Recently I Visited My Daughter-in-Law and Was Surprised to Find a Housekeeper; I’ve Always Told My Son That His Future Wife’s Finances Don’t Matter, But Now I Wonder How They Afford This—Especially Since My Husband and I Bought Their House, Renovated It, and Still Support Them Financially, Yet My Daughter-in-Law Doesn’t Work Except for ‘Blogging’, Hires Help, and I’m Left Asking: Where’s Her Conscience and Shouldn’t I Have a Say in My Own House?

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 3

The other day, I visited my daughter-in-law, and there was a woman in charge of the house and the cleaning.

Ive always told my son that the financial situation of his future wife didnt matter to us, so he was happy and married Emily, who never had much money and generally enjoyed the comforts of life.

After the wedding, the kids moved into the house wed bought for them. My husband and I had done it up for them, and now we try to help out with money and bring them food parcels. My daughter-in-laws doing wellshes had my grandchild, so she isnt working at the moment, and my son hasnt got a particularly well-paid or impressive job either.

So you can imagine how I felt when I walked into the house where my children and grandchild live, only to find a stranger cleaning. My daughter-in-law hired a housekeeper, but does absolutely nothing herself. How can she afford something like that? Wheres her sense of responsibility?

I sent this woman away on the spotafter all, its still my house, whichever way you look at it! And shes cleaning it with the money I give them. How else could my son and his wife afford help like that? I decided to wait for my daughter-in-law, as she was out with my grandson. When they came home, I didnt wait to bring it up. I launched straight in, and my daughter-in-law replied:

Mum, Ive become a blogger while Im on maternity leave, so I have a decent income now. Plus, I really do need the help around the house, because Im always so busy working!

And what exactly is a blogger? Is that a proper job? Can you really earn a living from that? I dont like the idea of strangers cleaning my house.

If youve got that much money, pay me to do the cleaning, and then no strangers need to come in here, I said.

She just muttered something and went off to feed my grandson. I waited for my son to share the latest family news, and he said:

Mum, I knew about the cleaner. Emily works really hard, and after work Id like to spend time with my son too, so I dont see the harm in it.

I just cant understand these youngstershow can they afford this? I dashed off to find my husband, and do you know what he said?

You mustnt meddle in the younger generations lives! Theyre grown-ups now, they can sort things out for themselves!

Its been a long time since Ive been this cross. Im sure Im doing and saying the right thing! What do you all think?

