“My Grandchildren Only Get Fruit Once a Month, Yet She Buys Expensive Food for Her Precious Cats,” My Daughter-in-Law Fumes, Accusing Me of Being Cold-Hearted… My daughter-in-law tried to shame me because her kids only see fruit once a month while I treat my cats to quality food. But here’s the thing: her children have both a mum and dad who ought to care for their balanced diet, while my cats have only me. When I once suggested that my son and his wife might slow down on adding to the family, I was sharply told to mind my own business. So now I do just that—feed my cats and listen to my maternally outraged daughter-in-law’s complaints.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 7 minViews 1

My grandchildren only see fresh fruit once a month, but she buys her precious cats that expensive food, my daughter-in-law snapped, her voice sharp with accusation, as though my affection was some sort of coldness.

She wanted to shame me for treating my two cats well, as if I should ignore their needs because her children didnt feast on fruit each morning. But heres the thingthe kids have a father and mother who ought to mind their diet. My cats, they have only me. When I once dared to suggest that my son and his wife might want to slow down on having more children, they told me to keep my nose out of their business. So I did. I mind my own, feeding my cats and listening to the righteous indignation of my daughter-in-law.

My sons wedding had happened in a rushhis bride already carrying their first. Both swore it was all for love, and that the pregnancy was pure happenstance. I smirked at their claims, but said nothing more; my son is a grown man, after all, fully responsible for his own choices.

Before her maternity leave, my daughter-in-law worked as a cashier at the local Sainsburys. She spent most of her pregnancy on sick leave, always complaining about her aversion to constantly dealing with difficult customers. Given her temperamentnever the most patient, seldom agreeableI have no trouble believing she courted a fair share of arguments.

Honestly, it didnt matter much to me what she was like; we lived separately. I was in my little one-bedroom flat, while my son and his wife had their own place, bought on a mortgage before they married. Hed sold the three-bedroom we once sharedmy old place, my name on the deed. The money from my share got me my own place; he took his and dove straight into mortgage payments. Id tried to talk sense into him, back then.

Why on earth do you need three bedrooms, all that extra money for nothing? Id asked, not yet privy to his upcoming wedding.

Once the truth came out, of course, things made sense. He paid for everything, because his wife, forever on sick leave and soon to be on maternity, wasnt earning, but certainly didnt mind spending. Money was always tight for them.

I stopped meddling, wanting to avoid blame should things go sideways. He chose her, so she must suit him. They lived apart from me, so there were no battles over washing-up or sharing a bath. Let them get on with it.

My sons mortgage was near enough that he would often pop by for supper after work. His wife refused to cook, claiming kitchen smells made her gag. I didnt argueits quite believable.

After their first son was born, I thought about going over to help. A first-time mum, after all, but no sooner had I offered than I was firmly reminded my advice wasnt neededshe had the internet and her own mother. Fair enough. I visited when invited, brought gifts and cakes for my grandson, but never offered help again.

Through all of it, my son struggled with the mortgage and a growing family, never complaining, only quietly shouldering the life hed chosen. I did what I couldfed him the occasional hearty supperand tried to reassure him things would improve when the little one grew up and his wife returned to work.

But she had no intention of going back to her job. When their eldest was about two, she fell pregnant again. I hinted that perhaps they were trying a bit too enthusiastically to solve Britains falling birthrate, but was put firmly in my place.

Mind your own business! Were not asking for your help, she snapped.

My son muttered about child benefit as if that would magically fix everything. Well, theyd made their choice. My relationship with her had never been warm, but after that conversation I pulled back altogether. My son would sometimes bring my grandson over for a visit, but I never inserted myself into their home.

We led separate lives. My son, even more bruised by financial troubles, would sometimes offer glimpses of deeper issuesmoney arguments, his wifes failure to budget, his own limitations. I kept quiet. What could I recommend? Divorce? Change jobs? Have another uncomfortable talk with his wife? As if any of that were so easy.

When the second boy arrived, I wasnt even allowed to visit. Not invited for the hospital discharge or otherwise. I was hurt, but I didnt force myself in. Theres no point in begging for a place you arent wanted. My daughter-in-law had made her feelings clear, and my son didnt challenge her.

