My name is Olivia, I’m thirty-two, and not long ago, one of the most painful chapters of my life closed—my divorce from my husband. His name was James. We were married for just over three years, and if I’m honest, those weren’t the easiest years. The source of our fights, the resentment, and in the end, the complete breakdown—wasn’t James at all. It was his mother, Margaret.
From the very beginning, she despised me. Even when we were just dating, she tried to convince James I wasn’t good enough—that I came from “the wrong sort of family,” was “too headstrong,” and was “bad for his career.” Her favourite line was:
“Marry for practicality, not passion, or you’ll spend your life in poverty.”
When we finally married, I tried to make it work with her. I brought gifts, invited her over, cared for her when she was ill. It was pointless. She never missed a chance to twist the knife. She told James I couldn’t cook, that our children would be “ill-fated” because my grandmother had “a hunched back,” and even whispered to him that she’d seen me “smirking suspiciously” at the neighbour.
She poisoned his mind day by day. She meddled in every conversation, appeared at the worst moments, showed up unannounced, and staged jealous tirades. She swore to James I was cheating, even once bringing a woman into our home—someone she’d dreamed of him marrying. She set up a candlelit dinner in the flat *we* still shared! She arranged it all herself. And I, for the record, was working late that night.
At first, James laughed it off.
“Mum’s just off her rocker, ignore her,” he’d say.
But slowly, he grew quieter. He stopped defending me. When I cried, he stayed silent.
Then, I couldn’t take it anymore. I woke at night shaking with dread, my heart raced for no reason, I lost weight until one day I realised: I wasn’t living. I was just surviving. I couldn’t watch his mother systematically dismantle our marriage while my own husband did nothing. So I packed my things and left. No screaming. No scene. Just silence.
James didn’t even try to stop me. Within days, he was back at his mother’s. She’d won.
Two months passed. Then, one Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. There she stood. Margaret. Red-eyed, hands trembling, clutching a box of chocolates—”for tea.”
“Olivia,” she whispered, “please… come back to James. He’s not himself. He quit his job. He’s drinking. He says he doesn’t want to live—”
At first, I didn’t understand. Then I laughed.
“Isn’t this what you wanted? The divorce? Me *gone*? Well, here’s your chance. He’s all yours now. Enjoy it.”
I shut the door. Not out of spite. But because it hurt.
Now she texts me almost daily. Begging. Saying she never realised how well I kept James steady, what a good wife I was, what a “bright soul” I am. And I read those words and wonder—is this the same woman who spent three years tearing me down?
I won’t go back to James. Not to a place where I was broken for so long. Even if he changed. Even if he woke up—that Olivia is gone. I don’t wait for love anymore. I don’t beg for approval. I just want peace. Quiet. Joy. No more sharp words, no more hollow glances.
Let Margaret have her victory. She got what she fought for. Just not the ending she imagined. Let her live with it. If she even knows how.
