Many years ago, my husband Edward had divorced his first wife, Matilda. Their marriage was brief—it crumbled after she was unfaithful and swiftly remarried without a second thought. Two years later, I came into his life. We met, fell in love, and have now been wed for three happy years.
One might think it simple—two people divorced, each moved on. Yet not everyone did. His parents, especially his mother, seemed trapped in the past, clinging to the idea of their son’s “perfect family” with Matilda. No matter how polite or respectful I was, my efforts shattered against a wall of resistance—I was simply unwanted. To his mother, their shared child meant Edward and Matilda were the true family, while I was merely a passing stranger.
When we first began courting, Edward was free, and Matilda had long settled into her new life. He was honest from the start, telling me of his daughter, whom he adored and spent every spare moment with. Back then, Matilda did not interfere—she was grateful he remained in the girl’s life, unlike so many absent fathers. Their interactions were civil, restrained, and purely practical.
But this drove his mother to distraction. She wanted that “proper” family restored at any cost. As for me? In her eyes, I was just “young and pretty,” with time enough to find “someone of my own.” Even at our wedding, she scoffed:
“Why must you do this? He already has a family! There’s a child!”
I tried to explain—I respected that he had a daughter, that he was a devoted father. But family, I reasoned, was more than an old certificate and shared history. His mother would not hear it. Her heart belonged only to Matilda.
When Matilda’s second marriage ended, his mother saw it as fate granting another chance. “Now,” she declared, “things will fall into place!” She began inviting Matilda to every family gathering, introducing her as though she were still “Edward’s wife.” At each gathering, I endured the same remarks:
“Matilda was such a fine wife… You’re pleasant enough, I suppose, but—”
Matilda, for her part, seemed indifferent. She came when invited, smiled politely, nodded. No warmth, no longing to reclaim anything—just cool detachment, which, oddly enough, only endeared her further. His mother praised her as “dutiful,” “uncomplaining,” “ever the lady.” I, on the other hand, was deemed “too spirited.”
Edward saw it all. He tried to reason with her:
“Mother, enough. Matilda and I are done. We co-parent, yes, but we are not a pair. Why won’t you accept my wife?”
She pretended to listen, only to ring him days later:
“Are you with your wife? Or with Matilda, I wonder?”
“Go round, son—fetch those jars from Matilda’s, and see how she manages alone with the child…”
She dangled barbs of jealousy, hoping I might bite—but I would not. I knew Edward was loyal. He provided for his daughter—paid her dues, bought her gifts, took her to lessons, sometimes had her stay with us for weeks. Matilda and I had no quarrels. All was steady, practical—just as it ought to be between adults after parting.
Yet his mother lived in a fantasy where only she knew what was right. Where that “first family” was the true one, and I—an outsider, fleeting. It did not make me jealous or ashamed. It made me angry. How long must one fight for respect they will never be given?
Edward insists things will change once we have a child. That his mother will relent, accept his new life. I doubt it. Even then, I suspect she’ll say:
“So? He has another child. But Matilda was the better mother…”
Edward is not blind. He defends me, stands by me. But a mother is a mother—he cannot cast her aside. I understand. Yet I am weary of being caught between hammer and anvil. I do not ask for her love. I do not demand approval. Only respect. And silence.
Tell me—will a child truly soften her? Or will her heart forever linger in that old life, where I do not belong?