It wasnt until the baby was seven months old that I saw him, graciously invited to the elders birthday. I brought presents for both boys and a few nice things for the table, fully aware their finances were stretched. I stayed for a couple of hours, my daughter-in-law stalking about the room with a face like thunder, as though she was doing me a mighty favour.

Im far too old now to chase after every self-important young woman and plead my case. If they didnt invite me, I didn’t visit. I saw my elder grandson only when my son brought him around; the little one remained under his mother’s watchful eye.

Money troubles for the little family never eased. The child benefit paid into the mortgage solved nothing. My son confided more and more that he and his wife quarrelled over their strained budgetshe hadnt a clue how to save, and he was hardly rolling in cash. I said nothing.

Then, not long ago, I bumped into my daughter-in-law at the Co-op, only to notice she was expecting again. She peered into my shopping basket, no doubt spying the fancy tins of cat food.

Typical! Your own grandchildren barely get fruit, while you splash out on expensive food for your cats, she spat, dragging the eldest boy away without another word.

But whos to blame that I can afford decent food for my pets, while their own children go wanting for fruit? She knows full well moneys tight, that theres a mortgage and my sons work isnt what it could be, but she chooses to have child after child. Nothing stops her from earning the money for fruit herself. Why should her burdens be my responsibility?

I can bet now shell try to cut me off from my grandchildren completelylabel me a bad grandmother for not shining every penny their way. It seems basic to me: everyones got to use their own sense, but its in short supply in their house. The worst part? Sometimes, I think my sons not much better.

