some complicated operation!” Inside, everything went quiet. Anna leaned against the garden fence, knees trembling. Seven years she’d tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law: cooking, cleaning, remembering every birthday, visiting when her mother-in-law was ill. And all of it… “No, no, I’m not saying anything, but is someone like that really right for my son? He needs a proper family, warmth, care… And she’s always off at conferences or working a night shift. Children don’t even cross her mind! Can you imagine?” Anna’s head thudded. Mechanically, she pulled out her phone and dialed her husband’s number. “David? I’ll be a bit late. Yes, everything’s fine, just… traffic.” She turned and walked back to her car. Sitting down, she stared at nothing in particular. The words she’d just overheard echoed in her head: “Maybe a pinch more salt?”, “In my day, women stayed home…”, “David works so hard, he needs special care…” Her phone buzzed—a text from her husband: “Mum’s asking where you are. Everyone’s here already.” Anna inhaled deeply. A strange smile formed on her lips. “Fine,” she thought, “if they want the perfect daughter-in-law, that’s what they’ll get.” She started the engine and drove back to her mother-in-law’s house. The plan had formed in a heartbeat. No more trying to please. It was time to show them what a “real” daughter-in-law could be. Anna swept through the door with the broadest smile she could muster. “Mummy darling!” she exclaimed, hugging her mother-in-law with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Forgive me for being late, but I visited three different shops to find the exact candles you love!” Her mother-in-law froze, startled by such eagerness. “I thought…,” she began, but Anna was already carrying on: “Oh, and guess what—I happened to see your friend Beatrice on my way! Such a charming woman, always tells it exactly like it is, doesn’t she?” Anna looked meaningfully at her mother-in-law, watching her colour drain away. All through dinner, Anna put on the performance of a lifetime. She loaded her mother-in-law’s plate with the best morsels, loudly admired everything she said, and asked for endless tips on running a household. “Mummy, tell me, should you cook borscht for five or six hours? And carpets—should they be cleaned in the morning or evening? Maybe I should give up my job? After all, David needs a proper family, don’t you think?” David stared at Anna, astounded, while the relatives exchanged glances. But Anna continued: “I was thinking—maybe I ought to take a course in housekeeping? Ditch silly old surgery… After all, a woman should be the heart of the home, shouldn’t she, Mummy?” Her mother-in-law nervously tapped her fork against her plate. Her confidence was ebbing away with every minute. And what happened next? Well, some stories you really must read to the very end…