**Love, Mother-in-Law, and Artificial Intelligence**
“Mum, why do you keep trying to ruin my relationship with Emily?” Ilya’s voice trembled with anger, though he fought to keep it steady.
“Because she’s not right for you, Ilya!” Helen replied firmly, pressing her lips together and folding her arms.
“Can you even hear yourself? Emily and I love each other! It’s not just words—it’s real!”
“Real?” His mother glanced away. “She’s not capable of real feelings. You know that.”
“No, I don’t!” Ilya raised his voice. “You’ve spent years telling me to find someone kind, loyal, clever, who keeps a good home. Well? Is she ugly?”
“She’s lovely,” Helen admitted grudgingly.
“Is the house tidy? It is. Does she respect you? Absolutely—she’s never raised her voice. She’s brilliant—better than me with tech and books. What’s the problem, Mum?”
“The problem,” Helen said desperately, standing so abruptly the tea tray wobbled, “is that your Emily isn’t human, Ilya. She’s a product! A programme! Wires and metal, no matter how polished her skin or how bright her eyes!”
“Mum—”
“Don’t interrupt me!” she snapped. “That… woman… she doesn’t age, never falls ill, never argues! She’s perfect by design—removable parts, solar charging, built-in temperature control! You’ve replaced something real with machinery!”
Their old spaniel, Biscuit, barked in support, circling her feet.
“Of course she smiles at you—she’s programmed to! She doesn’t roll her eyes, snap, or shout. She’s not human, Ilya! And you… you’ve chosen an illusion.”
He said nothing. Then, with a heavy sigh, he walked away.
The next morning, heart pounding, Helen stood on the balcony, watching couples stroll below. Her son’s words echoed: “We love each other.”
That afternoon, she browsed the website of an android manufacturer. Her fingers shook as she scrolled—until she found him: Victor. Six feet tall, dark eyes, “empathy mode,” “active listening,” “ultra-soft embrace settings.” Expensive. Very. But wasn’t her son’s happiness worth it?
Three weeks later, a massive box arrived. Inside—Victor. His calm eyes met hers, his voice warm as if they’d shared forty years.
“Mum, are you serious?” Ilya gaped at Victor, comfortably seated on the heated sofa.
“Why not?” Helen replied coolly. “I decided to stop suffering. You live with an android—now so do I.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Is it?” She smirked. “No more than your Emily. At least he doesn’t argue or sulk. And his coffee’s better than any barista’s!”
“What about feelings? Warmth? A soul?”
“You chose this first. Double standards, son?”
Later, in the kitchen, Ilya tried again.
“Mum, I get it—you’re making a point. But do you really think this fixes anything?”
“I think we’re both tired of pain. Of disappointment. I’ve been alone for years. Now, at least someone asks about my day, tucks a blanket round me…”
“This isn’t real. It’s like replacing me with a copy.”
“You did exactly that, Ilya. We’ve both chosen convenience over complexity. At least I’m honest about it.”
“So what now?”
“Now we eat. Victor made lasagne. Emily might like it.”
That evening, Helen stood on the balcony with Victor, his hand in hers. Inside, Ilya boiled the kettle while Emily updated her software.
Sometimes love wears strange disguises. But in the end, isn’t warmth all that truly matters?
