My daughter-in-law doesn’t even try to hide that she despises me. She called and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage with James.
Can you imagine: my daughter-in-law doesn’t even pretend to like me! She throws it in my face at every opportunity without any shame. And the worst part is – my son knows about it! Yes, here I am, a sixty-year-old woman from a quiet town near York, who always dreamed of being a loving mother and mother-in-law, surrounded by warmth and respect. I always knew that raising an only child was risky. You shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, but who could’ve thought it would turn into such a nightmare?
From the first glance, my daughter-in-law, Emily, seemed too harsh, too lively, like a storm that couldn’t be tamed. When James, my son, first brought her home to meet me, I felt a chill as I looked into her dark, piercing eyes. She seemed to be scanning every detail, every wrinkle, every corner of the room. My intuition whispered, “Be careful,” but I shrugged it off. I thought it was just nerves and tried to welcome the girl my son had chosen as his wife. What could possibly go wrong at the first meeting with a future daughter-in-law? Oh, how mistaken I was!
The first thing that stood out was her arrogance. I had read in magazines that a sign of a toxic person is being rude to those of lesser status. And even at my age, I still believe in such things. That day, we were sitting in a café, and Emily pounced on the waiter like a hawk on its prey. Her dessert, as it turns out, looked “unappetizing,” and she demanded a replacement, speaking as if the young man was her personal servant. I tried to justify her actions—perhaps she was nervous, perhaps it was a bad day. But now I know: it was the first warning sign I ignored.
Next was her appearance. Forgive me for saying so, but her outfit that day was simply provocative. A plunging neckline, a short skirt—no, more like a tight-fitting jumpsuit that barely covered her body. A sporty style? A fashion whim? I’m not sure what’s trendy now, but it screamed disrespect. She knew she was coming to meet me, her fiancé’s mother, and could have chosen something more modest if she had any respect for me. But no, she didn’t care at all.
When they got married and started living together, I felt lonely. I missed my only son, his cheerful laughter filling our house. For a month, I held back, refraining from calling or interfering in their lives, but eventually, I started to dial his number occasionally—after all, he is my child, my own flesh and blood. Did I need to justify myself for that? It turned out, Emily was infuriated by it. She didn’t hide her irritation and even told James in my presence, “Hang up, enough chatting with her.” She would stand nearby, and I heard every word she said, sharp as a knife.
I didn’t want to spark a confrontation, but met with James alone and asked directly: what’s going on? He sighed and explained. Emily, it turns out, had a tough past: there was a boyfriend, a pregnancy, he left her without taking responsibility, and she lost the child. After that, her mental state deteriorated—it required medical attention. James assured me she was just stressed, that it was temporary, that therapy would sort everything out. But I saw something else: her gaze, her harshness—it wasn’t just nerves, it was something deeper. And I couldn’t pretend to believe his words.
Then the explosion came. A few days after our conversation, Emily found out James had talked to me about her. And she erupted. A phone call in the night was like a bolt from the blue for me. She shouted, accusing me of wanting to ruin their marriage, of being an evil old woman dreaming of getting rid of her. Her voice trembled with rage, and I realized: she loves James, but it’s a harmful, clinging love, like a web. The only bright spot in that darkness is her genuine feelings for him. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me.
James didn’t stand up for me. I don’t understand why my son, my boy, whom I raised with such love, can’t say a word against her. He seems to be under her power, held by her gaze like a leash. He doesn’t speak harshly to me, but every time he repeats: “Mum, I’m an adult. I have my own family. I’ll decide when to call, when to visit.” Technically, he’s right, but I see: she sets the rules for him. She rules their life.
By the way, they live in her flat—a three-bedroom, newly renovated one. I understand how important owning a property is these days, especially in the city. But is it worth severing ties with your mother for that? Can square footage really outweigh blood? I ask myself these questions, and my heart aches.
I still hope that time will put everything in its place. Maybe it’s just about enduring, giving them a chance to sort things out. But with each passing day, I see more clearly: it’s time for me to let go. I’ve done my duty as a mother—raised a healthy son, given him wings. And now it’s his path, his choice. Yet, deep down, I pray that this storm will subside, that we’ll become a family again. But for now, I stand on the sidelines of their life, watching my son fade into her world, and I don’t know if I have the strength to wait for changes.
