I once apologised to my daughter-in-law for my harshness when she lived under my roof.
The thought that I was a poor mother-in-law gnaws at me still, like an old wound. Some say it runs in our family, but I’ll make no excuses. I raised two children—a son and a daughter—alone in a tiny hamlet near York after my husband passed. Without help, without comfort. My eldest, fourteen then, was already strong enough to lend a hand. Had he not been, I shudder to think what might have become of us.
Life was hard. When the children grew and left, I stayed behind in that creaking cottage—content enough, for I’d known worse. The garden fed me, the hens laid eggs. My daughter, Alice, married well, a physician no less, and settled in Bristol, far from the muddy lanes of my village. They say she lives grandly now, in a fine house with chimneys that smoke in winter. She visits now and then, always rushing, bearing gifts—new pots, a clock—when all I ever wanted was her company. She rings twice a year, asks after my health, and bids me farewell. Three grandchildren I’ve yet to hold, only seen in smudged photographs.
My son, William, wed a girl with neither family nor fortune—Lucy, an orphan from the city. At first, they struggled in rented rooms, but soon they could no longer afford even that. They came to me. What else could I do?
Lucy, though willing, was unused to country ways. I saw at once she didn’t know how things were done here. But instead of kindness, I gave her tasks: fetch the firewood, scrub the floors, knead the bread—just as I had been made to do in my time. While she toiled, I doted on my granddaughter, a bright-eyed little thing, the image of her father. Oh, how I spoiled her! Yet the more I loved the child, the harsher I was with her mother. Now, shame fills me for it.
I cannot say if it was my doing or mere circumstance, but William resolved to seek work abroad, taking Lucy with him. The child, just five, stayed with me. I did not refuse. We had food, warmth, enough to get by. Still, my heart ached to see my son go so far, his wife beside him. What else could I do?
A year and a half passed without word. In that time, my granddaughter became my very soul. I taught her everything—songs, how to tend the garden, stories by the hearth. We were never apart. Then, without warning, William and Lucy returned, took the girl, and left for the city. No one asked my thoughts, though what could I have said? It was their family.
Four years slipped by. William rang now and then, let me hear the child’s voice—now a young miss. But they never came. I felt Lucy’s resentment like a frost. The cottage crumbled; neighbours helped as they could, but the roof leaked rain, the fence sagged. Winter found me stuffing rags into cracks, praying the wind would spare me. I bit back complaints, yet fear for the future never left.
Then, last month, they arrived unannounced—prosperous, smiling. My granddaughter had bloomed into a fine young lady. Abroad, they’d saved enough to start a business. Pride for my son swelled in me—both my children had done well. But Lucy—oh, Lucy was the wonder. At supper, she chattered like a brook, recalling how the girl spoke of her time with me, the things I’d taught her. She thanked me as though my sharp words had never been.
Later, we spoke alone. Gathering my courage, I begged her pardon for my cruelty. She only smiled and said she’d learned much from me. They stayed two days, left gifts, and were gone. At dawn, workmen arrived with bricks and mortar, saying the mistress had ordered the roof mended, the fence made stout. I knew at once it was Lucy. They laboured well, and when I stammered thanks, they laughed—all was paid for.
Shame lingers. I was too stern, too unkind. Yet Lucy, whom I’d judged harshly, proved kinder than I ever was. Her forgiveness warmed me like a hearth in December. I see now that even the hardest hearts may soften. But not all tales end so well.
