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I’m at a Loss: My Son Always Backs His Wife—Even When She’s in the Wrong
I havent the foggiest idea what to do, says sixtyyearold Margaret Thompson, her voice quivering with tears. My son, Michael, is forever on his wifes sideno matter how wrong she is. Whatever happens, whatever I say, he waves me off and says, Mum, dont worry, Julia will sort it out. Shes not daft. He always finds an excuse for her, even when shes clearly in the wrong!
Julia, Margarets daughterinlaw, is only twentyeight. She and Michael have a oneandahalfyearold son and live in a modest flat they bought on a mortgage. Julia is on maternity leave, while Michael is the sole earner. They get by on a tight budgetno luxuries, but certainly no lack of necessities.
Mrs. Thompson, however, cannot stomach Julia at all.
When Michael first brought her home, I was gobsmacked, Margaret recalls. She had long, fake nails, a tattoo on her neck, a short skirt, shoes that looked like runway heels, and lips that clearly had a professionals touch. I thought he was joking. How could my son possibly be dating someone so shall we say, lighthearted?
A month later they were married, and, in Margarets opinion, Julia turned the ceremony into a fashion showleather skirt, glittery top, stagemakeup. Michael was beaming, so Margaret decided to keep her mouth shut and simply watch.
At first she barely spoke to her new daughterinlaw, calling Michael a couple of times a month to ask how things were going. Everything changed a year and a half ago when baby Paul arrived.
I turned up on the second day after the discharge and what do I see? Fresh manicure. I blurted, Julia, have you lost your mind? Thats a hazard for a newborn! She replied, Dont worry, Ive got it under control. When I went to Michael, he said, Mum, stay out of it. This isnt your business. And thats the pattern noweverything I say is met with, Mind your own affairs.
Margaret tried to parent her daughterinlaw with advice, remarks and gentle scoldings, only to be met with indifference. Julia isnt one to make excuses for herself.
I drop by and the place is a mess. I tell her, Julia, could you make a proper soup for the baby? Hes working all day. She answers, Michael doesnt eat soup. How can he not? Hes had it already! Shes just lazy. If she cooked properly, hed have both soup and borscht on the table.
When Margaret tried to speak directly to Michael, he invariably defended Julia.
Mum, cut the nagging. Everythings fine. Julias a good mother.
A good mother?! Margaret exclaims. She never lifts her face from the phone! I havent seen her without a gadget for ages. Shes scrolling through Instagram even when the baby is right there.
The final straw happened on the playground.
I rang their doorbell and heard nothing. I thought they were out for a walk, so I went to the park. There was little Paul digging in the sand, and Julia perched on a bench, eyes glued to her phone. I got closer and saw Michael standing near the fence. Suddenly he ran to me, grinned, and shouted, Grandma! while Julia finally turned around. He bolted onto the road! Its a quiet street, but you never know what might turn up.
Thank heavens there were no cars at that moment, Julia whispered, trembling. I grabbed the child and ran to her, but she was sitting there like shed been hypnotised. I said, If you dont put that phone away right now, Ill smash it on the pavement! Are you a mother or what?
Julia sprang up, snatched Paul, and fled. The boy wailed, reaching for Margaret, but Julia slammed the door in her face and never opened it again.
I called Michael and told him everything, Margaret continues. He said, Mum, youve gone too far. Calm down. Julia can handle it. How can that be? I saw it all with my own eyes! He doesnt believe me. Now neither of them talks to me, returns my calls, or opens the door. Its been a month. I have no clue what she whispered to him, but I just want my grandson safe.
Margaret wonders: Maybe hes right. Maybe I should have kept quiet. But I cant stay silent when a childs welfare is at stake. Im a mother, Im a grandmother.
Now shes a lonely woman with a dead phone, and the son she raised has taken his wifes sidealways.
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“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
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