I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” She Turned, Waved Her Shovel and Laughed, “I’m Doing This for You Lazy Lot.” The Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Feels Squeezed as If an Invisible Hand Grips It. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Just Happened to Pass By, Saw Her Footprints in the Snow—And Stopped. I Took a Picture Without Really Knowing Why. Now, It’s All I Have From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s, as Usual, All Together as a Family. Mum Was Up Early on the 31st. I Woke to the Smell of Fried Cutlets and Her Voice from the Kitchen: “Get Up, Love! Help Me Finish the Salads, or Your Dad Will Eat All the Ingredients Before We Even Notice!” I Came Down in My Pyjamas, Hair a Mess. She Stood at the Hob in Her Favourite Apron Covered with Peaches—the One I Gave Her Back in School. She Was Smiling, Cheeks Flushed Red from the Oven. “Mum, Please, Let Me Have a Coffee First,” I Groaned. “Tea After! First, the Potato Salad!” She Laughed and Lobbed Me a Bowl of Roasted Veg. “Chop Them Fine, Like I Like. Not Like Last Time—Chunks as Big as Golf Balls.” We Chopped and Chatted About Everything. She Told Me What New Year’s Was Like When She Was Young—No Fancy Salads, Just One Plate of Herring and a Few Tins of Mandarin Oranges Her Dad Managed to Bring Home. Later, Dad Arrived with the Tree. Huge, Almost Touching the Ceiling. “Alright ladies, Check Out This Beauty!” He Boomed from the Door. “Blimey, Dad, Did You Fell Half the Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Came Out, Surveyed the Tree, and Spread Her Arms: “Lovely, but Where On Earth Will It Go? Last Year’s Was Smaller at Least!” Still, She Helped Decorate. My Little Sister and I Hung Tinsel and Fairy Lights, While Mum Dug Out Old Ornaments—Ones from When I Was Little. I Remember Her Taking Out a Tiny Glass Angel and Whispering, “I Bought This for Your First Christmas, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Actually Didn’t, But Seeing Her Face Light Up, I Couldn’t Spoil It. My Brother Showed Up Later, Bags, Gifts, and Bubbly in Tow. “Mum, I’ve Got Proper Champagne This Time! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Year.” “Oh Son, Just Don’t All End Up Sloshed,” Mum Giggled and Hugged Him. At Midnight, We All Went Out Into the Garden. Dad and My Brother Set Off Fireworks, My Little Sister Squealed with Delight, and Mum Stood Beside Me, Her Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What a Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “We’re the Luckiest, Mum.” We Passed Champagne Round, Laughing as a Firework Zoomed Toward the Next-Door Shed. Mum, a Bit Tipsy, Danced About in Her Wellies to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”, and Dad Picked Her Up and Spun Her Around. We All Howled with Laughter. New Year’s Day Was Spent Lounging. Mum Kept Cooking—Now It Was Dumplings and Jellied Meat. “Mum, Give It a Rest! We’re All Practically Rolling!” I Moaned. “You’ll Eat It—New Year Means a Week of Feasting!” She Shooed Me Away. On the 2nd of January, She Was Up Early Again, as Always. I Heard the Door Slam, Peered Outside—She Was in the Garden With Her Shovel, Clearing the Path. In Her Old Puffy Coat and a Headscarf. She Was So Meticulous: From the Gate Right Up to the Porch—a Thin, Straight Passage. She’d Pile the Snow up Neatly Against the Wall, Just How She Liked. I Called From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Freeze!” She Turned Around, Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “If I Left It to You Lazybones, We’d All Be Wading Through Drifts until June! Put the Kettle On, Will You?” I Smiled and Headed to the Kitchen. She Was Back Half an Hour Later, Cheeks Glowing, Eyes Bright. “All Done—Looks Good, Doesn’t It?” “It Does, Mum. Thank You.” That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Full of Life. On the Third, She Woke Up and Quietly Said, “Girls, There’s Something Funny in My Chest. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried Immediately: “Mum, Shall We Call the Doctor?” “Oh, Don’t Be Silly, Love. I’m Just Worn Out, All That Cooking and Rushing Around. I’ll Lie Down, It’ll Pass.” She Rested on the Sofa, Me and My Sister Beside Her. Dad Went Out to the Chemist for Some Tablets. She Even Joked: “Don’t Look at Me Like That—I’ll Outlive You All, You’ll See.” And Then, Suddenly, She Turned Pale and Grabbed Her Chest. “Oh… I Feel Awful… Really Bad…” We Called the Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispering, “Mum, Hold On, They’ll Be Here Soon, You’ll Be Alright…” She Looked Up at Me, Her Voice Barely Audible: “Love… I Love You All So Much… I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye.” The Paramedics Arrived Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened in Minutes. I Sat On the Hall Floor, Howling. I Couldn’t Believe It. Only Yesterday She Was Dancing Outside Under Fireworks, Laughing… Barely Able to Stand, I Went Into the Garden. Snow Still Gently Fell. I Saw Her Footprints—Those Same Small, Deliberate, Neat Prints. From the Gate to the Porch and Back. Exactly as She’d Always Left. I Stood There Staring For So Long, Asking God, “How Can It Be? Yesterday Someone Walked This Earth, Leaving Their Trace, and Today They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, but She’s Not Here.” I Kept Thinking Maybe—She’d Gone Out One Last Time on the 2nd—to Clear the Path for Us. So We Could Walk Down It Without Her. I Didn’t Brush Them Away, and Asked Everyone Not To Either. Leave Them Until the Snow Itself Wipes Them Away. It Was the Last Thing Mum Did For Us—Her Care Showing Even After She Was Gone. A Week Later Heavy Snow Fell. I Still Keep That Photo of Her Last Footprints. Every Year, on the Third of January, I Look At It—Then at the Now-Empty Path Outside. It Hurts, Realising: Somewhere Under That Snow, She Left Her Final Steps. Those Steps—I’m Still Following Her Down Them…

