I remember the day my fiancé introduced me to his mother, and she handed me a thick sheet listing thirty demands for a future daughterinlaw.
Evelyn Baker, have you lost your mind? This is absurd!
It isnt absurd, Sophie, Im simply saying what I think,
But you cant tell the boss outright that his decisions are foolish!
Evelyn sank back into the swivel chair, a faint smile playing on her lips. At thirtyfive shed learned not to keep quiet when something went amiss. Sophie, her colleague and friend, twiddled a pen and glanced nervously at the office door.
Sophie, if we stay silent no one will ever think of us as people. The new project is a disaster, and I said so,
And now?
Nothing. Let them think what they will. Ive spoken my mind, my conscience is clear.
Sophie shook her head and returned to her computer. Evelyn picked up her mobile three missed calls from Ian. She smiled. Ian had entered her life six months earlier, and everything had shifted since. After a failed marriage that ended five years before, she never imagined love could return. Yet Ian was different attentive, caring, reliable.
She dialled back.
Hello, love. How are you?
All right. Ive just had another row with the boss.
Youre incorrigible, she heard a chuckle in his voice. Listen, I need to have a serious talk.
Whats wrong?
Nothing, really. Just mum wants to meet you. Were heading to her this weekend.
Evelyns heart stilled. Meeting a motherinlaw was a weighty step. Ian had spoken often of her. Agnes Whitaker, sixtyeight, a widow, lived alone in a detached house on the outskirts of the county. By his description she was strict but fair.
Are you sure? Might be too early?
Evelyn, weve been together half a year. Its time. My mother keeps asking when Ill introduce the woman I keep talking about.
Fine, Evelyn sighed. Saturday then?
Yes. Ill pick you up at ten. Dont worry, it will go well.
The rest of the week was a flurry of preparation. Evelyn bought a modest navy dress that fell to her knees, chose a box of fine chocolates and a bouquet of chrysanthemums Ian had mentioned they were his mothers favourite flowers.
On Friday night she rang Sophie.
Guess what, tomorrow Im meeting his mother.
Oh, thats serious! Are you nervous?
Terribly. What if she doesnt like me?
Stop it, youre wonderful. What could she possibly dislike?
I dont know. Ian says shes strict. What if she decides Im not good enough for her son?
Evelyn, dont overthink it. Itll be fine.
Yet the nerves lingered. She slept poorly, waking a few times for water. In the morning she agonised over her hair let it down or pull it back. In the end she settled on a neat bun.
Ian arrived precisely at ten, dressed sharply in dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy blazer a sight Evelyn rarely saw.
You look splendid, he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.
Thank you. You look dashing yourself, almost a groom.
He smiled oddly, saying nothing more.
The drive took about an hour. Ian chatted about work and holiday plans, but Evelyn only halflistened. The nearer they came to his mothers house, the tighter her chest felt.
The house was a sizeable twostorey building with a tidy garden. At the gate a car was already waiting. Agnes Whitaker stood on the porch tall, stately, dressed in a crisp suit, her silver hair neatly coifed, her expression unreadable.
Good morning, Mother, Ian kissed his mothers cheek. This is Evelyn.
Good morning, Mrs Whitaker, Evelyn offered the flowers and chocolates. Pleased to meet you.
The woman scanned Evelyn from head to toe, accepted the gifts and nodded.
Come in, please.
Inside was spotless, not a speck of dust, everything in its place. The sitting room featured heavy oak furniture and family photographs in matching frames.
Have a seat, Mrs Whitaker gestured to the settee. Would you like tea?
Yes, thank you.
While the hostess fetched tea, Evelyn examined the pictures: Ian as a child in school uniform, in a military cadet suit, at his university graduation. In each, his mother stood beside him; his father appeared only in a few old photos.
My father died when I was fifteen, Ian said softly, noticing her stare.
Mrs Whitaker returned with a tray teapot, cups, sugar bowl, all from the same service. She poured tea and sat opposite Evelyn.
So, Evelyn. Ian has told me much about you.
I hope only good things.
Various things, the woman sipped. You work as an accountant?
Yes, for a construction firm.
Were you married before?
Evelyns shoulders tightened. The question was expected, yet still uncomfortable.
I was. We divorced five years ago.
Any children?
No.
Why the divorce?
Mother Ian shifted uneasily. Perhaps I shouldnt
Ian, I have the right to know who my son is involved with, Mrs Whitaker said sternly, first to him then to Evelyn. So why?
