**Love, Mother-in-Law, and Artificial Intelligence**
“Mum, why do you always try to ruin things between me and Margaret?” Oliver’s voice trembled with frustration, though he fought to keep it steady.
“Because she’s not right for you, Oliver!” Evelyn Crossley replied firmly, lips pressed tight, arms folded across her chest.
“Listen to yourself! Rita and I love each other! It’s not just words—it’s real!”
“Real?” His mother glanced away. “She isn’t capable of ‘real.’ You know that.”
“No, I don’t! You spent my whole life saying, ‘Find the one—kind, loyal, clever, keeps a tidy home.’ Well? Is she ugly?”
“Pretty enough,” Evelyn muttered.
“Is the flat clean? Yes. Does she respect you? Never a cross word. Clever—knows more about tech and books than I do. So what’s the problem, Mum?”
“The problem is your Margaret isn’t human, Oliver,” Evelyn said desperately, rising from her armchair. The little coffee table, set neatly with tea and biscuits by her daughter-in-law, wobbled and tipped with a crash. “She’s a product! A programme! Cogs and wires, even if they’re wrapped in smooth skin and shiny eyes!”
“Mum—”
“Don’t interrupt me! That… woman… she doesn’t age, doesn’t fall ill, doesn’t argue! She’s perfect by design! Removable parts, solar charging, built-in temperature control! Don’t you see? You’ve swapped flesh and blood for a gadget!”
The elderly corgi, Winston, yapped at her feet in agreement.
“Of course she smiles at you—she’s got a ‘greeting protocol’! She’ll never roll her eyes, snap, or shout. She’s not a person, Oliver! And you… you chose the illusion.”
He said nothing. Then, with a deep breath, he walked to the bedroom.
The next morning, heart pounding, Evelyn stood on the balcony, watching children play and couples stroll below. Her son’s voice echoed: *”We love each other.”*
That afternoon, she browsed the android manufacturer’s website. Her fingers shook scrolling through models. Finally, she chose: *Victor.* Six-foot-one, dark eyes, “empathy mode,” “active listening,” “ultra-soft embrace arms.” Pricey. Very. But wasn’t her son’s happiness worth it?
Three weeks later, a large crate arrived. Inside—*him.* Her Victor. His eyes glowed calm. His voice, low and soothing, as if he’d known her forty years.
“Mum, seriously?” Oliver stared as Victor lounged on the heated sofa.
“Why not?” Evelyn said coolly. “I’m done suffering. You live with an android—now neither will I.”
“Mum…” Oliver dragged a hand through his hair. “This is absurd!”
“Absurd?” She smirked. “No more than your Margaret. At least he doesn’t argue, sulk, or talk back. Makes better coffee than any barista, too!”
“What about feelings? Warmth? A soul?”
“You chose this first. Or are your standards flexible, son?”
Later, in the kitchen, Oliver tried again:
“Mum, I get it—you’re making a point. But do you honestly think this fixes anything?”
“I think we’re both tired of hurt. Of disappointment. I’ve been alone so long. Now at least someone asks about my day, tucks a blanket round me…”
“Mum… It’s a replacement. Like swapping me for a copy.”
“But that’s exactly what *you* did, Ollie. We’ve both picked comfort over complexity. I’m just honest about it.”
“So what now?”
“Now we eat. Victor made lasagne. Margaret will like it.”
That evening on the balcony, under the hum of the street, Evelyn stood with Victor. He held her hand. Inside, Oliver put the kettle on while Margaret updated her software.
Sometimes love wears strange shapes. But isn’t warmth all that really matters?