Staying Human Mid-December in the town of Middleton was bleak and blustery. A thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. The local coach station, with its perpetual drafts, seemed the last stronghold of frozen time. The air was thick with the mingled scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and decay. Glass doors slammed in the wind, admitting another wave of cold and people with cheeks reddened by the chill. Margaret hurried across the waiting room, checking the station clock. She was here only in passing. A brief business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she needed to get home, which meant two connections. This coach station was the first—and the dreariest—of them. Her tickets were for the evening bus. So Margaret was killing three hours, feeling the damp dullness of this place seep even into the lining of her expensive coat. She had not been back to such surroundings in ten years; everything now seemed smaller, dimmer, slower and impossibly distant from her present life. Her heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor. Here, she was a conspicuous outsider—her sandy wool coat immaculate, her hair perfectly styled despite her journey, a leather satchel slung across her body. Her gaze, trained to appraise and filter, swept the room: the kiosk attendant yawning at her phone, an elderly couple silently sharing a roll, a man in a worn jacket staring into nothingness. She could feel their glances—curious rather than hostile—simply noting: she was not one of them. And mentally she agreed. All she needed was to wait out this interlude and pass through, as through a troubled dream. By tomorrow she’d be back in her cosy London flat—warm, bright, untouched by this bone-deep provincial bleakness. Just as she was about to choose where to sit, someone blocked her path. A man. Sixtyish, maybe older. Weathered, unremarkable face, the kind you forget. His jacket was old but carefully mended, ear-flap hat in hand, having removed it in the warmth. He hadn’t cut her off—he simply appeared, as if conjured by the station’s grey air. He spoke with a low, oddly flat voice, without intonation. “Excuse me, miss… Do you know where… I could get some water?” The question hung in the air, as awkward as the moment itself. Without really looking, Margaret gestured towards the yawning kiosk attendant where bright plastic bottles were clearly on display. “Over there. The kiosk,” she replied, starting to move around him. A brief, sharp pang of irritation struck her. “Some water.” And “miss.” Such old-fashioned words. Couldn’t he see for himself? It was obvious. He nodded, mumbling, “Thank you…” but didn’t move, standing with his head bowed as if gathering strength just to take those few steps. His hesitance, his helplessness in the face of a simple act, made Margaret—already nearly past him—pause for a heartbeat. She saw. Not his clothes or age, but beads of sweat trickling down his temples, his hands clutching the hat spasmodically, the odd pallor of his lips, the glazed look directed at the floor—though clearly seeing nothing at all. Something inside her shifted. Her hurry, her annoyance, her sense of superiority—crumbled in an instant, as if her carefully built inner world had cracked. Her response was automatic, primal. “Are you all right?” she heard herself say, her voice oddly gentle, stripped of the usual metallic edge. She didn’t sidestep, but took a step towards him. He looked up. There was no plea in his eyes, only embarrassment and confusion. “My blood pressure, I think… Feel dizzy…” he whispered, eyelids fluttering with the effort of staying upright. Margaret moved on instinct. Taking his arm—gently, but firmly. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit. Over here,” she said, her tone quiet but decisive, leading him to the nearest vacant bench. Seating him, she knelt in front of him—unconcerned what it looked like. “Lean back. Breathe. Slowly. Don’t rush.” She dashed off and swiftly returned from the kiosk with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Here. Sip. Slowly.” Digging a handkerchief from her coat pocket, she dabbed his brow without thinking. All her attention sharpened on this man—his ragged breaths, the feeble pulse fluttering at his wrist. “Help!” Her clear, commanding voice cut through the station’s hush—not a frightened cry, but a call to action. “Somebody—call an ambulance! A man’s unwell!” Suddenly the coach station—the “haven for those with nowhere to be”—came alive. The elderly couple responded first, the woman fetching heart medicine, a drowsy man in the corner sprang into action, dialling for help. Even the bored kiosk attendant abandoned her post. These unseen, background people now rallied into a community, united by an unforeseen emergency. Margaret, still at the bench, quietly soothed the man, pressing his cold fingers between her warm hands. In that moment, she was neither a high-flying executive nor a conspicuous outsider. She was simply a human being present at the right time. And suddenly, that was enough—more than enough. Then, into this strange quietness, new sounds burst from outside—the staccato wail of a siren, the heavy swing of the glass door. Two paramedics in navy jackets with red crosses strode through, bringing with them December’s icy breath. Their arrival broke the hesitating crowd’s huddle; people parted silently to form a clear passage to the bench. The flurry gave way to a respectful stillness. Margaret, still seated beside the man, met the weary, skilled gaze of the paramedic kneeling before them. “What happened?” the woman asked briskly, movements crisp, practised. Margaret reported as she would at a meeting—but this time without steel, only fatigue and relief. “He felt faint. Dizzy, weak, sweating heavily. Blood pressure, he said. We gave water, heart tablets. He seems stable.” While she spoke, the other medic was checking vital signs and shining a torch in the man’s eyes. He was now lucid enough to answer quietly: name, age, medication. The paramedic nodded approvingly. “You handled it well. Water was the right call. We’ll take him in—get him on a drip.” They helped the man stand, unsteady but upright, supported by the medic. Suddenly, searching the small crowd, he caught Margaret’s eye. “Thank you, love,” he croaked, gratitude filling his gaze enough to make her throat catch. “You… you may have saved my life.” Margaret had no words, only a silent nod, feeling drained where adrenaline had just raged. She watched as they led him outside to the waiting ambulance, the chill air swirling in as the door opened. Someone muttered, “Shut the door—bloody freezing!” The door slammed. The siren wailed into the distance. The station slowly—reluctantly—slipped back into its old inertia: sluggish waiting. People drifted to their benches, the air thick with routine. Margaret remained standing. Looking at her hands. Red indentations from her bag had left marks. Her perfect hairdo was lost, her coat creased and dirty from crouching on the floor. She made her way to the ladies’ room. The freezing water stung her skin. In the cracked mirror she saw: makeup smeared, tired eyes, dishevelled hair. A face she hadn’t recognised in years—not polished by success, but simple, human, alive with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried her face and returned to the waiting room. There was over an hour until her bus. This time, she bought a bottle of water for herself. One sip: cool, unremarkable—yet, in that moment, it seemed absolutely vital. Not just a drink, but a connection. Simple, human connection that emerges the moment you see a fellow person—not as an obstacle or background, but as simply another person. The faces of those who came to help—flushed with concern, unattractive—she had never seen truer or more honest faces. They were alive. Gazing at her reflection in the grimy station window, in her crumpled coat, concern etched on her face, Margaret felt—for the first time in ages—utterly real. Not an image, but a human being capable of hearing another’s quiet distress and responding. Back on her bench, the familiar lethargy returned. But something had changed. Her gaze no longer skimmed past others with distant irritation. She saw details: the kiosk attendant bringing a hot tea to the elderly woman with a cane, a man helping a young mum manoeuvre a pram inside. These little things formed a new picture—not dreary, but quietly governed by the rules of mutual aid. Margaret checked her phone. A work message—something about a report error. A couple of hours ago, it would have seemed urgent. Now she typed simply: “Move it to tomorrow. It’s manageable,” and put the phone on silent. Today she’d remembered a simple, almost lost truth. The world needs masks—the mask of professionalism, wellbeing, aloof self-assurance—costumes for life’s many stages. We must wear them. But it’s dangerous if, beneath them, our real skin forgets to breathe. If we start to believe we are only the mask. Today, in the draughty station, her mask cracked. And through the crack came something real—the capacity to fear for another, to drop to a dirty floor without thought for appearances, to become—for a moment—just “the girl who helped,” not “Ms. Peters, department head.” Staying human does not mean abandoning every mask. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And sometimes—like today—letting that living, vulnerable, authentic part out to meet the world. Even if it is just to reach out a hand.