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.

Mother-in-Law

Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob. Shed already forgotten to stir it three times, and each time, too latethe milk foamed and boiled over, hissing as it hit the stove. With a weary sigh, she wiped it up, annoyance prickling at her. She couldnt help but think the problem wasnt really the milk at all.

Ever since her second grandchild was born, it felt as if the whole family had slipped off the tracks. Her daughter was exhausted and growing thinner, barely talking these days. Her son-in-law, James, came home late, ate his dinner in silence, and often disappeared straight to the bedroom. Margaret saw all this and thought, how can a woman be left to cope alone like this?

She tried to talk about it. At first, gently, only to her daughter; then more firmly, to James as well. Yet she couldnt help but notice: the more she spoke, the heavier the atmosphere grew. Her daughter defended her husband, James grew sullen, and Margaret herself went home feeling shed put yet another foot wrong.

One day, with these worries lodged heavy in her heart, she turned not to seek advice, but simply because she didnt know where else to go. She found herself at Father Bernards office, an old family friend from All Saints.

I must be a terrible mother, she said, keeping her eyes on the table, I just get everything wrong.

Father Bernard, busy writing as she arrived, calmly put down his pen.

Whatever makes you say that?

Margaret shrugged. I only wanted to help. Instead, I seem to make everyone cross.

He regarded her kindly, without judgement. Youre not a bad person. Youre tired, and youre worrying a great deal.

She gave a little sigh. That, she realised, was very close to the truth.

Im frightened for my daughter, she admitted. Shes so changed since the baby arrived. And James she waved a hand, he hardly seems to notice.

Do you notice what James does? Father Bernard asked.

Margaret bit her lip, thinking back. She remembered, just last week, how James was quietly washing dishes late at night, thinking no one saw. How he took the pram out on Sundays, when you could tell he wanted nothing more than a nap.

He helpsI suppose, she said, uncertain. Just not enough.

What would be enough? Father Bernard asked gently.

Margaret opened her mouth, but found she couldnt answer. All she had were vague notions: more often, more attentively, more somethingbut what, exactly, she couldnt say.

I just want things to be easier for her, she said.

Then remind yourself of that, Father Bernard replied, quietly. Not himyourself. Because right now, youre fighting James instead of trying to help your daughter. And fightingwell, that just wears everyone out. You and them.

Margaret sat in silence for some time, then finally asked, So, what should I do? Pretend everythings fine?

No, he said. Just do whatever will genuinely help. Not words, but actionsand not against anyone, but for someone.

On her way home, she mulled over this advice, remembering when her daughter was small and, instead of lecturing, shed simply sit beside her when she cried. Why was it so different now?

The next morning, without warning, she popped over with a pan of homemade soup. Her daughter looked surprised, James a little embarrassed.

I wont stay long, Margaret said. Just thought Id help.

She took care of the children while her daughter napped, leaving quietlythis time offering no advice about how they should be living or how hard things were.

She came again the next week, and again the week after that.

Margaret still saw Jamess shortcomings. But now, she also noticed little things: the gentle way he scooped up the baby, the way he tucked a blanket around her daughter on chilly evenings, believing himself unseen.

One day, she found herself alone with James in the kitchen.

Is this all feeling a bit much at the moment? she asked.

James looked startled, as if no one had thought to ask. After a moment he replied, Its really hard. Yes.

That was all, but something sharp in the air between them lifted a little after that.

Margaret realised then: shed been waiting for James to become someone else, when really, the change had to start with her.

She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, Margaret no longer said, I warned you, but simply listened. She took the children sometimes so her daughter could rest. Now and then, she rang James, just to ask how he was. It wasnt easy; resentment was a far more familiar feeling.

But the tension at home slowly faded. Not perfectjust quieter, softer around the edges.

One evening her daughter said, Mum, thank you for sticking by us, not taking sides.

Margaret puzzled over those words for ages.

She finally understood: reconciliation isnt about making someone admit theyre wrong. Its about someone choosing to stop the battle first.

Margaret still wished James were a little more attentive; that much hadnt changed.

But now, even more than that, she wanted peace in the family.

And every time old habitsindignation, frustration, the urge to criticisereared their heads, shed ask herself:

Do I want to be right, or do I want my family to feel a little lighter?

Almost always, the answer showed her the way.