**Martha and Her Daughter-in-Law**
Martha Whitaker returned home at her usual unhurried pace. Turning the key in the lock, she suddenly heard unfamiliar voices inside. Strangers. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
What she saw knocked the wind out of her.
Three young women sat around the table, laughing gaily. Front and center, playing hostess, was her daughter-in-law—Louise. A pot bubbled on the stove, the flat filled with the rich scent of freshly cooked stew. The very stew Martha had made that morning for supper.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” she snapped, and the kitchen plunged into silence.
Louise lifted her head with a practiced smile.
“Mum, just some friends popped in for a chat. I offered them a bite—your stew’s absolutely delicious!”
Martha scanned the table wordlessly. The guests’ plates held the remains of her supper. Her best china had been pulled from the cupboard. The fruit bowl, meant for the weekend, was half-empty.
Louise had been in the family nearly two years now. Her son, Oliver, had fallen head over heels, and they’d married in a rush. They’d rented a flat, but when the landlord decided to sell, they’d found themselves with nowhere to go.
“Mum, please, just for a little while,” Oliver had begged. “We’ll sort something out soon.”
Martha had relented. But she laid down the rules—and from day one, she knew peace was out of the question. Louise was sharp-tongued, disrespectful, always answering with a challenge. Every day brought fresh irritation.
First, it was crumbs left on the table. Then scattered clothes. Then doors slamming.
“Why were you kicked out?” Martha had blurted one evening.
“The flat was sold,” Louise shot back.
“I don’t buy it. Landlords give tenants notice—not two days to vanish. Must’ve spoken to them the same way you do to me.”
Louise smirked, popped in earphones, and turned away.
The next day, Martha gathered the crumbs and dumped them pointedly onto Louise’s bed. She erupted, screaming. The row was explosive.
That evening, Oliver returned from work. He listened silently, then asked just one question:
“All this over crumbs?”
“It’s about respect!” Martha cried. “Either you live by my rules, or you pack your bags.”
Oliver promised to talk to Louise. For a couple of days, she behaved—then it all started again. Then, suddenly, a shift. Cleaning, quiet, even making custard from scratch.
Martha grew wary. Rightly so. A week later, her son announced:
“Mum… you’re going to be a grandmother.”
Instead of joy, dread settled in. A baby—and still no home of their own. And a daughter-in-law she could hardly stand.
“So that’s why she changed. You talked her into it!” Martha spat. “But nothing’s different. You’re not staying here. I’ve got years before retirement.”
Oliver said nothing. The next day, as soon as Martha left to visit a friend, Louise invited her mates over. The stew meant for supper was dished out in generous helpings.
But Martha came home early. And found the feast in full swing.
“This is my home, not a bloody pub. Get out!” she barked. “And you, Louise—pack your things.”
Louise left without a word. That evening, Oliver arrived. Spotting his wife’s suitcase by the door, he silently gathered his own.
“If you walk out, don’t come back,” said Martha.
But he did. For six months, mother and son didn’t speak. Eventually, Martha mustered the courage to call. They met at a café. She never spoke to Louise again.
Martha became a grandmother—but from a distance. And if she regretted anything, it was ever letting her daughter-in-law cross the threshold. Because respect isn’t something earned by circumstance. It’s either there—or it isn’t.
