**The Family Burden**
In an old house on the outskirts of Manchester, where the wind whistled through the cracks in the wooden window frames, the eldest daughter, Lydia, held court over family matters. By thirty-five, she’d never married—whether due to her razor-sharp tongue or impossibly high standards for suitors, no one could say. Lydia had become a terror to men, quick with a cutting remark, her gaze enough to freeze blood. “That stray!” she spat like a verdict when the subject of her brother’s new wife came up. The younger sister, Millie—plump and prone to giggles—snickered in agreement. Their mother, Margaret, stayed silent, but her stern face spoke volumes: she wasn’t fond of the new addition either. And who could blame her? Her only son, the family’s great hope, had returned from his military service not alone—but with a wife. And what a wife! No family, no roots, not a penny to her name. A stray, by all accounts. Thomas, her son, just laughed it off. “Don’t fret, Mum, we’ll make our own way!” But how could reason reach such a stubborn fool? What had he dragged into their home? A thief? A swindler? You couldn’t trust strangers these days!
From the moment this “stray” crossed the threshold, Margaret forgot what sleep was. She dozed fitfully, bracing for betrayal—would the girl rifle through the cupboards? Make off with the family silver? Her daughters only fanned the flames. “Mum, hide the valuables! The jewelry, the china—lock it all up before we wake up robbed blind!” They nagged Thomas relentlessly: “What were you thinking? She’s nobody! Who have you brought into this family?”
But life went on, and so did the task of putting the interloper in her place. Margaret’s house was sturdy: a forty-acre garden, five pigs in the pen, more chickens and ducks than you could count. Work never ended—you could toil from dawn till dusk and never catch up. Yet the “stray,” whom they called Rose, never complained. She weeded, fed the animals, cooked, cleaned, eager to please her mother-in-law. But you couldn’t fool a mother’s heart: no matter how hard Rose tried, it was never enough. On the first day, Margaret snapped:
“Call me Mrs. Whitcombe. It’s proper. I’ve got my own daughters—you’ll never be family.”
From then on, Rose addressed her formally, while Margaret refused to call her anything at all. Need something done? “Do this, do that.” Full stop. No coddling! The sisters, Lydia and Millie, showed no mercy—every misstep was scrutinized, every flaw magnified. Occasionally, Margaret reined them in, not out of pity but for peace. She’d no patience for squabbles. Yet deep down, though she’d never admit it, she noticed: Rose was hardworking, no sluggard. Slowly, her heart thawed.
Things might’ve settled in time, but Thomas strayed. What man could bear being told daily, “Who did you marry?!” Then Lydia intervened, introducing him to some friend, and off he went. The sisters rejoiced—now the “stray” would scram! Margaret stayed silent, while Rose drifted through the house like a shadow, hollow-eyed with sorrow. Then, lightning struck twice: Rose was pregnant, and Thomas filed for divorce.
“Not on my watch,” Margaret said, staring her son down. “I didn’t pick her, but you married her—now live with it. No more gallivanting. You’ll be a father soon. Break this family, and you’re out. Rose stays.”
For the first time, she’d used the girl’s name. Lydia and Millie gaped. Thomas rebelled—”I’m the man here, I decide!” Margaret just laughed, hands on hips. “Man? You’re just trousers! Call yourself a man when you’ve raised that child right.”
Words were Margaret’s strength, but Thomas was just as stubborn. He packed his things and left. Rose stayed. In time, she had a girl, naming her Eliza—after her mother-in-law. Margaret said nothing, but her eyes flickered with warmth. Life carried on, though Thomas never returned, nursing his grudge. Margaret worried but never showed it. She doted on her granddaughter—spoiling her with sweets and toys. Rose, though? She never quite forgave her for driving her son away. But she never said a word.
Ten years passed. Lydia and Millie married, leaving three in the big house: Margaret, Rose, and Eliza. Thomas signed on for work up north, remarried, then divorced. Then a man started circling Rose—a retired officer, Michael, steady, older. He’d left his flat to his ex-wife, lived in lodgings, but had a pension—solid prospects. Rose fancied him too, but how could she bring a man into Margaret’s home? She explained, apologized, turned him down. Michael wouldn’t quit—he went straight to Margaret. “I love Rose. Can’t live without her.”
Margaret listened, unmoved. “Love her? Then move in. But Eliza stays here. With me.”
So they all lived together. Neighbors clucked: “Mad Margaret! Threw out her own son, took in that stray and her beau! Must’ve bewitched her!” But Margaret ignored them, head high as a queen.
Rose had another girl, Sophie. Margaret adored both grandchildren, though Sophie wasn’t hers by blood. But did that matter? Love didn’t ask for pedigrees.
Trouble came suddenly. Rose fell gravely ill. Michael cracked, took to drink. Margaret, without a word, emptied her savings and took Rose to the city. No medicine, no doctor helped. One morning, Rose felt better, asked for chicken broth. Margaret, hopeful, killed a hen, made the broth. But Rose couldn’t eat it. For the first time, she wept. And Margaret—who no one had ever seen cry—sobbed with her:
“Don’t leave now, lass, not when I’ve grown to love you. What are you doing?”
She wiped her tears and said firmly, “Don’t fret for the children. They’ll be cared for.” Till the end, she held Rose’s hand, stroked it, as if begging forgiveness for all that had passed between them.
Another ten years. Eliza married. Lydia and Millie arrived, older, quieter—childless. Family gathered, even Thomas, divorced again, deep in his cups. He marveled at Eliza’s beauty—”Never thought I’d have such a daughter!” But when he heard her call Michael “Dad,” he darkened, storming to Margaret: “This is your fault! Why let a stranger in? I’m her father!”
Margaret cut him short. “No, son. You’re not. Still just trousers.”
Thomas couldn’t bear it. He left, wandering again. Eliza had a son, named him Michael. Margaret was buried a year ago, beside Rose. Now they lie side by side—mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. Between them this spring, a birch sprouted. No one planted it. Just a stray. Maybe Rose’s farewell. Maybe Margaret’s last apology.