“You homewrecker!” — my daughter-in-law accused me of something I never did.
“She looked me straight in the eye and said I was trying to ruin their marriage. Can you believe it?” Lyudmila Petrovna says, her voice shaky. She’s an elegant older woman, but there’s this weariness in her face you can’t miss. “Said it without even blinking, like she’s got no conscience at all. And after everything I’ve done for them… I just wanted what was best.”
It all started two years ago when her son, 28-year-old Oliver, hit a rough patch. He’d just married this girl from up north—Emily. The young couple were renting a flat in Croydon, getting by alright, even saving a bit for their own place. But then the recession came, and Oliver got laid off. Rent became impossible. So Lyudmila—she’s got a heart of gold—offered them her spare room in her three-bed in Camden.
“They’d have been out on the street otherwise,” she says bitterly. “But I couldn’t let that happen. Family looks after family.”
At first, it was fine. But it didn’t take long for things to go south. Turns out, Emily wasn’t much for housekeeping. Hair clogging the drain, unmade bed, dishes piling up in the sink. According to Lyudmila, she’d only wash up when there was literally nothing left to eat off—and even then, just her own plate.
“She’d cook herself eggs, eat, and leave the pan like it was nothing. No respect at all. And if I said anything? Instant waterworks—’You’re shaming me!’ All I wanted was for her to understand this isn’t a hotel. It’s my home.”
Lyudmila tried to bridge the gap—chatted gently, offered advice, even helped out. But all she got back were glares and digs. Emily acted like the invite meant she could do whatever she liked, and “the landlady” just had to put up with it.
“It got so bad I stopped having people over. My own sister came round, took one look at the mess, and just sighed. I wanted the ground to swallow me. I’ve always kept a tidy house—now it’s like living in a tip.”
Oliver, she says, stayed out of it. “He’d just say, ‘Mum, leave it—we’ll sort it.’” But eventually, she put her foot down: “Either you talk to her, or I’ll have to ask you both to leave.” So he did. After that, Emily tidied up—barely, grudgingly, but still.
Peace didn’t last. The rows got worse. Emily would shout that she “wasn’t hired as a maid” and “refused to live by someone else’s rules.” If Oliver tried to calm her down? She’d snap, call him a mummy’s boy, even throw things.
A few months later, they left. Went back to renting, took out a loan. And for the first time in years, Lyudmila had her flat to herself.
“I just sat on the sofa and breathed. Properly deep. Scrubbed the place top to bottom, opened the windows—bliss. I’m not cruel, but… God, the relief. No mess, no backchat. Just my home again.”
Didn’t last, though. A week after moving out, Emily called. You’d think it’d be to apologise, say thanks. But no. She rang to blame Lyudmila.
“You,” she said, “raised a son who’s still tied to your apron strings. He compares me to you. It’s your fault we’re falling apart! You *want* us to divorce!”
Lyudmila was stunned.
“What was I even meant to say? I’d backed off, bit my tongue, given them space. And now I’m the villain?”
Emily told her Oliver kept holding her up as the standard: “Mum does it this way,” “Mum keeps things spotless.” And it drove her mad—said it was emotional blackmail.
“What’s so wrong with that? If I’ve spent my life keeping a clean house, and my son notices… that’s a reason to hate me?”
From that day, Lyudmila cut ties.
“I’ve wasted enough energy on her. Tried to help. And what do I get? Public enemy number one. Fine. Let them figure it out. I’m not bitter. But I’m done putting up with it.”
She says it calmly. But you can hear the exhaustion—years of it. Just a mum who tried to help, only to end up the bad guy.
“And Oliver?” I ask. “Does he still see you?”
“He does. But it’s… practical now. Comes round, fixes things. But he keeps his distance. Probably scared of getting stuck in the middle again.”
Lyudmila looks out the window as evening falls.
“All I wanted was a bit of warmth. A bit of respect. Is that really so much to ask?”