Our temperaments clashed, Evelyn replied calmly.
Thats an excuse. Whats the real reason?
Evelyn inhaled deeply.
My husband was unfaithful. I found out and filed for divorce.
I see, Mrs Whitaker nodded. And why no children?
It just never happened.
Health issues?
Mother! Ians voice rose. What mother? If she has fertility problems I should know. I need grandchildren.
Evelyn felt her cheeks flush. The conversation was veering far from what shed imagined.
I have no health problems. It was simply the marriage that fell apart.
Mrs Whitaker placed her cup down.
Now to business. Ian may not have told you, but our family has certain traditions and rules. If you intend to become part of us, you must know and obey them.
She rose, went to a side cabinet, retrieved a folder, and handed Evelyn a stack of stapled sheets.
Whats this? Evelyn asked, bewildered.
Its a list of requirements for a future daughterinlaw. Thirty points. Read them carefully.
Evelyn glanced at Ian, who stared at the floor. She lowered her eyes to the paper.
The first point demanded a visit to the motherinlaw at least twice a week. The second required proficiency in every recipe from the family cookbook. The third stipulated bearing at least two children within the first three years of marriage. The fourth forbade the daughterinlaw from working after the birth of the first child. The fifth required her to obtain approval from the motherinlaw for any major purchase, and so on. The list went on, dictating attire, household duties, childrearing methods, even the style of hair she should wear.
Is this a joke? Evelyn lifted her head.
Im not joking, Mrs Whitaker said coldly. These are serious demands. My late daughterinlaw, the wife of my eldest son, adhered to them without fail.
You have an eldest son?
He was. He died in a car crash with his wife three years ago. Ian is now my only son, and I will not let him consort with an unsuitable woman.
Evelyn looked at Ian.
Did you know about this list?
He nodded without meeting her gaze.
And you said nothing?
I thought I hoped Mother would change her mind, or that you would agree.
Agree to this? Evelyn rose, flinging the pages onto the table. Ian, this is medieval!
Dont dramatise, Mrs Whitaker pursed her lips. These are reasonable conditions for a proper woman.
Reasonable? Point fifteen says I must hand over my salary!
For the family budget. I will allocate the money appropriately.
Point twentytwo says I cannot see friends without your permission!
A married woman has no need to frolic with friends.
And point twentyeight? I must live with you for a year after the wedding?
So I can teach you how to run a proper household.
Evelyn shook her head.
This is madness. Ian, how could you bring me here knowing all this?
Evelyn, lets talk calmly
Whats there to discuss? That your mother wants to turn me into a servant?
How dare you! Mrs Whitaker stood, her face flushing. I am offering you honest terms. In return you will have a fine husband, a secure life, a family.
I am not merchandise to be bought!
All women are for sale; the price just varies, she said icily.
Evelyn snatched her bag.
Ian, drive me home. Now.
Evelyn, wait
If she leaves now, refusing her conditions, itll be over between you, the mother interjected.
Ian stood, looked first at his mother, then at Evelyn. A pleading look crossed his face.
Evelyn, perhaps youll reconsider? Not every point is set in stone, we could discuss
Every point is nonnegotiable, Mrs Whitaker cut in. No exceptions.
Evelyn stared at Ian, the man she loved caught between her and his mother, and realised whose side he truly occupied.
Take me home, she whispered again.
The drive back was silent. Ian tried several times to speak, but Evelyn turned toward the window. When they reached her street, he stopped the car, turned to her.
Evelyn, lets talk.
About what? That youve been lying to me for six months?
I didnt lie! I just didnt know how to say it.
You took me to restaurants, gave me flowers, spoke of love, yet you knew your mother had this list for me.
I hoped shed change her mind once she got to know you better.
Ian, she doesnt even want to know me. She wants a robot to obey her commands.
Mother is just lonely. After my father and brother died shes all alone. Im everything she has.
And what do you have, Ian? Besides your mother?
He fell silent.
Youre thirtyseven, a grown man, yet you cant decide without Mums approval.
Thats not true
It is, Ian. And you know what? Im not angry, I pity you.
She stepped out of the car. Ian followed.
Evelyn, wait! I love you!
She stopped at the building entrance, turned.
If you loved me, you wouldnt have subjected me to this humiliation. Goodbye, Ian.
She locked the door, slipped off her shoes and collapsed onto the settee. Tears welled, but she swallowed them. No more crying over men who didnt deserve her tears.
