The Heavy Burden of Family
In an old house on the outskirts of Manchester, where the wind whistled through cracks in the wooden frames, the eldest daughter Lydia ruled the family. By thirty-five, she had never married—perhaps because of her sharp tongue or her impossible standards for suitors. Lydia was a terror to men, quick with a cutting remark and a glare that could freeze blood. “That stray!” she spat like a curse when speaking of her brother’s new wife. Her younger sister, Millie, plump and giggly, snickered in approval. Their mother, Margaret, said nothing, but the stern set of her jaw spoke volumes—she wasn’t fond of the new addition either. How could she be? Her only son, the family’s pride, had returned from military service not alone but with a wife. And this woman had no family, no roots, not a penny to her name. An orphan, perhaps, or raised in foster care—no one really knew. Their son, Robert, only joked, “Don’t fret, Mum, we’ll make our own way!” But how could reason reach a man so stubborn? Who had he dragged into their home? What if she was a thief or a fraud? There were plenty of those about these days.
From the moment this “stray” crossed the threshold, Margaret forgot what sleep was. She dozed lightly, braced for betrayal—would her daughter-in-law rifle through their chests or steal the family silver? Her daughters only fueled her suspicions. “Mum, hide the valuables with relatives! Move the furs, the jewellery—she’ll clean us out overnight!” For a month, they nagged Robert: “What were you thinking? She’s got no looks, no background! What kind of wife is this?”
But life had to go on. They adjusted, and along the way, put the newcomer in her place. Margaret’s home was sturdy: a forty-acre plot, five pigs in the pen, chickens and ducks beyond counting. Work never ended—you could toil from dawn till dusk and never finish. Yet the “stray,” named Hope, never complained. She weeded the garden, fed the animals, cooked, cleaned, and tried to please her mother-in-law. But a mother’s heart is hard to sway—no matter her efforts, nothing was ever enough. On the first day, Margaret, burning with resentment, snapped:
“Call me Margaret. It’s proper. I have my own daughters, and you’ll never be one of them.”
From then on, Hope addressed her formally, while Margaret never used her name at all. If she needed something, it was just “Do this, do that.” No coddling! Meanwhile, Lydia and Millie seized every misstep, magnifying each flaw. Sometimes Margaret reined them in—not out of pity, but to keep peace. Still, deep down, she noticed: Hope was hardworking, never lazy. And slowly, her heart began to thaw.
Life might have smoothed over time, but Robert strayed. What man could endure being nagged from morning till night: “Who did you marry?” Lydia even nudged him toward an old friend, and off he went. The sisters rejoiced—now the “stray” would leave! Margaret stayed silent, while Hope moved through the house like a shadow, gaunt, with hollow eyes. Then, like a bolt from the blue, two shocks: Hope was pregnant, and Robert filed for divorce.
“Not a chance,” Margaret cut in, locking eyes with her son. “I didn’t pick her for you, but you married her—so live with it! No more straying. You’ll be a father soon. Break this family, and you’re out—I won’t acknowledge you again. Hope stays here.”
For the first time, she’d called her daughter-in-law by name. Lydia and Millie fell silent. Robert rebelled: “I’m the man—it’s my choice!” But Margaret only laughed, hands on hips. “Man? You’re still just trousers! Father a child, raise it well, make something of yourself—then you can call yourself a man.”
Words never failed Margaret, but Robert was just as stubborn. He packed his bags and left. Hope stayed. In time, she gave birth to a girl, naming her Ann—after her mother-in-law. Margaret’s eyes flickered with joy, though she said nothing. The house carried on as before, only Robert never returned, nursing his grudge. Margaret grieved but showed nothing. She adored her granddaughter—spoiling her with sweets and toys. As for Hope, she never forgave her for driving her son away, though she never said so aloud.
Ten years passed. Lydia and Millie married and moved out, leaving just three in the house: Margaret, Hope, and Ann. Robert moved north, remarried briefly, then divorced. Meanwhile, a retired officer, Michael, began courting Hope—steady, older, reliable. After his divorce, he’d left his flat to his ex-wife and lived in lodgings, but had a job and pension. Hope cared for him but refused—how could she bring a man into her mother-in-law’s home? She explained, apologized, and turned him down. But Michael wouldn’t relent—he went to Margaret himself. “I love Hope,” he said. “I can’t live without her.”
Margaret listened without flinching. “Love her? Then marry her,” she said. After a pause, she added, “But Ann stays here. With me.”
So they lived together. Neighbours gossiped: “Margaret’s lost it! Turned her own son out but kept the stray and her fancy man! That girl must’ve bewitched her!” But Margaret ignored them, holding her head high, regal as a queen.
Hope had another daughter, Liz. Margaret doted on both granddaughters—Liz wasn’t hers by blood, but did it matter? Love doesn’t ask for lineage.
Then tragedy struck. Hope fell gravely ill. Michael collapsed into drink. Without a word, Margaret drained her savings and took her daughter-in-law to specialists. No treatment worked. One morning, Hope asked for chicken broth. Encouraged, Margaret slaughtered a hen and boiled the broth—but Hope couldn’t eat it. For the first time, she wept. And Margaret, whom no one had ever seen cry, sobbed with her:
“Why are you leaving now, child, when I’ve finally learned to love you?”
She wiped her tears and vowed, “Don’t fear for the girls—they’ll want for nothing.” Until the end, she held Hope’s hand, stroking it as if begging forgiveness for all that had passed between them.
Another decade slipped by. Ann married. Lydia and Millie returned, aged and childless. Relatives gathered, and Robert appeared—divorced again, deep in drink. Seeing Ann grown into a beauty, he beamed. “Never knew I had such a daughter!” But when he heard her call Michael “Dad,” his joy darkened. He confronted Margaret: “This is your fault! Why let a stranger take my place? I’m her father!”
Margaret didn’t blink. “No, son. You’re no father. You were trousers then—you’re trousers now.”
Robert left in a rage. Ann married, had a son, and named him Michael—after the man who’d raised her. Margaret was buried a year later beside Hope. Now they lie side by side: mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. And between them this spring, a birch tree sprouted. No one planted it. It just strayed there. Perhaps Hope’s final farewell, or Margaret’s last plea for forgiveness.
Love, after all, outlives every hardship. Some burdens are heavy, but they teach us how to carry one another.