I always believed that the more roots a family has, the stronger its tree. Relatives—even new ones, even distant ones—are still people fate has drawn into the same stream. My husband and I made an effort to build bonds with everyone: our son-in-law’s parents, extended family, all of them. Especially after our eldest daughter, Emily, married. Children have a way of bringing people together. We were glad she’d found a good man—William, steady but not harsh, strong-willed but kind. They lived in a rented flat in Manchester at the time, and we helped where we could to save for a place of their own. It wasn’t easy, but every bit counted. We hadn’t had it handed to us on a silver platter, either.
At first, things with William’s mother, Margaret, were decent enough. She lived all the way in Liverpool, so most of our talks were over the phone, with rare visits. We spoke respectfully, as equals, and it all seemed to carry on smoothly. But as the New Year drew near, something broke. And it wasn’t on our side.
One evening, I rang Emily—just a warm, motherly call.
“Darling, have you and William decided where you’ll celebrate New Year’s?”
“Oh, Mum, we haven’t settled yet…”
“Well, why not come to us? The house is big, plenty of rooms—you know we love having guests. Your father’s already hung the lights in the garden. The tree’s up, the karaoke’s ready. And do invite Margaret—your dad can fetch her and take her back after. Why spend it alone?”
Emily said she’d speak to William and ring me later. That evening, she called back: they’d come, but his mother wouldn’t. She had plans with friends, or else she’d stay home. Said it was her tradition—quiet and simple, no fuss. It didn’t sit right with me. Surely one year with her son and new family wouldn’t hurt? I’d meant nothing but kindness. So I rang Margaret myself.
“Margaret, love, why stay cooped up alone? Come to us—you’ll have your own room, bring your friends if you like! We’ll have a proper do: barbecue in the garden, fireworks, singing. Proper homey fun!”
But she brushed it off, half-hearted.
“I don’t know. Ten years now, I’ve always been with friends. If they ask me, I’ll go. If not, it’s telly and an early night. At my age, noise isn’t the joy it used to be.”
I didn’t push. Thought, *Well, if she’d rather not…* But the next day, Emily phoned again, her voice strained.
“Mum, she’s taken offense… Says we’ve betrayed her. That I’m ‘stealing her son,’ that he ought to spend New Year’s with her. She wanted us all crammed into her tiny flat—two bedrooms! Can you imagine?”
I was stunned. So we were villains for inviting them to a house with space enough for everyone? We had five spare rooms, a proper dining hall, a kitchen, a garden for grilling and games. She had a poky little place where even a handful of guests would struggle to fit. Even if we’d all squeezed in—what then? An hour or two of small talk, half-watching the telly, then back to the cars? New Year’s is about warmth, laughter, being together.
And then she’d said it, straight to their faces:
“If I’ve no family now, I’ll go to my friends.”
She’d even thrown in that they shouldn’t expect help buying a house. No money to spare, apparently.
My husband and I exchanged glances. He just scoffed.
“Good riddance. We weren’t counting on it.”
You know, there are always folk like that—ones who take offense at kindness because to them, kindness looks like weakness. Any choice that isn’t theirs is betrayal. Margaret was that sort. She walked away, nursed her grudge, slammed the door herself. To say we weren’t sorry would be a lie. We were. A person who could’ve been close chose loneliness and blame instead. But as the saying goes, we’ll weather it.
And the children? They’ll welcome the New Year with those who love them—not those who hold them by the throat with guilt.
