My Lovely Daughter-In-Law – “Mum, I’m Marrying Emily. The Baby’s Due in Three Months.” My Son Gave Me the Shock of My Life… She Was Just Seventeen, He Was Off to Join the Army, and Soon We Were Planning a Wedding with a Pregnant Bride. Years Later, After Betrayals, A Divorce, and a New Wife Named Joanna, I Can’t Help but Miss Emily—The First Daughter-In-Law Who Still Feels Like Family.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 2

MY ENGLISH DAUGHTER-IN-LAW

Mum, Im marrying Emily. In three months, well have a baby, my son told me, leaving no room for discussion.

I cant say I was shockedafter all, my son had introduced Emily to me some time ago. But her age troubled me. She hadnt yet turned eighteen, and my boy was still due for his service in the Army. Children themselves, yet already planning a wedding and with a baby on the way.

Finding a wedding dress took ages. Emily, after all, was seven months along, and that bump made itself known.

Once the celebrations quieted, the young couple moved in with Emilys parents. My son would visit me weekly, locking himself away in his old room and asking not to be disturbed. As a mother, of course, I worried.

One day, I rang Emily.

Is everything alright with Oliver? I asked.

Of course. Why wouldnt it be? Emily was unflustered, calm as a cucumber.

Emily, do you know where your husband is at this moment? I probed.

Mrs. Williams, do mind your own business, please. Well sort ourselves out, she replied, quite sharply for the firstand not the lasttime.

Sorry to take up your time, I said quickly, and hung up.

I have always been a peaceable sortso, I let them stew in their own juices. I wasnt about to meddle further.

Soon, Emily brought a girl into the world, whom she named Harriet. I never liked the name, and in my heart I called my granddaughter Beatie.

Oliver was called up for Army service, posted far from home. Throughout those two years, I made trips to see little Beatie. Each visit, I noticed how Emily blossomedshe was a beauty, almost alarmingly so. It did cross my mind: what if this lovely student girl doesnt wait for her husband?

Id sensed Emily never truly warmed to me. Whenever I arrived, shed quickly pass over the pram, sighing as if shed seen enough of me, then send me out for a walk with Beatie. Even her looks communicated her dislikea hostility that cut deep. I began to dread that chilly house, and tried not to overstay.

After his service, Oliver returned. For a while, things seemed right between thema quiet, loving home. My heart was at ease. Beatie grew, Oliver doted on his wife, and Emily ran the house gracefully. The next fifteen years sailed by in this domestic harmony.

Then, everything changed. Emily, it seemed, became a different woman. Suitors started appearingone after anotherand my daughter-in-law didnt try to hide her affairs. People do say, you cant keep a bad loaf under a lid. Oliver endured it all for nearly three years; he loved Emily, and I saw his suffering.

Emily, on the other hand, stung him with words, mocking and belittling. I didnt dare speak to her of moralsI was almost afraid of her, truth be told. That fierce look could wilt flowers.

Son, I once asked quietly, are you and Emily not getting on? Whats happened?

Dont worry, Mum. Itll all work out, Oliver tried to assure me.

He seemed full of guilt, as if he somehow deserved this misery. Unable to bear it, I went to see Emily myself.

Emily, may I ask something? I ventured softly, careful not to rouse her temper.

Youd do better asking your son just what, or rather who, he gets up to at work! My aunts told me everythingyour darling boys the first to cheat! Emily flared.

Heavens, why did I ever interfere? I kept everything to myself. You cant please everyone, and theres no sense driving yourself mad trying.

Not long after, Oliver and Emily divorced. Beatie stayed with her mother.

Oliver threw himself into bachelorhoodhis romantic companions changed constantly: brunettes, blondes, redheads. He was never lonely.

Emily remarried at once, and Oliver was the one who broke the news to mehe even wept. Shed always been a caring wife, in a way.

Olivers next wife was Janea petite, clever, and shrewd woman. He was thirty-five, she forty. My son walked on air, doting on her every word and whim. Jane quickly took charge: she demanded marriage in church, a flat for her daughter, and that Oliver would provide for her every need.