The Fool Everyone thought Annie was a fool. She’d lived with her husband for fifteen years, and they had two children—Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband was blatantly unfaithful; he’d cheated on her the second day of their wedding— with a waitress, no less— and from then on, who could count the affairs? Her friends tried to open her eyes, but Annie would just smile sweetly and stay silent. Annie worked as an accountant at a toy factory: the pay, she said, was tiny, and the workload enormous—reports and late nights, even on weekends. Her husband earned well, but Annie was a useless homemaker—no matter how much money she got, it was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she managed for meals was borscht or some sausage and pasta. Everyone was amazed to see Val with a new fling, coming home dry as a bone, as if nothing had happened. “Oh Annie, what a fool, why does she put up with that philanderer?” they’d say. On the day Sam turned ten, her husband came home and announced he wanted a divorce—he’d fallen in love and didn’t want a family anymore. “Don’t be upset, Annie, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re a cold fish—if you were a good housewife at least, but you’re not even that.” “Alright. I agree to the divorce.” Val nearly fell off his chair, expecting a scandal, tears, hysteria—but not this calm. “Alright, then pack your things. I won’t get in your way. When you leave tomorrow, just leave your key under the doormat.” Annie looked at him silently, with a strange little smile. Val thought it odd but quickly forgot, already picturing his happy new life without children or a tired old wife. The next day he returned with his new girlfriend. No key under the mat—it annoyed him but, “No matter, I’ll just change the locks,” he thought. But his key didn’t fit. He rang the bell. A broad-shouldered man in slippers and a robe opened the door. “What do you want, mate?” “This is my flat, actually,” Val said, suddenly uncertain. “Got documents? If not, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He had no documents on him, so they didn’t let him in. Then he remembered—his passport, with his address. He found it and handed it over. The man in the robe flipped through, handed it back with a smirk. “When was the last time you looked at this, mate?” Val frantically opened to his registration stamp. Two stamps: one to register, one to remove, two years earlier. How had this happened? He didn’t argue with the bouncer, called Annie—no answer. He waited outside her work, only to learn Annie hadn’t worked there for a year. His daughter had gone to university abroad, his son had switched schools a year ago, and “sorry, we can’t give out those details if you’re not his father.” Crushed, he sat on a bench with his head in his hands. His timid, mousy ex-wife had pulled off some kind of heist—she’d even managed to sell the flat out from under him! But never mind, he’d sort it out in court—the divorce was in a week. He showed up furious, determined to expose his wife and get everything back. And at the hearing, it all became clear—he had forgotten that two years ago he’d signed a power of attorney over to Annie. Back then, he was infatuated with Eliza and tried to get Annie off his back by giving her the legal power she needed for their daughter’s university paperwork. He had, with his own hand, given away everything he owned. In the end, he was left on the street, and—most galling of all—when Eliza found out he was homeless, she disappeared without a trace. But Annie would get no maintenance from him—he’d make sure of that! But then another twist: instead of a summons for child support, he got a summons to contest paternity. Both ‘his’ children turned out not to be his. On their wedding day, Annie had seen him cheating with the waitress, and something snapped. She never understood exactly how or why, but she decided to get her own back, one step at a time. Step one: cheat for cheat. Then she started to scrimp, hiding every penny her husband gave her. The fridge was empty, but the children were fed and clothed at her mother’s house. “Revenge will destroy you and hurt the children,” her mother warned. But Annie was possessed, determined—and she’d succeeded. She’d even done DNA tests, though she already knew neither child was Val’s. That blow hurt more than losing the flat. Beware the woman you wrong; when she is angry, she is capable of anything.

