“No one needs a daughter-in-law like her, not even her own child!” — the story of a woman who never understood family.
When my son got married, I hoped things would turn out well for our family. But from the very first day, I knew—this woman, Emily, was not someone I could ever truly connect with. It wasn’t jealousy, as some might assume. Long ago, I accepted that my son had grown up, found a wife, and that another woman now came first in his life. I would have gladly welcomed her, supported her, stood by her. But the more time passed, the clearer it became—she loved no one. Not me, not my son, and worst of all, not even her own child.
Emily had always put herself and her desires above all else. I noticed it even before the wedding but told myself maybe motherhood would change her—soften her, make her more caring. I was wrong. She stayed just as cold and distant as she’d always been. My son seemed nothing more than a temporary helpmate, useful only when it suited her.
They hardly ever visited. Family gatherings were always at our house, and only then would Emily make an appearance—perfectly polished, nails done, hair styled, dressed in expensive outfits. It wouldn’t have mattered if my son hadn’t looked so worn down every time. Exhausted, unkempt, lost—he didn’t seem like a happily married man, but a man just trying to survive in hostile territory.
“Emily, love, you’re not looking after your husband at all,” my sister remarked gently one evening at the dinner table.
Emily just smirked.
“I’m not his mother. He can take care of himself.”
I bit my tongue. What I wanted to say would have ruined the evening. But the thought lingered—did she even care how he looked, as long as her lashes were curled and her nails shone?
Months passed. Then, one day, my son called.
“Mum, can I come stay with you? Just for a bit…”
His voice was weak, hoarse. When he arrived an hour later, he was pale, feverish, barely standing. I nearly fainted when I saw him. He’d been prescribed injections—twice a day, strictly on schedule. And Emily? Her response had been, “I’m not setting an alarm for this. If you’re so worried, his mother can do it.”
So there he was. This was his *wife*. No care, no concern. I thought after that, he might finally consider divorce. But no. A few months later, they decided… to have a child.
My grandson was born, but I saw no love from his mother. Everything was done by rote—feed, change, put to bed. No kisses, no hugs, no warmth. A machine, not a mother. Once, they planned a holiday. Emily refused to take the baby—”he’ll just ruin it.” She suggested leaving him with a friend. Not with me, not with her husband’s parents—we all worked. My son refused to abandon his child, so she went alone.
He stayed behind—cooking, walking, tending to the baby, all on his own. That was the first time he seriously thought about leaving her. But as always, he hesitated, holding onto the slim hope she might change. She didn’t. They’re still together now, but my son spends more nights at my place, too wounded by their arguments to stay home.
Emily lives as though she’s alone. No one matters to her. Her husband is a flatmate. Her child, an inconvenience. I don’t understand—why marry if you don’t want a family? Why have a child if you don’t want one? For the sake of appearances?
My son suffers. I see it. But he still hopes. And I still wait for the day he finally realises—this woman will never change. Only then, perhaps, will his real life begin. Without the cold wife, without the empty marriage, but with his little boy—loved, safe, and finally happy.
Sometimes, love means walking away from what hurts, not enduring it forever.
