Letting Go: A Mother’s Struggle With Her Son’s Choice

“Are you planning to help with dinner, Victoria, or are you going to keep scrolling?”

The words slipped out before I could stop myself, sharp as the snap of a twig in the silent kitchen. My son, Kyle, flinched from where he was setting the table, but Victoria barely looked up from her phone, her glossy hair swinging over her shoulder like she was still in her high school bedroom and not standing in my house as my daughter-in-law.

“I’m just texting my mom. She needs to know what we’re eating,” she mumbled, her thumbs moving faster than I could keep up. I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to snatch the phone away like I used to when Kyle was a teenager. I felt the familiar prickle of resentment: this girl—this child—was now calling herself a wife, and soon, a mother.

Kyle shot me a pleading look, his blue eyes wide. “Mom, it’s fine. I’ll finish the salad. Don’t worry about it.”

It was always like this. Since the wedding, the house felt smaller. The air, heavier. Victoria would float in, breezing past the pile of laundry and ignoring the stack of bills on the counter. I’d watched her giggle at TikToks while the oven timer blared, or leave dishes in the sink for me to find in the morning. She was twenty-three, but in so many ways, she was still a child. I’d tried to talk to Kyle about it, but he brushed it off. “She’s figuring it out, Mom. Give her time.”

But time felt like it was running out. Especially now that they’d announced Victoria was pregnant.

I heard the squeal of Victoria’s laughter drift from the living room, where she was FaceTiming her best friend. “I can’t believe it either, Lex! Me, a mom! I still don’t even know how to cook pasta without burning it!”

My hands tightened around the dish towel. I couldn’t help the angry thoughts that spilled over: How would she take care of a baby when she could barely take care of herself? What if Kyle ended up doing everything? What if the baby suffered because of her irresponsibility?

After dinner, I found Kyle alone in the backyard, staring at the fading sunset. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, his jaw set. I sat down next to him, not sure where to start.

“Kyle, I’m worried about you,” I said softly.

He rubbed his face. “I know, Mom. You think she’s not ready.”

“I just—” I hesitated. “I see how much you do, and she just… floats through life. Marriage isn’t a game. Motherhood isn’t something you can just wing. I’m scared for you. For her. For the baby.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I love her, Mom. She’s not perfect, but she’s trying. I wish you’d see the good in her, too. She’s young, but she wants to be better.”

I didn’t answer. The words felt hollow to me. I remembered my own first years of marriage—how hard I’d worked, how quickly I’d grown up when Kyle was born. I’d had no choice.

Three days later, I found Victoria crying in the nursery they were setting up. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by baby clothes she hadn’t folded, her phone blinking with unread messages.

“Nora?” Her voice was shaky. “Can I ask you something?”

I knelt beside her, surprised. “Of course.”

She wiped her nose. “How did you do it? Be a mom, I mean. I’m so scared. I know everyone thinks I’m just a kid. I feel like one most days. But I want to do this right. I just don’t know how.”

Suddenly, I saw her—not as an adversary, but as a terrified young woman, desperate for guidance. My heart softened, just a little.

“I was scared, too,” I admitted. “But I learned. You will, too. You have to try. And you have to let people help you.”

Victoria nodded, her eyes glistening. “Will you help me?”

That night, as I lay awake, I realized I’d been holding onto my son so tightly I hadn’t noticed the girl he loved was reaching out, in her own clumsy way. Maybe she wasn’t ready—but maybe none of us ever are.

The weeks passed. I watched as Victoria started showing up. She burned the first five lasagnas, but the sixth was edible. She forgot the laundry, but she learned to hold the baby’s onesie up to the light to check for stains. She still spent too much time on her phone, but now some of those texts were to me: photos of baby cribs, questions about car seats, confessions about her fears.

There were still fights. Nights when Kyle came over just to vent, when Victoria slammed doors and cried that I didn’t think she was good enough. But there were good moments, too—like the first time I saw her rock her newborn, humming softly, her face full of wonder and terror and love.

One afternoon, as I watched Victoria gently wipe spit-up from her son’s chin, I realized she was changing. Slowly, painfully, but changing. And so was I.

Maybe being a mother-in-law isn’t about pointing out the ways your daughter-in-law is still a child. Maybe it’s about holding out a hand as she stumbles toward motherhood, the way I once did.

I still worry about them. I still want to fix things. But I’m learning, day by day, to let go. To trust that Kyle chose her for a reason. To believe that she’ll find her own way.

Is it possible to love your child enough to let him make his own mistakes? Or do we, as mothers, always hold on a little too tightly? What do you think?