MIL and DIL
Tanya Archibald walked home at her usual leisurely pace. Turning the key in the lock, she suddenly heard voices inside the flat—strangers. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
What she saw knocked the wind out of her.
Three young women were laughing loudly at the table. At the center, holding court like she owned the place, was her daughter-in-law—Veronica. A pot bubbled on the stove, filling the flat with the rich scent of freshly made stew—the very one Tanya had simmered that morning for supper.
“What on earth is this circus?” she snapped, and silence fell like a brick.
Veronica lifted her head and forced a smile. “Mum, just some friends dropping by for a chat. I treated them. The stew’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
Tanya scanned the table without a word. The plates of her uninvited guests held the remains of her dinner. The finest china had been taken from the cabinet. The weekend fruit she’d bought was nearly gone from the bowl.
Veronica had been part of the family for nearly two years. Her son, Andrew, had fallen head over heels, and they’d married quickly. At first, they rented a flat, but when the landlord decided to sell, they suddenly had nowhere to go.
“Mum, please let us stay just for a bit,” Andrew had begged. “We’ll find a place soon.”
Tanya had agreed—but laid down rules from the start. And within days, she knew peace was hopeless. Veronica was bold, disrespectful, answering back with a smirk. Every day brought fresh annoyances.
First, it was crumbs left on the table. Then, scattered belongings. Then, doors slamming.
“Why were you really kicked out?” Tanya finally asked one evening, unable to hold back.
“The flat was sold,” Veronica clipped.
“Don’t lie. Landlords give a month’s notice—not two days. Bet you talked to them the way you talk to me?”
Veronica scoffed, jammed her earbuds in, and turned away.
The next day, Tanya gathered the crumbs from the table and dramatically dumped them onto Veronica’s bed. She exploded, screaming. The row was explosive.
That evening, Andrew came home from work. He listened quietly to his mother, then asked just one question:
“All this—over crumbs?”
“Over disrespect!” Tanya shot back. “Either you live by my rules, or you pack your bags.”
Andrew promised to talk to Veronica. She behaved—for two days. Then it started again. Until suddenly—a shift. Cleaning, silence, even making dessert.
Tanya was wary. Rightly so. A week later, her son announced:
“Mum, you’re going to be a grandmother.”
Instead of joy, disappointment settled in. A baby—and still no home. And a daughter-in-law she couldn’t stand.
“Now we know why she changed! You talked her into this!” she lashed out. “But nothing’s changed. You won’t be raising a child here. I’m not retiring yet.”
Andrew stayed silent. The next day, as soon as Tanya left for tea with a friend, Veronica invited her mates over. Her reheated stew was served in bowls.
But Tanya came home early. And caught the “feast” in full swing.
“This is my home, not a pub. Get out,” she said sharply. “And you, Veronica—pack your things.”
Veronica left without a word. That evening, Andrew arrived. Seeing his wife’s suitcase by the door, he silently gathered his own.
“If you walk out, don’t come back,” Tanya warned.
He left. For six months, mother and son didn’t speak. Only later did Tanya finally call. They met at a café. She never spoke to Veronica again.
Tanya became a grandmother—from a distance. And if she regretted anything, it was ever letting her daughter-in-law cross the threshold. Respect isn’t something earned with demands. It’s either there—or it isn’t.
