I want to see my son get a divorce. Why does he need such an airheaded wife?
There’s a stereotype that mothers-in-law are wicked witches who torment poor, unfortunate daughters-in-law for no reason. Browse through forums online, and you’ll find plenty of such stories. And here I am, the so-called “wicked mother-in-law,” who isn’t just nitpicking at her daughter-in-law but has firmly decided to break up her son’s marriage. And you know what? I’m not ashamed. I’m convinced I’m right, and I’ll explain why, even as I simmer with anger and pain for my boy.
My son, Paul, met this girl, Emma, about five years ago. But he introduced her to me much later—only after he proposed and decided to marry her. From the first glance, I didn’t like her, and as it turned out, my instincts were spot on—she’s turned out to be a real nightmare.
I invited them over to my cozy home in the suburbs of Birmingham. Emma barely set foot inside when her phone rang. Instead of apologizing and saying she’d call back, she started chatting with her friend right there in the hallway. Fifteen minutes! I stood there, teeth clenched, while she giggled and talked about some nonsense. Even then, I felt something was off about her.
At the table, I decided not to ask her serious questions—just observed. But later, when we talked about her life and plans, everything became clear. She barely finished school, is in her final year of college, and isn’t even thinking about university. Why? Because according to her, a woman should be a wife and a mother, period. She has no intention of working. Her parents support her now, and later, it seems, that burden will fall on my son. She lives with her mom and dad but plans to move into our home after the wedding. And the cherry on top: she’s pregnant. It’s early days, so they want to have the wedding quickly before it’s obvious. She acted like the world owed her something and her looks were her ticket to an easy life.
But the worst part was when Paul went out to the balcony for a smoke. Emma immediately took out a pack of slim cigarettes and followed him. Pregnant and smoking! I could hardly contain my outrage. What about the baby? It seemed she didn’t care.
Soon they got married, and we all lived together in my house. I’d leave for work early in the morning and return in the evening to find Emma sleeping until noon, lounging around the house doing nothing, and frequently sneaking out to the balcony for a smoke. She got a note from college about her pregnancy and took a break. Every evening I was met with chaos: a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, clothes scattered everywhere, and an empty fridge. She didn’t cook, didn’t clean—just spent her time on the phone, chatting with her mom or friends.
When I asked her to help around the house, she’d brush me off: either morning sickness or exhaustion. But that didn’t stop her from hanging out with friends at cafés or clubbing with Paul until dawn. I’d grit my teeth but kept quiet for my son’s sake. Then the grandchild arrived. And what do you know? Emma didn’t change one bit. Paul got up at night for the baby, took him for walks, and drove him to the doctor. I’d help in the evenings and weekends, exhausted after work. And her? She’d lie on the sofa, scrolling through her phone and smoking like nothing was wrong. I was shaking with anger.
I tried talking to her—calmly at first, then more firmly. She ignored my words, looking at me with a cheeky grin. But the worst part was Paul always defended her. When I pointed out her laziness, her uselessness, he’d stand up for her, “Mum, she’s trying, it’s just tough for her.” And we’d argue. He’d shout at me, but didn’t say a word to her. My son, my only son, was blind with love for this layabout.
The tension at home became unbearable. One day I couldn’t take it anymore and angrily said, “Take your wife and baby and leave! Live on your own and see how you manage!” They left. Paul got offended and stopped talking to me. I tried to explain, to open his eyes to the truth, but he shut me out. Now he hardly calls or visits. I’m sure Emma is turning him against me, driving a wedge between us. Yet I love my son more than life itself and adore my grandchild with all my heart.
I’ve decided: Paul doesn’t need a wife like her. He deserves someone better—a smart, caring woman, not this lazy, irresponsible girl. He may not see it now, but I’ll do everything to make sure their marriage collapses. I won’t stop until I free my son from these chains. I’m confident that sooner or later he’ll realize I was right, hug me, and say, “Thank you, Mum.” And we’ll raise the grandchild ourselves—without her worthless shadow, without her indifference and cigarette smoke. I won’t back down, because this is my fight for my boy’s happiness.
