“My daughter-in-law is living off my son’s back!” shrieks my mother-in-law, accusing me of laziness while I’m on maternity leave with two children.
I never fooled myself. From the very first meeting, I knew—she would never accept me. It wasn’t my personality, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. The simple truth was that I came from a small village, and she was a Londoner. To her, that was reason enough to write me off. I was “beneath” him. “Not good enough.” And that was that.
When Alex and I married, I already felt her frost. She smiled through gritted teeth, spoke in clipped tones. She pretended everything was fine, but even the most innocent questions dripped with condescension. Her words at our wedding still burn in my memory: “Well, at least the countryside can give us grandchildren now.”
We moved into a rented flat—small but ours. I told my husband plainly: “I can’t live with your mother. I’d suffocate.” He understood. Even when she insisted, “Why waste money on rent? You could stay in my spare room—it’s convenient!” he stood firm. “Mum, we’ll manage on our own.”
That’s when she decided it was all my doing. I was the one turning her precious boy against his own family. From that moment, her contempt only grew. She never said it outright, but every sigh, every sideways glance, carried the same message. I bit my tongue. For Alex. For peace.
Then I got pregnant. We’d dreamed of this, wanted children early while we still had the energy. But to her, it was just another flaw in my character.
“How will you survive on Alex’s salary alone? You’ll end up on the streets!” she scoffed.
We refused to move in with her. Again. Yes, it was hard. But we didn’t complain. I took remote work; Alex picked up extra shifts. We didn’t ask for handouts. We made it ourselves.
When our first child was born, she softened for a while. Brought toys, cooed over the baby. I almost believed she’d changed. But then I fell pregnant again—and the mask fell. Her resentment turned venomous.
“Have you lost your minds? Another child? So *you* get to sit at home while my son kills himself working? He already has no life! But it’s fine for you, isn’t it? Just loafing about!”
I stayed silent. Until she spat, “Get rid of it and get a job like a normal woman!” That’s when Alex finally snapped. Not a quiet rebuttal, not a patient word—he shouted. Clear. Brutal.
“Mum, *enough*! This is our family, our choice! We’re not taking anything from you! If you can’t respect that, don’t call!”
She went quiet. Disappeared. Stopped visiting. Now she only calls him—in secret. But behind my back, she spins tales at every family gathering: that I’m a burden, that I had children to avoid work, that I’m just a lazy village girl.
It hurts. Not her words—I’m used to those. It hurts because she’s his mother. She could have been part of our joy, could have held her grandchildren, supported us. Instead, she twists everything into guilt. *Why?* Because we dared to live our way?
Yes, I’m at home now. But that’s not *doing nothing.* It’s sleepless nights, tantrums, meals, nappies, laundry, tears, kisses, fears. This isn’t a holiday—I’m a *mother.* I work harder than I ever did in an office. And I’m not freeloading—this is *our* life, *our* family. While Alex earns, I raise our children. When they’re older, I’ll return to my career. I’m not some parasite.
Why can’t she see that? Why won’t she take pride in us instead of scorn?
We’re happy. We love each other. All I want is to be left in peace—no insults, no poison. Because we *are* family. And no one has the right to destroy what we’ve built. Not even her.
