I apologised to my daughter-in-law for my behaviour: I had been too harsh when she lived with me.
I am a terrible mother-in-law. The thought gnaws at me like an old wound. In our family, they say it runs in the blood, but I cannot excuse myself. I have two children—a son and a daughter. After my husband died, I raised them alone in a tiny village near Bristol. No help, no support. I was lucky my eldest, my son, who was fourteen at the time, could already tend to the house. Without him, I wouldn’t have managed. I don’t even want to think what might have happened.
Life was hard. When the children grew up and left, I stayed behind. There were struggles, of course, but I don’t need much. The garden feeds me, the hens lay eggs. I’ve seen worse. Meanwhile, my children built their own lives in the city. My youngest, Emily, married well—a doctor, no less. I was happy for her. She had everything we’d lacked. She moved to Manchester, hundreds of miles from our village. Word has it she lives in a grand house, nothing like my crumbling cottage. She visited sometimes with her child, but we never really got on. She’d bring gifts, gadgets, but all I wanted was to talk. No—she was always in a hurry. Now, she calls twice a year, asks how I am, and hangs up. She has three children, but I’ve only ever seen them in photos.
My son, William, married a girl from a poor family. Lucy—an orphan with no education. At first, they rented a flat in the city, but when they couldn’t afford it any longer, they moved in with me. What else could I do?
Lucy wasn’t lazy, but she was a city girl. Country life was a foreign world to her. It was clear she had no idea how things worked here. But I wasn’t kind. If wood needed chopping—call her. If dinner needed making—she’d do it. After all, that’s how I was treated in my day. While she fumbled around the house, I doted on my granddaughter—bright, clever, the spitting image of her father. I adored her, spoiled her rotten. But now I see: the more I loved that child, the harsher I was with her mother. I’m ashamed.
I don’t know if it was because of me, or if they were chasing something better, but William decided to work abroad, taking Lucy with him. Their five-year-old stayed with me. I didn’t argue. We had food, clothes, enough to get by. But my heart broke—my son leaving for somewhere so far, his wife beside him. What else could I say?
They were gone for a year and a half. In that time, my granddaughter became part of me. I taught her everything—from old folk songs to how to tend the garden. We were inseparable. Then William and Lucy returned, took their daughter, and left for the city. No one asked me, but what right did I have to object? It was their family.
Four years passed. William called sometimes, let me speak to my granddaughter. But they never visited. I could feel Lucy’s resentment lingering. Life went on—neighbours helped, but the house crumbled. The roof leaked, and I had no means to fix it. In winter, I stuffed rags in the gaps, but it barely helped. I tried not to complain, but worry for the future never left.
Last month, William’s family arrived unannounced. They looked happy. My granddaughter had grown—a proper young lady now. They’d done well abroad, invested their earnings. I was proud. Both my children had made something of themselves. But what shocked me most was Lucy. Over supper, she wouldn’t stop talking—how my granddaughter remembered her time here, all I’d taught her. She thanked me, as if she’d forgotten how cruel I’d been.
Later, we spoke alone. I gathered my courage and apologised for how I’d treated her. Lucy just smiled and said she’d learned a lot from me. They stayed two days, left gifts, and left. Then, the next morning, a crew of builders pulled up—bricks, cement, tools in hand. Said “the mistress” had ordered the roof and fence fixed. I knew—Lucy. The work was flawless. When I tried to thank them, they only laughed and said it was all paid for.
I am ashamed of how unfair I was. I was too hard, too demanding. But people can surprise you with their kindness. Lucy forgave me, and her gratitude warmed me through. Now I know—even the hardest relationships can mend. But it doesn’t always end this way.