**OLIVIA: THE STORY OF THE UNWELCOME DAUGHTER-IN-LAW**
When Michael brought his girlfriend Olivia home, the air in the house turned thick with tension. His father, William, sat silently in the corner, not a word for or against—like his opinion didn’t even matter. But his mother, Margaret? She fired question after question, sizing Olivia up with a sceptical squint, as if trying to spot a flaw, some hidden insincerity—or just *something* that didn’t sit right.
Olivia didn’t impress her one bit. Petite, plain, dressed in something ridiculously simple—more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman. Those braids didn’t help either. Where was the manicure, the makeup, the stylish outfit? No, *this* wasn’t the woman she’d imagined for her only son. Next door, there was Emily—striking, confident, her dad running a dairy company, her mum a top accountant. *She* had always fancied Michael. *That’s* the kind of wife he should’ve brought home, not this… little nobody.
But Michael wouldn’t budge. He was madly in love with Olivia. When his mother pulled him aside and started pushing for Emily, he cut her off sharply:
*”I love Liv. We’ve already sent off the paperwork. Enough, Mum. Drop it.”*
The wedding was quiet, modest—just how Olivia wanted it. Said they should save their money for life ahead. Michael’s mum was livid, called it an embarrassment. But Michael stood by his wife.
The newlyweds lived with his parents at first. Margaret never missed a chance to nitpick—Olivia’s cooking was bland, she didn’t look after Michael properly, the cleaning was half-arsed. Michael put up with it for ages, until one day he’d had enough:
*”We’re moving out.”*
They rented a flat. Money was tight, times were tough, but he worked his fingers to the bone. Then he even started building their own house. Meanwhile, Olivia went to uni for teaching—not exactly bringing in much support. Everything rested on Michael’s stubborn will.
Olivia studied hard, graduated with first-class honours. Over the moon, she rushed to her mother-in-law’s, hoping *maybe now* she’d see her effort. But Margaret just muttered:
*”You’re making my son’s life harder. Should’ve picked Emily, Michael. It’d have been easier.”*
Olivia left in tears. Didn’t even complain to Michael. Life had already given her enough pain—her dad left when her mum turned to drink. And her mum, even when she *was* sober, was a stranger in binges. Olivia had gone hungry, hid from drunk strangers in their home. Loving Michael had been her only escape.
They finished the house, had kids. She started as a teacher, then became deputy head. Two boys—Oliver and James. Margaret doted on the grandkids, showered them with love. But to Olivia? Still frosty, almost hostile. Just *”hello”* and *”goodbye”* between them.
The boys grew up, left for flight school in another city. One after the other. The house felt empty. William passed—quietly, unnoticed, just like he’d lived. Margaret was alone now, but even then, she wouldn’t visit Olivia. That ice never melted.
At Olivia’s 45th birthday, everyone gathered—sons with their girlfriends, friends, neighbours. Even Margaret came, though she kept to the corner. Mid-celebration, Olivia went pale, had to sit down. Everyone panicked.
Next day, she went to the doctor. Came back stunned—she was pregnant. Told Michael that night. He was silent forever before saying, softly:
*”It’s too late for this, Liv. We should… end it. People’ll laugh…”*
She nodded. But something inside her shattered. Alone, curled up in pain, she went to Margaret the next morning. Her own mum was long gone—no one else to talk to. Maybe a harsh word from *her* would make it easier to decide…
Margaret didn’t speak at first. Then suddenly, she burst into tears. Told Olivia how Michael had been born weak, how she’d stayed up nights saving him, terrified she’d lose him. Olivia listened, then hugged her—for the first time ever. And *she* started crying too, spilling everything—her mum’s drinking, the fear, the hunger.
They cried together for what felt like an hour. Strangers, yet in that moment, closer than family.
That evening, Margaret turned up at their door unannounced.
*”Not here for you, Michael. Here for Olivia,”* she said.
Olivia burst into tears. No one had *ever* called her “Livvie”—not her mum, not her mother-in-law.
They sat at the table. Margaret took Olivia’s hand.
*”Don’t you dare get rid of it. We’ll manage. You’re not old. This is a blessing. Not everyone gets one. And I’ll talk to Michael myself.”*
And that settled it. In time, Olivia gave birth to a little girl—Amelia. A proper beauty, with curly hair and lashes for days. When they placed her on Olivia’s chest, she sobbed—pure happiness.
Michael and Margaret met them at the hospital. Margaret sold her old place and moved closer to help with the baby. Came round every day like clockwork. She and Olivia didn’t just *get along*—they became proper mates. Hours at the kitchen table, gossiping, laughing.
And for the first time in her life, Olivia had a mum. Not by blood—but real. Warm. The kind who held her when it hurt and said, *”You’re not alone.”* And that? That was the most precious thing in the world.