Unlike Emily, Jane tried to befriend me; she called me by my first name and insisted on informality. I didnt care for it, but I let it be. All the gifts Jane bought with my sons money still hang unworn in my wardrobe. They mean nothing to me.

Janes smiles were forced, her words falseand as for Oliver, I dont believe she ever truly loved him. She saw him as a purse, and never hesitated to demand more.

Emily mightve been brash, but she was genuine, called me formally, and loved Oliver in her own way.

Jane never cooked, preferring ready meals from the grocers. Once, I tried suggesting she make Oliver a proper soup, instead of eating cold sandwiches.

Sally, dont try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Jane shot back.

Her friends always came firstjust like her: off to expensive health spas, coffee in trendy cafés, wandering high streets for the latest fads. Should anything displease her, thered be dramatears, tantrums, the lot.

Serve Jane her eggs, but only peeled, mind. How Oliver stands it, I cant comprehend. I think their pairing is a folly.

More and more, I find myself thinking back to practical Emilythe comparison is plain. Her roast dinners, her delicious pies, her cakes were divine. Why did Oliver let it all slip away? He couldnt hold on to such a woman. Its his own doing.

Im pleased Beatie still remembers me, bringing little trinkets. Emily, despite everything, is still my true daughter-in-law at heart. Only after losing someone do you see their worth. Jane will always be an outsider. My sons heart, I believe, still belongs to Emilybut theres no road back now.

And Then She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t Nearly as Awful as She’d Always Thought The morning of December 30th was no different from any of the past twelve years Nadya and Dima had spent together. Everything happened as usual: he left early in the morning to go hunting and wouldn’t be back until midday on New Year’s Eve, their son was with Grandma, and once again Nadya found herself alone at home. Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to this routine. Dima was an avid fisherman and hunter, spending every weekend and holiday deep in the woods, whatever the weather, while she waited back at home. But today, for some reason, she felt uncharacteristically sad and lonely. Normally, she’d dedicate these days to housework and cooking—it was always easy to find things to do. New Year’s was tomorrow, and as usual, they’d be spending it at her mother-in-law’s, just like every year for the past twelve years. Nothing new, nothing different. But today, she didn’t feel like doing anything, and it seemed that everything was falling out of her hands. So when her best friend called, it was a welcome distraction. Her oldest schoolmate, Irka, was always cheerful, recently divorced, and often hosted get-togethers at her place. This time was no different. “Home alone again?” her friend stated rather than asked. “Dima off in his forests again? Come over later—a great bunch is coming. Why mope at home?” Nadya didn’t promise anything and honestly didn’t plan to go, but by the evening, the loneliness became overwhelming. She started recalling the past years and felt especially hurt today that her husband wasn’t around. Through all those years, her life had amounted to home, work, and her son. That was it. They never went anywhere. Dima found visiting others boring—fishing and hunting were the only things on his mind, and Nadya didn’t want to go alone. As a result, they never took a holiday, spending every vacation in her mum’s village. She was grateful that her husband got along with her mother, but she still wanted to see the sea and the world beyond her everyday routine. That evening, she thought, “Why not join my friends tonight? At least I won’t be alone.” She went to Irka’s, enjoyed herself surrounded by old school friends, and had a wonderful evening. Most importantly, Grisha was there—her first school love. Somehow, almost without realising it, the two of them spent the night together. Nadya didn’t know how it happened—it wasn’t as though she’d drunk much, but an avalanche of memories overwhelmed her and swept her away. The next morning, she felt ashamed and awkward, eager to forget the whole awkward incident, and literally ran away from Grisha’s flat. At home, she was met with a surprise—the first thing she saw was Dima’s coat: he had returned early. Her legs went weak with fear. If her husband discovered she hadn’t come home that night, she could already picture the inevitable row and how he’d leave her—she knew he wouldn’t forgive her, and honestly, she couldn’t blame him. She scolded herself for her recklessness, for nearly destroying her own family—she did love her husband, after all. But then the phone rang, bringing her back to reality. It was her mother-in-law. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you two, but Dima rang last night and couldn’t reach you. I told him you were at Auntie Kate’s—she was unwell and you were helping her. So don’t let me down now…” Help from her mother-in-law was the last thing Nadya ever expected. Their relationship had always been strange—no arguments exactly, but Zinaida Petrovna had never been fond of her daughter-in-law. She’d opposed their wedding from the start, thinking they’d rushed into things, and even after the wedding, she’d made Nadya’s life difficult. For the first few years, they’d all lived together, and after they finally got their own place, their contact had dropped to the bare minimum—they kept a polite neutrality, meeting mostly at family gatherings. But now Nadya felt grateful, no matter what the future held—as long as her husband never found out the truth. That evening, they went to her mother-in-law’s together, and while in the kitchen alone, Nadya tried to bring up what had happened—to confess and thank her. But her mother-in-law waved it away. “Don’t worry about it. Do you really think I’m immune to this stuff? I know what it’s like, being married to a man who sees nothing beyond his hobbies. I’m no saint myself. My Petru—” she nodded towards her husband—“has spent his whole life out in the woods too. Of course it hurts. Just don’t make it a habit, you know what I mean?” Nadya understood. And she also realised her mother-in-law wasn’t nearly as horrible as she’d always thought—she really did understand after all. So the story ended well, and Nadya decided then and there: never again would she spend the night out without her husband’s knowledge. Taken from the web