The phone rang. Sophies voice came through.
How did it go? Did Mother like you?
Sophie, it was a nightmare.
What happened?
Evelyn recounted everything, Sophie gasping now and then.
Shes mad! And Ian, he took you there like a lamb to the slaughter.
He says he loves me.
He loves his mother. To him you were just a pastime.
Dont say that.
Hes right, you know. A decent man would never allow that.
Evelyn knew Sophie was right, yet her heart still ached for Ian.
That evening Ian sent a message: Evelyn, lets meet, Ill explain everything. She did not reply. Later another: Ill talk to my mother, get her to soften the list. Still no answer. Then, in the dead of night: I cant live without you. Please answer. She turned the phone off.
The next morning at work she tried to focus on numbers, but the thirtypoint list haunted her. How could anyone in the twentyfirst century impose such demands?
A secretary knocked politely.
Miss Baker, theres a visitor.
Who?
An elderly lady, says its a personal matter.
Evelyn frowned. Could it be?
In the reception she saw Mrs Whitaker, immaculate in a tailored suit, clutching a handbag.
What are you doing here?
We need to speak.
We have nothing to discuss.
There is something to discuss. Five minutes of your time.
Evelyn wanted to refuse, curiosity won. She led the woman to a meeting room.
Im listening,
Mrs Whitaker sat, smoothing her skirt.
Yesterday you left before hearing the end.
Ive heard enough.
No. You havent heard the whole story.
I dont want the story.
My eldest son Andrew married against my will, she began, eyes fixed on the window. I objected to his bride; she was frivolous, reckless. I knew it wouldnt end well.
And?
They married. A year later she cheated. He forgave, then again, and again. Finally they died in a crash together. She was with a lover.
Evelyn stayed silent.
After their deaths I found her letters. She mocked my son, called him a rag, spent his money, loved another.
Im sorry, but
I do not want history to repeat. Ian is my only son. I must protect him.
Protect? Youre strangling him!
I care for him.
Youve turned him into a puppet who cant step out without your consent.
Mrs Whitaker pursed her lips.
Ive made him a respectable man.
A respectable man at thirtyseven, still living with his mother, terrified to defy her.
He doesnt live with me; he has his own flat.
Yet you make the decisions.
She rose.
I see this conversation is useless. Remember, if you reject my terms, Ian will find someone else who will accept.
Let him look elsewhere, perhaps hell find someone as spineless as himself.
Mrs Whitaker left, disdain etched on her face. Evelyn sat alone, the weight of the tale explaining much yet justifying nothing. One could not turn a sons life into a prison because of one tragedy.
The day stretched slowly. Ian called several times; she let it ring. That evening, as she left the office, she spotted his car in the lot. He waited, nervous.
Evelyn, please, hear me out.
What?
My mother has already been here. I know everything now.
And?
Ive realized I was wrong.
Ian
The girl she introduced me to she accepted every single point. Do you know why?
Evelyn said nothing.
Because she needed the money and the status. She told me plainly when we were alone. Shell play the perfect daughterinlaw while I fund her.
Im sorry.
Im not. Ive got what I deserve. Mother is happy; the girl fulfills all her demands. Love matters not to her.
What will you do?
I dont know. Probably marry her. Mother is already planning the wedding.
Thats madness!
It is, but I chose this madness when I didnt stand up for you at that house.
He stood, moved to the door.
I just wanted to say you were right, and I regret it.
Ian, its not too late to change everything.
He gave a sad smile.
Its too late, Evelyn. Im thirtyseven and Ive never learned to live on my own. I wont now.
He left, leaving Evelyn torn. Part of her wanted to chase after him, to stop him, to help. Yet reason told her that a man changes only if he wants to, and Ian clearly did not.
Months later Sophie brought news Ian had married. The ceremony was lavish, organised entirely by Mrs Whitaker. The bride looked content, the groom solemn.
Imagine, my acquaintance was there. He spent the whole evening drinking, barely smiling.
Sophie, lets not dwell on that.
Alright. By the way, I know a gentleman Id like you to meet.
Thanks, but Im not ready.
Evelyn, its been half a year!
I know. Just give me more time.
Now, looking back, I see how the old house, the list, the mothers ironclad will, all became a chapter I no longer need to revisit. I have my own life, my mothers gentle counsel, and the knowledge that a womans worth is not measuredYears later, I still smile whenever I think of that bitter list, grateful that I chose freedom over a life scripted by anothers demands.
