**Friday, 10th May**
They say it’s the mother-in-law who makes or breaks a marriage. Mine broke it. And now she’s begging me to undo the damage. Too late.
My name is Eleanor, and at thirty-two, I’ve just weathered the worst storm of my life—divorce. My ex-husband was William. Three years of marriage, though *marriage* feels too generous a word for it. The truth? It wasn’t William who ruined us. It was his mother, Margaret Hardwick.
She despised me from the start. Even when we were dating, she’d whisper in William’s ear that I wasn’t “suitable”—wrong background, too headstrong, a bad influence on his career. Her favourite refrain? *”Marry for money, not love, or you’ll spend your life counting pennies.”*
After the wedding, I tried. Brought her gifts, invited her over, nursed her when she was ill. Useless. Every chance she got, she’d slip in a barb. Told William my cooking was dreadful, that our children would be “freaks” because my grandmother had a “hunchback,” even claimed she’d seen me “smirking” at the neighbour.
She meddled in everything. Interrupted private conversations, turned up unannounced, staged jealous scenes. Accused me of cheating. Once, she even brought a woman *she* had picked for William into *our* flat—candles, dinner, the lot—while I was working late.
William used to laugh it off. *”Mum’s just eccentric, ignore her.”* But slowly, he stopped defending me. Grew quieter, withdrew.
I reached my limit. Waking at 3 a.m. with my heart racing, losing weight, realising I wasn’t living—just enduring. So I left. No scene, no shouting. Just closed the door.
William didn’t fight for me. Two days later, he moved back in with Margaret. Her victory, I suppose.
Then, this Saturday, my doorbell rang. There she stood—Margaret, tear-stained, clutching a box of biscuits like a peace offering. *”Eleanor, please. William’s fallen apart. Lost his job, started drinking. Says he doesn’t want to live…”*
I laughed. Actually laughed. *”You wanted this. You won. Enjoy your son—he’s all yours now.”* I shut the door. Not out of spite. Out of sheer exhaustion.
Now she texts daily, pleading. Says she never realised how well I “managed” William, what a “lovely wife” I was. I read it and wonder—is this the same woman who spent three years dismantling my life?
I won’t go back. Even if William changes, even if he wakes up—I’m not that Eleanor anymore. I don’t live for scraps of affection. I just want peace. Quiet. Joy. No more knives wrapped in silk.
Let Margaret savour her win. She got exactly what she asked for. Just not what she wanted.
*Lesson learned: Some battles aren’t worth fighting. Walk away before the war destroys you.*