THE FOOL Everyone thought Anna was a simpleton. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years. They had two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband barely bothered to hide his affairs—he cheated on her first on the second day of their marriage, with a waitress, and there was no counting how many followed. Her friends tried to open her eyes, but Anna simply smiled and stayed silent. Anna worked as an accountant at a toy factory. The salary, according to her, was tiny, but the workload was never-ending—even working weekends. During financial reporting season, she might not come home at all. Her husband, meanwhile, earned very well. Still, Anna was a hopeless homemaker. No matter how much money she had for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she ever managed for dinner was borscht or pasta and meatballs. That was life. Everyone around them gossiped, especially when they saw her husband Val with a new flame. He would often come home, as they said, “dry as a bone.” “That Anna’s such a fool, why does she put up with such a cheat?” On the day Sam turned ten, her husband came home and announced he wanted a divorce. He’d fallen in love, he said, and family life no longer suited him. “Don’t take it personally, Anna, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re cold as a fish. At least if you were a good housewife, but you’re not even that.” “Alright, I agree to the divorce,” Anna replied. Val nearly fell off his chair; he’d been expecting a scandal, hysterics, tears—anything but calm acceptance. “Fine, then you pack your things and I’ll stay out of your way. Leave your keys under the mat; I’ll be back tomorrow.” Anna looked at him with a silent, strangely knowing smile. This was all odd, Val thought, but brushed it off—he was imagining his new, happy life, free of children and a tiresome wife. The next day, he returned home with his new flame, checked under the mat for the key—nothing. That annoyed him a little. “No matter, I’ll just change the locks. Easy,” he shrugged to himself and tried his old key. Didn’t fit. He knocked on the door. A burly man in slippers and a dressing gown answered. “What do you want, mate?” “This is my flat, actually,” Val said, not very confidently. “I’d argue with that. Got any documents to prove it?” No, of course he didn’t. He started fumbling for his passport, remembering the address should be inside. The man glanced at it, frowned, then handed it back. “When was the last time you looked at this?” Val nervously flipped the page; there were two stamps—a registration and a deregistration, the latter dated two years ago. How could this have happened? He didn’t push his luck with the bouncer at the door. He tried ringing Anna, but her number was disconnected. He waited for her at the toy factory gates—only to find out Anna hadn’t worked there for a year. His daughter was studying abroad. He thought at least Sam would be at the local school, but the school told him Sam had been transferred—last year. Sorry, confidential. Devastated by all that had happened, Val slumped onto a bench and buried his head in his hands. How had simple, quiet Anna pulled this off? And how had she managed to sell the flat? “No matter, I’ll sort this out at the divorce hearing,” he muttered, grimly. On the day of the hearing, he arrived furious, ready to expose Anna as a fraud and reclaim all that was his—only to learn the hard truth. Two years ago, he’d signed a general power of attorney for Anna, during an affair with stunning Eliza. He’d brushed off the details when Anna, needing paperwork for their daughter’s studies, had suggested it. Advised by his solicitor, he’d unwittingly handed over everything he owned. When Eliza heard he no longer had a flat, she disappeared fast. “Well, at least I’ll get her with child support,” Val consoled himself. But instead of a summons for spousal maintenance, he received a court order regarding a paternity dispute. Anna revealed both children were not Val’s—she’d seen him cheat on their wedding day and embarked on revenge of her own. First, she cheated back, then she hid every penny he gave her for the house, feeding the children at her mum’s and saving up. Anna’s mother had tried to stop her: “Revenge will destroy you, ruin the children,” but Anna would not be swayed. She even did DNA tests, though she already knew who the children’s real father was. Val took the loss of his flat better than the news that the kids weren’t even his. Beware the women you wrong—for a wronged woman’s wrath knows no bounds.

