MOTHER-IN-LAW
Margaret Green sat in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she had forgotten to stir it, each time noticing too late as the froth rose and spilled over, forcing her to wipe the cooker in annoyance. In those moments, she felt it keenly: the problem wasnt the milk.
Ever since the birth of her second grandchild, everything in the family seemed to have gone off the rails. Her daughter grew tired, gaunt, spoke less and less. Her son-in-law returned home late, ate in silence, sometimes slipping straight off to the bedroom. Margaret saw all this and thought: how could a man leave a woman on her own like that?
She tried to speak, first gently, then more sharply. To her daughter at first, then to her son-in-law as well. But she soon noticed something odd: after she spoke, the tension in the house seemed to thicken, not ease. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew withdrawn, and Margaret found herself going home with the uneasy feeling shed only made things worse.
On the day in question, she visited the vicarnot for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to go with that heavy feeling inside.
I must be awful, she murmured, eyes lowered. I do everything wrong.
The vicar sat at a little table, writing. He set his pen aside.
And why do you think that?
Margaret shrugged.
I only want to help. But I end up upsetting people instead.
He regarded her kindly, no censure in his eyes.
Youre not awful. Youre just exhausted and very worried.
She let out a sighit felt close enough to the truth.
I worry for my daughter, she confessed. Shes not herself since the baby. And him She waved a hand. He doesnt seem to notice.
Have you noticed what he does? the vicar asked gently.
Margaret thought back. She recalled spotting him washing up late into the evening when he thought no one was watching. There he was, pushing the pram on Sunday, though it was clear hed rather just collapse with sleep.
He does I suppose, she answered, uncertain. But not properly. Not as he should.
And what should he do? the vicar pressed, still calm.
Margaret wanted to reply at once, but suddenly she realised she didnt truly know. Only: more, more often, more carefully. But the specifics wouldnt come.
I just want it to be easier for her, she said quietly.
Thats what you should tell yourself, the vicar replied softly. Not himyourself.
She looked up, puzzled.
In what sense?
Well, at present, youre fighting not for your daughter, but against her husband. And fighting always brings tension. Everyone gets weary from thatyourself, and them too.
Margaret was silent a long moment. Then she asked:
So what am I to do? Pretend all is well?
No, the vicar said. Just do what helps. Not wordsdeeds. And never against someoneonly for.
She pondered this as she walked home. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didnt lecture her, but simply sat nearby if she cried. Why had it changed?
The next day she turned up unannounced, bringing a pot of soup. Her daughter looked surprised, her son-in-law uncomfortable.
I wont stay, Margaret said quietly. Just dropped by to help.
She played with the children while her daughter napped and slipped away without a single comment about how hard things were or how life must be lived.
A week later, she returned. And the next week, again.
She still saw how far from perfect her son-in-law was. Yet other things began to catch her notice: the way he tenderly picked up the baby, the way he draped a blanket over her daughter in the evening when no one was watching.
One day, she couldnt help herself and in the kitchen asked him:
Is it hard for you at the moment?
He seemed astonished, as if no one had ever asked him that before.
It is, he said after a pause. Very.
No more words were needed. But after that, something sharp faded from the air between them.
Margaret realised she had been waiting for him to changebut she ought to have begun with herself.
She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, Margaret no longer replied I told you so. She just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she rang her son-in-law simply to ask how he was. None of this was easy. Much easier to be cross.
Yet bit by bit, the house became quieter. Not perfect, not entirely betterjust more peaceful. The constant strain was gone.
One day, her daughter said:
Mum, thank you for being with us, not against us now.
Margaret mulled over those words for a long time.
She understood something simple then: true peace doesnt come when someone admits faultbut when someone first decides to stop fighting.
She still wished her son-in-law would be more attentive. That longing didnt budge.
But alongside it grew a stronger one: for peace in the family.
And each time old feelings bubbled upresentment, hurt, the urge to lash outshe asked herself:
Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them?
The answer almost always showed her the way forward.
