“My daughter-in-law is taking advantage of my son!” my mother-in-law cries, accusing me of laziness while I’m on maternity leave with two children.
I harbored no illusions from the start. From our very first meeting, I knew—she would never accept me. It wasn’t my character, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. I was merely from the countryside, while she was bred in London. That alone was enough for her to dismiss me entirely. I was “lesser,” “unworthy,” “not right for him.”
When Alex and I married, her chill was already palpable. Smiles were forced, words measured. She pretended civility, yet even the simplest questions dripped with condescension. Her wedding toast—“At least the village girl will give us grandchildren”—stayed with me forever.
We chose to live apart from the beginning. A modest rented flat, but our own, untouched by her influence. I made it plain: “I can’t live with your mother. I’d suffocate.” He understood. Even when she insisted, “Why waste money on rent? I have a spare room, everything’s within reach!” he held firm. “Mum, we’ll manage.”
And that was when she decided—I was to blame. I had turned her precious boy against his roots. From then on, the disdain thickened. She never spoke outright, but every glance, every sigh, reeked of scorn. I endured it, for my husband’s sake. For peace.
Then I fell pregnant. Alex and I had longed for this. We wanted children young, while we still had the energy. But to her, it was simply another misstep.
“How will you manage on Alex’s wages alone? You’ll drown in debt!” she scoffed.
Again, we refused to move in with her. Times were lean, but we made do. I took remote work where I could; Alex picked up extra shifts. We asked for nothing.
When our first child was born, she softened for a time. Brought toys, cooed over the baby. I nearly believed she’d changed. Then I conceived again—and the bitterness returned, sharper than before.
“Have you lost your minds? A second child? You’re happy to breed but not lift a finger, is that it? While Alex works himself to the bone? You sit there, living off him!”
I held my tongue—until she hissed, “Get rid of it, then work like a proper woman ought.” That was when Alex snapped. Not a quiet rebuttal, but a roar, raw and furious, down the phone.
“Enough, Mum! This is our life, our choice! We take nothing from you! If you can’t bear it—don’t call.”
Silence followed. She vanished. No more visits. Just furtive calls to him, while behind my back, she spun her tale—that I was a leech, lazy, clinging to him with my brood of burdens.
The sting isn’t in her words—I’ve grown numb to those. It’s that she is his mother. She could have shared our joy, steadied us, loved her grandchildren. Instead, she twists the knife, making us feel guilty—for what? For living as we choose?
Yes, I’m at home now. But this isn’t idleness. It’s sleepless nights, tantrums, nappies, tiny hands clinging to mine. No holiday—just motherhood. I work harder than I ever did in an office. And I’m no burden; what’s ours, we share. Home, children, life. While he earns, I nurture. When they’re older, I’ll return to my career. I’m no parasite.
Why can’t she see that? Why must pride rot into venom?
We thrive. We’re happy. We love. All I ask is to be left in peace—without her poison, without her scorn. Because we are a family. And no one, not even a mother-in-law, has the right to poison what we’ve built.