I called out the window, “Mum, why are you up so early? You’ll catch your death out there!” She just turned, waved her shovel in greeting, and called back, “I’m doing this for you lazy lot!” — But the next day, Mum was gone… I still can’t walk by our front garden without tears… Every time I see that path, my heart aches like someone’s grabbed it. I took that photo on January 2nd… I was just passing by, saw the footprints in the snow — and stopped. Snapped a picture, not even knowing why. And now it’s the only thing I have left of those days… We celebrated New Year’s as we always did, the whole family together. Mum was up early on the 31st, as usual. I woke to the smell of frying and her voice from the kitchen: “Come on, love, rise and shine! Give me a hand with the salads, or your dad will gobble all the ingredients before we’re done!” Down I came, still in my pyjamas, hair a mess. She was by the stove in her favourite apron — the one with peaches that I gave her when I was in school. Her cheeks were rosy from the oven. “Let me have a coffee first, Mum,” I whinged. “Coffee later! Chop the veg first — small, like I taught you! Not those rugby ball chunks from last time!” she laughed, tossing me a bowl of roasted veg. We chopped, and talked about everything under the sun. She reminisced about her own childhood New Years — no fancy salads, just a herring under a fur coat and a few precious tangerines Dad brought home from work. Then Dad arrived with a massive Christmas tree. “Here you go, girls — take a look at this beauty!” he boomed from the porch. “Blimey, Dad, did you clear out the entire forest?” I gasped. Mum just shrugged. “It’s lovely, but where’ll we put the thing? Last year’s was half this size.” But she still joined in decorating. My sister Lera and I strung up the lights, and Mum brought out the old ornaments — even the glass angel she quietly told me she’d bought for my first Christmas. “Remember this?” she asked. “Course I do, Mum,” I lied, just to see her face light up. My brother rolled in that evening — loud as ever, arms full of shopping bags, gifts, and bottles. “Got proper bubbly this year, Mum! None of that cheap stuff from last time.” She laughed and hugged him. “Just don’t get plastered, you lot!” At midnight, we all headed outside. Dad and my brother set off fireworks, Lera shrieked with excitement, and Mum stood next to me, her arm tight around my shoulder. “Look at it, love — isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered. “We’ve got a good life, haven’t we…” I hugged her back. “The very best, Mum.” We drank champagne from the bottle, laughed when a firework shot straight into the neighbour’s shed, and watched Mum, tipsy in her old snow boots, dance as Dad swept her off her feet. We laughed until we cried. New Year’s Day, we lounged all day. Mum made more food — dumplings, jellied beef. “Mum, you’ll feed us to bursting!” I moaned. “Oh hush, you’ll eat it all. New Year lasts a whole week!” she swatted me off. January 2nd, she was up early again. I heard the door bang, peeked out — she was outside with the shovel, clearing the snow. In her old puffer, headscarf tied up. She worked with care — a narrow, perfect path from the gate to the porch, piling snow neatly against the house. I called from the window, “Mum, what are you doing out there? It’s freezing!” She swung her shovel and hollered, “Otherwise you lot will be wading through drifts till spring! Put the kettle on, will you?” I smiled and headed for the kitchen. She came in half an hour later, cheeks bright red, eyes sparkling. “All sorted,” she said, settling in for coffee. “Looks good, don’t you think?” “Perfect, Mum. Thank you.” That was the last time her voice sounded so lively. On the morning of January 3rd she woke up and whispered, “Girls, my chest feels funny. Not bad, just uncomfortable.” I panicked. “Mum, let’s call an ambulance?” “Oh don’t be daft, love. I’m just tired, been rushing about too much. I’ll rest, it’ll pass.” She lay on the sofa, Lera and I sat with her. Dad rushed out for tablets. She tried to joke: “Don’t look at me like that, I’ll outlive all of you yet!” Then she went pale, clutched her chest. “Oh… I don’t feel right…not right at all…” We called the ambulance. I held her hand, whispered, “Hold on, Mum. They’ll help you, everything will be alright…” She met my eyes and murmured, “Love you all so much…don’t want to say goodbye.” The paramedics came fast but…there was nothing they could do. A massive heart attack. It all happened in minutes. I sat on the hallway floor, sobbing. I couldn’t believe it. Just yesterday she was dancing under the fireworks, laughing, now… Barely standing, I went to the garden. The snow had barely fallen. Her footprints were still there — small, neat, perfect. From gate to porch and back. Just as she always left them. I stared at them for ages. I asked God, “How can it be that someone walks this earth, leaves their footprints, and the next day they’re gone? Footprints remain, but the person doesn’t.” It felt like she went out on January 2nd for the last time — just to leave us a clear path. So we could walk it, even without her. I never brushed the tracks away. Told everyone not to — let them stay until the snow covers them forever. That was the last thing Mum did for us. Her quiet care for us showed, even when she was gone. A week later, a heavy snow buried them. I keep that photo with Mum’s last footprints. Every year, on January 3rd, I look at it, then at the empty path by the house. The pain is still sharp: somewhere under all that snow, she left her final footprints. The ones I keep following, still…

