My name is Emily, I’m thirty-two, and not long ago, one of the most painful chapters of my life came to an end—my divorce from my husband. His name was James. We were married for just over three years, and truth be told, those were anything but easy years. The reason for our arguments, the hurt, and eventually our complete separation wasn’t James. It was his mother, Margaret.
From the very beginning, she took a dislike to me. Even when we were just dating, she tried to convince James that I wasn’t right for him, that I came from “the wrong background,” was “too headstrong,” and would “ruin his career.” Her favourite line was, “Marry for money, not love, or you’ll spend your life in poverty.”
When we finally had our wedding, I tried to mend things with her. I brought her gifts, invited her over, looked after her when she was ill. But it was all for nothing. At every opportunity, she made sly remarks. She told James I couldn’t cook, that our children would be “odd-looking” because my grandmother “had a hunchback,” and even whispered to him that she’d seen me “smirking at the neighbour.”
She never stopped dripping poison in his ear. She inserted herself into every conversation, showed up unannounced at the worst moments, and staged dramatic scenes of jealousy. She swore to James that I was cheating, and once even brought a woman into our home—someone she’d hoped he’d end up with. She arranged a candlelit dinner in the flat James and I still shared! She laid the table, prepared everything. Meanwhile, I was working late that night.
At first, James laughed it off. “Mum’s just a bit eccentric, ignore her,” he’d say. But day by day, he grew quieter, stood up for me less, and stayed silent when I cried.
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I started waking at night in a panic, my heart raced constantly, I lost weight—until one day, I realised: I wasn’t living, I was surviving. I couldn’t watch as my husband’s mother systematically destroyed our marriage while James just stood by. So I packed my things and left. No drama, no arguments. Just the final full stop.
James didn’t even try to stop me. A day later, he moved back in with his mother. She’d won, it seemed.
Two months passed. Then, one Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. There she was. Margaret. Red-eyed, her hands shaking, clutching a box of chocolates—”for tea.” “Emily,” she whispered, “come back to James… He’s not himself. He quit his job. He’s started drinking. He says he doesn’t want to live…”
At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. Then I laughed. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For us to divorce. For me to vanish from his life. Well, now you’ve got your son all to yourself. He’s yours alone. You worked so hard for it.”
I shut the door. Not out of spite. But because it hurt.
Now she messages me almost every day. Begging. Saying she never realised how well I kept James in check, what a good wife and homemaker I was, what a “wonderful soul” I’d been. And I read her words, unable to believe it. Is this the same woman who spent three years tearing my life apart?
I won’t go back to James. I can’t return to a place where I was broken for so long. Even if he changes, even if he finally sees—I’m not that Emily anymore. I don’t live for someone else’s love. I don’t seek approval. I just want peace. Quiet. Joy. Without the endless jabs and those hollow-eyed visits.
Now let Margaret savour her victory. She got exactly what she wanted. Only not in the way she imagined. Let her think about that. If she still knows how. Sometimes, winning costs less than the prize.
