I asked my daughter-in-law to at least clear the plates from the table after she ate, and what she told me left me speechless.

“I didn’t come here to be a maid, ma’am. That’s what you have John for.” And she continued to sit on her phone, in the chair where my husband had sat for 30 years at the table.

That was six months ago when my son brought Emily into the house that my late husband and I built with our own hands. A city girl, with long red nails, expensive clothes, and an attitude like we owed her something just because she deigned to marry our son.

Since then, not a day has passed without me wondering where I went wrong in raising John, for him to choose such a wife. A girl who doesn’t even know how to make tea, let alone cook. A girl who considers doing laundry and cleaning as “outdated activities” and says, “That’s what services are for, ma’am.”

“Mom, don’t be so hard on Emily,” John told me every time I dared suggest that maybe she should help out a little around the house. “She’s from a different generation, they have different values now.”

Values? Sitting on your phone all day while your 67-year-old mother-in-law hauls buckets of water for the garden, does the laundry, and cooks for the whole family—those are values?

One day, when she once again refused to help with spring cleaning, my jaw dropped when I saw her post online: “Life in the countryside is so relaxing, no stress, no rush.” Along with a picture of the tea I had made for her, the pastries I had baked, and the flowers from the garden I tended. As if she were on a permanent vacation and I was the staff serving her.

Only those who have lived with a daughter-in-law who thinks household chores are beneath her dignity can truly understand the frustration of watching your son be blind to it all. Watching him defend a woman who doesn’t lift a finger in the house she lives in.

“Mom, Emily and I are moving to an apartment,” John told me one day. “It’s too hard for her here; she can’t adjust.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? That my heart was breaking at the thought of my son leaving the house where he was born? That Emily had won, that she had managed to pull him away from his roots? I stayed silent and packed jars of homemade jam and vegetable spread for them—”for when you miss the taste of home.”

Three months passed since they moved to an apartment in the nearby city. John called less and less. “We’re busy, Mom. Life in the city is different,” he’d say. Sometimes, he sent me pictures of their new place—clothes thrown everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, dust on the furniture. But I never said anything. It wasn’t my business how they lived.

Until one evening, when I heard a knock at the door. It was John, with a bag in his hand and his eyes downcast.

“Can I come in, Mom?” he asked, as if he needed permission to enter the house he grew up in.

I let him sit at the table, put food in front of him, and waited. I knew he would speak when he was ready.

“You were right about Emily, Mom,” he finally said. “She doesn’t do anything at the apartment either. She stays on her phone all day, orders takeout, and I do the cleaning, the laundry, and cook when I have time. I’m fed up.”

“And where is she now?” I asked, feeling a strange mix of sadness and satisfaction.

“Still at the apartment. I told her I was coming to stay with you for a few days to clear my head. She said I’m ‘too attached to my mom’ and that I need to ‘cut the umbilical cord.’”

I sighed. How much I wanted to say, “I told you so.” But I didn’t. Instead, I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Johnny, my dear, it doesn’t matter that I was right. What matters is how you feel and what you want to do now.”

In the days that followed, John rested. He slept a lot, ate well, and sat in the garden staring at the sky. One evening, he came to help me in the kitchen, chopping onions for the chicken soup like he used to when he was little.

“You know, Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t see the truth sooner. That I got mad at you when you were just trying to help me. I think I was ashamed. Ashamed that everyone saw what kind of person Emily was, except me.”

Sometimes, it takes time to see what’s right in front of us. And even more time to admit we were wrong.

I wonder how many young people today still learn the value of work, of contributing to a family? How many understand that a household, whether in the countryside or the city, doesn’t run itself—it takes effort from everyone?

After a week, John went back to the apartment to talk to Emily. He came back late that night, alone.

“It’s over, Mom,” he said simply. “I told her I want a divorce. That I can’t live with someone who thinks she’s on a permanent vacation while I work for both of us.”

Now John is staying with me. He’s looking for another apartment in the city since that’s where his job is. But every weekend, he comes home—to help with the garden, to fix things around the house, to have coffee on the porch.

Yesterday, as we arranged the jars of jam in the pantry, he said:

“Mom, when I find someone new, I promise I’ll bring her here to help you with the jam. And if she stays on her phone all day, I’ll send her right back where she came from.”

We both laughed, with the simple joy of those who have weathered a storm and rediscovered what “home” truly means—a place where everyone contributes, where work is shared, and where the phone is never more important than the person beside you.