“My daughter-in-law is living off my son’s back!” my mother-in-law wails, accusing me of laziness while I’m on maternity leave with two children.
I never had any illusions. From the very first meeting, I knew she’d never accept me. It wasn’t my personality, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. It was simpler than that—I’m from the countryside, and she’s a proper Londoner. That alone was enough for her to write me off. I was beneath her. Not good enough. Never would be.
When Alex and I got married, her frostiness was palpable. She smiled tightly, spoke in clipped tones. She pretended everything was fine, but even innocent questions dripped with condescension. Her wedding-day remark—“At least the village girl can give us grandkids”—stuck with me forever.
We insisted on living separately. A rented flat in Manchester, small but ours. No compromises. I told Alex straight: “I can’t live with your mum. I’d suffocate.” He understood. Even when she wheedled, “Why waste money on rent? I’ve got a spare room!” he held firm. “Mum, we’ll manage.”
And that sealed it—in her eyes, I was the villain. The schemer who’d stolen her precious boy from his roots. Her disapproval sharpened. No outright insults, just sighs, side-eyes, loaded remarks. I swallowed it—for Alex, for peace.
Then I got pregnant. We’d dreamed of starting young, while we had the energy. But to her, it was just another mistake. “How will you survive on just Alex’s salary? You’ll end up in the gutter!” she scoffed.
We declined her “generous” offer to move in. Again. Money was tight, but we hustled—I freelanced, Alex took extra shifts. No handouts. No regrets.
When our first child arrived, she thawed briefly—popping by with toys, cooing over the baby. Almost fooled me. Then baby number two came along, and the gloves came off.
“Have you lost your minds? Another one? So you’ll pop out kids but not lift a finger? Poor Alex, slaving away while you lounge about!”
I bit my tongue. Until she hissed, “Get rid of it and get a job like a normal woman.” That’s when Alex snapped. For once, he didn’t placate or deflect—he shouted. Properly. “Mum, enough! This is our life, our choice! We’re not taking a penny from you. Don’t call if this is all you’ve got to say.”
Silence. She vanished. No visits, just furtive calls to Alex. Meanwhile, at family gatherings, I’m her favourite villain—the lazy freeloader who trapped her son with babies.
It stings. Not her words—I’m numb to those. But the waste of it. She could’ve been a doting grandma. Instead, she’s determined to make us feel guilty—for what? Living our lives?
Yes, I’m at home. But “doing nothing”? Try sleepless nights, tantrums, nappies, laundry, snack negotiations. I’m not on holiday—I’m raising humans. It’s harder than any office job. And no, I’m not leeching off Alex. We’re a team. He earns; I nurture. Later, I’ll work again—I’ve got a degree, for heaven’s sake.
Why can’t she see that? Why scorn instead of pride?
We’re happy. We’re managing. All we ask is to be left in peace—no snipes, no drama. Because this? This little life we’ve built? It’s ours. And not even a meddling mother-in-law gets to sour it.