The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the building watched curiously as a new family moved into the second-floor flat – the family of the workshop manager from the major local factory, a key business in their small English provincial town. “Why would they choose to live in this old estate?” mused Mrs. Nina Andrews, a retired neighbour, to her friends. “With the connections he’s got, surely he could’ve snapped up a flat in one of those new developments.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna, a lively, single thirty-year-old with bold makeup, replied. “They say these are classic Victorian flats – high ceilings, spacious rooms, a huge hallway and a balcony like another room… Besides, they’ve had a phone line installed straight away. Not everyone here has one – only three phones for nine flats!” “You’d be on that phone all day if you could,” chided her mother, “You’ve already worn out the neighbours. Don’t go pestering the newcomers – they’re busy, important people…” “Oh, they’re not that serious. They’re young – their daughter’s only nine, Natasha’s her name,” Anna retorted defensively. “They’re almost my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and friendly – Lida worked at the school library and Ivan had a decade behind him at the factory. Anna filled in her mother and the other women about every new detail each evening as they gathered in the courtyard. “How do you know all this, Anna?” asked the ladies, teasing her for her inquisitiveness. “I pop over to use their phone – unlike some,” Anna said with a smirk, alluding to refusals from other neighbours wary of her marathon calls to friends about every imaginable topic. Soon, Anna was regularly calling friends and colleagues from the newcomers’ flat, often lingering in her best outfits or comfortable dressing gowns, with an obvious hope of striking up a friendship with the friendly couple. One day she noticed Ivan deliberately shutting the door to the TV room whenever she arrived for a call. This became a pattern. Anna thanked Lida after each call, peeking into the kitchen, only to be met with a polite nod and a reminder to pull the door tight. “I can’t, my hands are in flour,” Lida would say. “And our French lock snaps shut by itself.” “Oh – what are you baking? More pastries? You always have something lovely in the oven… I wish I could bake,” sighed Anna. “Yes, I’m making cheesecake buns for tomorrow’s breakfast, just prepping now as mornings are hectic,” Lida would reply, turning back to her dough. Anna would wrinkle her nose – it was clear Lida wasn’t ready for more than neighbourly politeness. “I think it’s time to say no when she wants to use the phone,” Ivan said to Lida that evening, “My friends can’t get through, and she treats our place like her own lounge.” Lida agreed, so when Anna next perched on the hallway stool, gossiping on the line, Lida politely interrupted: “Anna, will you be much longer? We’re expecting an important call.” Anna nodded, hung up – but then pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket. “I brought something sweet! How about tea, to celebrate our friendship?” She marched to the kitchen, placed the chocolate on the table. “No, please, take it away. Natasha can’t have sweets, she has allergies. We avoid chocolate at home – it’s our family rule. Sorry, no tea,” said Lida firmly. Anna flushed. “I just wanted to thank you.” “No thanks necessary. But unless it’s for the doctor or the fire brigade, try not to call by, alright? Ivan gets work calls, Natasha’s doing homework, we keep the flat quiet. Hope you understand,” Lida added gently. Anna left, chocolate in hand, frustrated and convinced Lida was simply jealous. “She knows I’m better looking than her,” Anna told her mother later. “She’s just jealous – I brought my own chocolate, for goodness’ sake!” “You’re stubborn, Anna,” Nina sighed. “Maybe I didn’t raise you quite right. You mustn’t wedge into another family’s life. Start your own traditions – get your own phone, maybe your neighbours will come round to you.” Anna made one last attempt to break the ice – arriving with a notepad to ask Lida for the pastry recipe. “You’d better ask your mother,” Lida replied in surprise. “My mum taught me everything – and I bake by eye, never by a recipe. Besides, I really must dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home, where she knew, tucked in the kitchen cupboard, was her mother’s tattered recipe book, filled with handwritten instructions for every dish imaginable. She thumbed through until she found exactly the pastry recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you really going to bake?” Nina gasped. “Why shouldn’t I?” Anna played it cool, bookmarking the page. Her mother grinned. “So things with Slava are on again?” “You never know!” Anna quipped, secretly planning to win over her young man with baked treats just as her mother once had. A few days later, the scent of homemade baking filled the flat. “Well, I never! Smells like pastries! You must be in love, Anna!” Nina laughed. “Don’t shout across the landing! Just come in and try one – look, proper English curd buns!” Anna grinned. “Not bad at all,” her mother said after tasting. “You’ve not forgotten everything, after all.” Soon Slava was popping round ever more often, staying for Anna’s baking, their rows growing fewer, laughter ringing out from the kitchen. When Anna announced they’d filed for a registry office wedding, Nina Andrews wiped away happy tears – finally! Anna began slimming for the big day, while Slava pleaded, “Why have you stopped baking those buns? Promise we’ll have pies for the wedding tea?” For the simple home celebration, Anna, her mum, and her aunt prepared food for two days for twenty close family. The newlyweds set up in a big room in the family flat. Soon, every flat in their building finally had a telephone. Now Anna made her calls – short and sweet – before rushing back to the kitchen, where her dough grew and her happiness blossomed. She was expecting their first child, but still baked and cooked for Slava, who adored her – and her delicious, homely cheesecakes. A taste of happiness, found right at home.