The woman went to visit her son-in-law’s parents for the first time—she’d never been to their home before. They hadn’t seen each other since the wedding, and now their grandson was turning five.
She’d always assumed they were too different to maintain a proper family bond. *We’re well-off, while they’re just ordinary folk. We live in a grand estate, and they’re in that old cottage. Who knows—maybe they even resent us?*
How could they not? One family had luxury cars and property, while the other tended their vegetable patch and took the bus to work.
Every meeting was stiff and awkward. They moved in different circles, shared no common interests, and struggled to make conversation.
Her son-in-law’s father had a stern face, almost angry—sometimes it seemed he might snap at any moment. He hadn’t even smiled at the wedding, sitting there like it was a funeral. His wife, though, was overly cheerful, bursting with unrefined charm, saying whatever came to mind—no proper upbringing to temper her. Best to keep a safe distance from such people to avoid trouble.
But she had to go—they’d invited her. They’d decided to celebrate the boy’s birthday at that humble little house.
Her husband didn’t join her, not wanting to make the family uncomfortable with his presence. They’d surely feel the gap in status and shrink away—how dreadful that would be.
She had to bring something. After some thought, the couple settled on caviar—those simple souls had likely only seen it on telly.
She left her jewellery at home and wore a smart business suit. No unnecessary emotions, no idle chatter.
She prepared a list of polite, concise questions in advance. Nothing too personal—no prying.
Best to stick to talking about the child’s upbringing, but even then, she’d have to tread carefully. Mentioning private tutors or language lessons might only invite protests about “letting kids be kids”—better not to argue. That would be poor manners.
The whole thing made her nervous. How would she manage? How could she hide just how different they were—how opposite?
On the other hand, her daughter had settled right in with them and never complained—though she didn’t share much either. Understandable—her girl had tact, and that was a fine quality.
When she reached the gate, she hesitated. Stepping out of the car, she took the gift bag, pushed open the little gate—and saw the boy’s grandfather with the child on his shoulders, running around the garden, bouncing as he sang, *”Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross!”*
The boy was laughing, loving every moment.
The grandfather sensed someone there, turned—and his face lit up, eyes brimming with warmth and joy.
Not a hint of discomfort. *”Ah, there you are! Brilliant! Go on inside—we’ve still got hide-and-seek to play!”*
She meant to nod politely and glide in like royalty, but something pulled her toward them. She took the boy, spun him around, and said, *”Happy birthday! We’ve got a present for you—left it at home, though. Gran and Grandad bought you a proper toy car you can ride. Look—here’s a picture.”* She showed him her phone.
The grandfather grinned. *”Right, we’ll finish up here and join you in a bit.”*
Inside, her daughter and mother-in-law were rolling pastry for meat pies, hands dusted in flour.
They jumped up, arms spread so as not to smudge her, and kissed her cheeks.
*”Took your time getting here!”* the mother-in-law laughed. *”Sit down, love—let me finish this story. So, my literature teacher once kicked me out of class for calling Juliet a silly girl. Went pale and shrieked, ‘Get out!’ Turns out *I* was the silly one, not Juliet!”*
She burst into laughter first, and soon her daughter joined in—clearly, the two were as close as sisters.
The mother-in-law wiped her hands. *”You finish up here—I’ll heat the oven.”* Then she asked, *”Why didn’t your husband come? Always busy, eh?”* But she moved on before there was time to answer.
It was all so simple, so natural—no stiffness, no pretence.
And suddenly, the caviar in her bag felt ridiculous.
Fidgeting, she finally brought it out. The mother-in-law didn’t blink. *”Never had this before! We’ll save it for Christmas—keeps, doesn’t it?”* And into the fridge it went.
The grandfather returned, leading the boy by the hand, followed by her son-in-law in old trackies—he’d been tinkering with something behind the shed.
Before she knew it, the guest had tied on an apron and was chopping salad. Her son-in-law fetched a stool to reach the good plates from the top cupboard.
The pies were already on the table when the grandfather sneakily snatched one, winking and pressing a finger to his lips.
His wife caught him and scolded fondly, *”Can’t even wait five minutes!”*
They fed the boy first, then his mother whisked him off for a nap.
The adults ate quietly, speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake him.
Time flew, and she didn’t want to leave—something about the place held her there.
The whole family saw her off, and the mother-in-law handed her a bag of pies. *”For your tea tonight.”*
Back home, her husband met her in his dressing gown. *”Survived the visit? Must’ve been dreadful.”* She set the bag on the table. *”They sent these—for you.”* Then she headed for the shower.
No words could explain how light she’d felt there—how her soul hadn’t strained once.
Some things, you just can’t put into words.
