Life in my quiet town near Manchester had turned into a nightmare ever since my daughter-in-law, Emily, became pregnant. Things between us had never been warm, but before her pregnancy, I endured her rudeness for the sake of family peace. Now, she’s crossed every line—shouting insults at me and my husband, demeaning us while our son, James, stands by in silence, excusing her behavior with her “delicate condition.” Her cruelty cuts deep, but James’s inaction hurts even more.
My husband, William, and I knew from the start Emily was no gem—coarse, ill-mannered, eyeing us with disdain from day one. Still, for a while, she held back, though her barbs stung. We’re not aristocracy, but we were raised properly and bit our tongues, rising above her jabs. Then came the pregnancy. Like a mask ripped away, Emily became unbearable, her venom unchecked. She screams, hurls abuse, and James just shrugs—*“She’s hormonal, we must be patient.”* The helplessness chokes me. He won’t listen.
Take last year’s birthday dinner. I’d spent all day cooking, setting a proper table, my best china gleaming. The moment Emily tasted the potato salad, she shoved her plate away. *“This is revolting. I wouldn’t feed it to a dog.”* The guests froze. Humiliation burned my cheeks, but I stayed silent. James murmured something weak, and she sneered, *“Why should I lie? It’s vile.”* The others cleaned their plates—only she found it *inedible.* Her words were a slap. My son did nothing.
Their wedding was a preview of this nightmare. Emily got plastered, slurring nonsense, then nearly brawled with her own sister over a petty squabble. Guests gaped as they were pulled apart. Her parents sat unfazed—clearly, this was normal for them. Still, nothing prepared me for the tyranny unleashed by her pregnancy. Now, under the guise of *hormones,* every word we say sparks fury. We’re targets.
When the scan revealed a boy, William and I brought a gift—a set of blue baby grows. She took one look and shrieked, *“Are you mad? Buy things before he’s born, and you’ll curse him!”* She raged, calling us superstitious fools while James stared at his shoes, mute. We left, gutted. How could my own son let her treat us like this?
Last week, our daughter, Charlotte, invited us all for her birthday at a nice restaurant. Emily strutted in on towering heels—seven months along. Quietly, I suggested flats. *“Safer for you both.”* Hell broke loose. *“You’d love me to fall, wouldn’t you?”* she screeched. *“You’re praying I miscarry!”* William tried to intervene, but she called us *“pathetic old fools”* and stormed out. James chased after her—no apology, no shame. The evening was ruined. Guests whispered. I sat numb.
If Charlotte ever spoke to her in-laws this way, I’d die of shame. This isn’t poor manners—it’s contempt. Three days later, James called. I handed the phone to William. He offered hollow excuses—*“She’s under stress.”* That was the final blow. We raised three children: Charlotte, brilliant and kind; our youngest, Oliver, thoughtful and steady; then James—now a stranger, letting his wife trample us. It’s betrayal.
We won’t air this disgrace to the family—though we could. But stooping to her level isn’t in us. My heart fractures: *Why won’t James defend us?* Did we raise him to be this weak? Or has Emily erased him? Our grandson deserves better, but I fear she’ll poison him against us too. The thought strangles me—but I won’t surrender. If my son won’t stop her, I will. Even if it breaks us.
