My daughter-in-law doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she despises me. She actually called me, accusing me of attempting to break up her marriage with James.
Picture this: my daughter-in-law doesn’t even pretend to like me one bit! She throws it in my face whenever she gets the chance, without an ounce of hesitation. And the worst part? My son knows about it! Here I am, a sixty-year-old woman from a quiet town near Bath, dreaming of being a loving mother and mother-in-law, surrounded by warmth and respect. I always knew raising an only child was a gamble—putting all your eggs in one basket can be risky—but who could have guessed it would turn into such a nightmare?
My daughter-in-law, Emma, seemed too sharp, too vivacious, like a storm that couldn’t be tamed from the very first time we met. When James, my son, first brought her home, I felt a chill as I looked into her piercing dark eyes. It was as if she was scrutinizing every wrinkle on my face, every corner of the room. My instincts whispered caution, but I brushed it off as nerves and tried to embrace the woman my son had chosen as his bride. I never imagined our first meeting would go so awry!
Her arrogance was what struck me first. I’ve read articles claiming that one sign of a toxic person is their rudeness towards those they deem beneath them, and I’ve still got enough years behind me to believe in such things. That day, we sat in a café, and Emma lashed out at the waiter like a hawk swooping down on prey. Her dessert was ‘unappetizing,’ and she demanded a replacement with a tone that suggested the poor lad was her personal servant. I tried to justify her behavior—perhaps she was nervous, perhaps it was a bad day. But now I realize it was the first warning sign I ignored.
Her appearance was the next thing. Forgive me for saying so, but her outfit that day was a challenge—deep neckline, short skirt, or rather a tight jumpsuit, barely covering her. Athletic style? Fashion whim? I’m not sure what’s trendy now, but it screamed disrespect. She knew she was meeting me, her fiancé’s mother, and she could have chosen something more modest if she respected me a bit. But she didn’t care at all.
When they got married and started living together, I felt lonely. I missed my only son, his infectious laughter echoing in our home. For a month, I held back, not calling, not intruding into their life. But then I started to reach out a bit—after all, he’s my child, my own flesh and blood. Should I have to apologize for that? Turns out, Emma was irritated by it. She didn’t hide her annoyance, and she even told James right in front of me, “Hang up, stop chatting with her.” She was there, and I heard every word—sharp as daggers.
I didn’t want to stir up a scandal, but I did meet James privately and asked him directly: what was going on? He sighed and explained. Emma had a difficult past: a boyfriend, a pregnancy, he abandoned her, and she lost the baby. It broke her spirit—she had to seek counseling. James reassured me that she was just stressed, that it was temporary, that therapy would sort it out. But I saw something else: her gaze, her harshness—it wasn’t mere nerves; it went deeper. I couldn’t pretend to believe him.
Then came the explosion. Just a few days after our conversation, Emma found out that James had been talking to me about her. She snapped. A late-night call struck me like a bolt from the blue. She shouted, accused me of trying to destroy their marriage, calling me a wicked old woman plotting to get rid of her. Her voice trembled with fury. I understood: she loves James, but it’s a love that’s twisted, clingy like a web. The only glimmer of light in that darkness is her genuine feelings for him. But it doesn’t make things easier.
James didn’t stand up for me. I don’t understand why my son, my boy, raised with such love, can’t speak a word against her. It’s as if he’s under her spell, her gaze holding him like a leash. He’s not rude to me, but each time he insists, “Mum, I’m an adult. I have my own family. I’ll decide when to call, when to visit.” Formally, he’s right, but I see it’s really her setting the rules. She governs their lives.
Incidentally, they live in her flat—three-bedroom, new, with gleaming renovations. I understand how important property is nowadays, especially in the city. But should it cost him his connection to his mother? Are square meters more valuable than blood? I ask myself these questions, and it makes my heart ache.
I’m still holding onto hope that time will set things straight. Maybe I just need to be patient, give them a chance to work things out. But with each passing day, I clearly see: it might be time for me to let go. I’ve done my part as a mother—I raised a healthy son, gave him wings. The rest is his journey, his choice. And yet deep down, I pray for the storm to pass, for us to be a family again. For now, though, I watch from the sidelines of their lives, seeing my son being absorbed into her world, uncertain if I have the strength to wait for change.
