**The Stubborn Mums**
When Oliver and Emily got married, both families were over the moon.
Oliver’s mum, Margaret, even shed a tear outside the registry office. Meanwhile, Emily’s mum, Veronica, hugged her new son-in-law like she’d known him since he was in nappies.
Neither Margaret nor Veronica had husbands anymore. Both had raised their kids alone. Both had weathered their fair share of storms.
Despite their differences—Margaret being the no-nonsense, opinionated type, while Veronica was more easygoing—they’d always respected each other. Neither fancied building their children’s happiness on a pile of family drama.
For the first few months, the newlyweds rented a tiny one-bed flat—neighbours who smoked like chimneys, a courtyard full of rowdy kids. Still, they were their own bosses.
Then, about six months in, Emily had an idea. Oliver thought it was brilliant. Totally logical.
Two weeks later, *that* conversation happened. With the mums.
***
“Mum, don’t take this the wrong way. Emily and I were thinking…”
Margaret just stared at her son, waiting. She was used to his harebrained schemes by now.
“Well… you’ve got a two-bed, Veronica’s got a three-bed. Meanwhile, we’re stuck in this rented shoebox. It’s expensive *and* cramped. We want to move into her place.”
“Go on.”
“You and Veronica… well, you could live together. She’d move in with you, and we’d take her flat. More space for everyone.”
He said it like he was explaining the rules of Monopoly. Calm. Not a shred of doubt.
“For how long?” Margaret asked.
“Oh… till we can buy our own place. Maybe five years. Or ten.”
Margaret didn’t scream. Didn’t even flinch. Just said, “I’ll think about it.”
Then she stepped onto the balcony, staring at the empty street below, feeling something slow and cold settle in her chest.
***
The next day, Veronica got the same speech from Emily.
“Mum, you and Margaret get on fine. Not best mates, but you don’t clash. So why not share a house? And we’ll move in here, proper grown-up style…”
Veronica cut her off.
“You’re suggesting I put my life on leasehold?”
Emily blinked.
“No! It’s just… your chapters are written. Ours are just starting…”
“‘Written’? So I’m shelf-ready now, am I?”
“You’re twisting my words—”
“No, love. I heard them loud and clear.”
***
A week later, they all sat down—Margaret and Veronica on one side, the kids on the other.
Oliver and Emily looked deadly serious. Almost solemn.
“Mums, we don’t want a row. We’re just asking you to understand. Money’s tight. We want kids. You’ve both got houses. Meanwhile, we’re blowing half our wages on rent. Where’s the sense in that? Is it really so hard to live together?”
Margaret spoke first.
“Actually, yes. Especially when your own son treats you like… spare furniture.”
Veronica jumped in.
“Try seeing it our way, loves. We’ve got our own rhythms. Our own quiet. Our own *homes*. We don’t owe anyone a rewrite of our lives.”
“But you’re both on your own! It’d be fun—like *Golden Girls*!” Emily insisted.
“Self-respect,” said Margaret. “And the right to *not* share my biscuits.”
“So you don’t care how we struggle?” Oliver’s voice cracked.
“We do,” Veronica said softly. “But there’s a difference between helping and hacking off your own legs to make a stool.”
The young couple exchanged glances. This wasn’t the script they’d imagined. They’d braced for tears, maybe a shouting match—certainly not this quiet, immovable *no*.
That night, Margaret washed dishes methodically, scrubbing each spoon like it held the secret to serenity.
Veronica, meanwhile, launched into a furious deep-clean—dusting, polishing, anything to numb the sting.
By the time they collapsed, the anger had burned out, leaving only exhaustion.
They didn’t hate their kids. Didn’t wish them harm. But that conversation laid it bare: to Oliver and Emily, they weren’t people anymore. Just foundations to walk over without looking down.
***
A month passed.
Oliver and Emily dropped the idea. Rented a bigger flat, took out a loan. Moaned about bills, adulthood, the crushing weight of no generational wealth.
Never asked the mums to bunk up again.
Maybe they’d listened. Or maybe they’d sobered up after posting about their “selfish mums” online and reading the replies—most of which began with, “Are you having a laugh?”
As for Margaret and Veronica? They started meeting for tea, even caught a matinee. Not bosom buddies, but allies.
“D’you know what’s funny?” Veronica snorted one afternoon. “They still think we just didn’t *get* their genius plan.”
“Let them,” Margaret shrugged. “Long as they don’t start encore-ing.”
***
And that’s the tale.
About how children grow up, but don’t always grow *wise*.
How mothers aren’t bookcases you can shove into any corner that suits you.
How the right to a life doesn’t expire at fifty—sometimes, that’s when the best bits begin.
***
So—would *you* do it?
Move in with your in-law because the kids find rent a tad steep?