The Recipe for Happiness… The Whole Block Watched as the New Tenants Moved Into the Flat on the Second Floor—The Family of a Factory Foreman at the Town’s Only Major Employer in a Quiet Little English Village “Why on earth would they choose to live in an old Victorian terrace?” pensioner Mrs. Nina Andrews wondered aloud to her friends. “With his pull at the factory, they could’ve easily snagged a shiny new-build!” Her daughter, glamorous thirty-year-old Annie with her signature bold makeup, protested, “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum. These Victorian houses have high ceilings, spacious rooms, a grand hallway—and that balcony might as well be another room! And they got a phone line straight away! There are only three phones in our whole building of nine flats…” “All you want is to gossip on the phone,” her mother scolded. “Leave the new people be—they’ve got better things to do than chat with you!” “They’re not so out of reach—they’re young, their daughter Natasha is only nine! Practically my age, well, a few years older maybe,” Annie replied, casting an indignant look at her mum. The neighbours turned out to be friendly enough—Lydia worked in the local school library and Ivan had already notched up a decade at the factory. Annie wasted no time in getting to know them, regularly popping over to use their phone, unlike some neighbours who wouldn’t even open their door for her half-hour chats with girlfriends. But soon, Ivan grew weary of Annie monopolising their phone line. “I can’t get any calls in from work, and Natasha gets distracted from her homework by the noise,” Lydia admitted. One evening, Annie arrived with a chocolate bar as a sweet gesture, only to be told by Lydia, “Best not—Natasha’s allergic, chocolate is completely off-limits in our house.” Annie, red-faced, took her chocolate home. Determined, Annie returned soon after, notebook in hand, asking Lydia for her secret recipe for those delicious sweet cheese buns she baked each morning. “But why not ask your own mum? Our parents always know best!” Lydia replied, too rushed to help. Annie left, disappointed once more. Finally, Annie turned to the old, well-thumbed recipe notebook buried in her mum’s kitchen cupboard—and there, in spidery cursive scripts, she discovered the exact recipe she’d been searching for. Before long, their own flat was filled with the tantalising warmth of freshly baked buns. With each batch, Annie grew more content in the kitchen—her boyfriend Slava soon followed the scent, and laughter and joy returned to their home. And when Annie found herself awaiting the arrival of a baby, she realised she finally held the true recipe for happiness: a warm home, a loving husband, and the sweet aroma of home-baked treats enjoyed together.