Life in our little town near Manchester turned into a nightmare ever since my daughter-in-law, Gemma, got pregnant. We never had the warmest relationship, but before the pregnancy, I put up with her rudeness, hoping for peace in the family. Now she’s crossed every line—shouting insults at me and my husband, putting us down, while our son, James, just stands there silent, using her “condition” as an excuse. Her nastiness eats away at me, but James’s silence hurts even more.
My husband, Robert, and I knew from the start Gemma was trouble. Rude, ill-mannered, she looked down on us from day one. Still, she held back at first, not pushing things too far. We’re not posh, but we’ve got standards, so we ignored her little digs. Then she got pregnant, and it’s like a mask came off—she became unbearable, her words dripping with venom. She screams at us, calls us names, and all James says is, “She’s hormonal, she needs understanding.” The hurt chokes me, but he doesn’t hear it.
Take my birthday last year. I’d spent all day cooking, trying to make it nice for everyone. Gemma took one bite of a salad and announced, “This is the worst thing I’ve ever eaten! Don’t ever make it again!” I was stunned. The guests shifted awkwardly—I was humiliated. I stayed quiet, but inside, I was boiling. James tried to calm her down, but she snapped, “Why should I lie? It’s disgusting!” Meanwhile, everyone else cleared their plates. Her words were like a slap, but my son didn’t defend me.
Their wedding was another disaster. Gemma got plastered, spouting nonsense before getting into a scrap with her sister over something trivial. The guests were horrified, scrambling to pull them apart. Her parents sat there like it was normal—that’s when I realised her rudeness wasn’t just a phase, it was who she was. But nothing prepared me for what came with the pregnancy. Hiding behind “hormones,” she turned into a tyrant. Every word, every little request sets her off, and Robert and I are her favourite targets.
When the scan showed they were having a boy, we bought a set of blue baby blankets as a gift. We handed them over with a smile, only for Gemma to shriek, “Are you mad? That’s bad luck! Never buy stuff before the birth!” She hurled insults, calling us superstitious fools, while James stared at his feet, too scared to say a word. We left feeling crushed. How could my son let her treat us like that?
Just last week, our daughter, Emily, invited us all to a restaurant for her birthday. We were looking forward to a nice evening. Gemma showed up in sky-high heels despite being heavily pregnant. I quietly said, “Maybe wear something more stable? It’s risky for you and the baby.” And then all hell broke loose. She screamed, “You’d love it if I fell and lost the baby, wouldn’t you? Bet you’re praying for it!” The accusations were vile. Robert tried to defend me, asked her to watch her tongue, but Gemma exploded, called us “senile morons,” and stormed out. James ran after her without a single apology. The birthday was ruined—we sat there shattered while the guests whispered.
I couldn’t believe it. If my Emily, a grown woman with two kids, ever spoke to her in-laws like that, I’d die of shame. This isn’t just bad manners—it’s total disrespect. Three days later, James rang. I refused to speak, so Robert took the call. James apologised but said he wouldn’t make Gemma say sorry—she’s “under too much stress.” That finished me. I raised three kids—Emily, my pride, my youngest, Liam, kind and thoughtful, and James… He’s a stranger now. Lets his wife walk all over us, humiliate us in public. It’s betrayal.
Robert and I decided not to air our dirty laundry, though we could’ve told the relatives and made Gemma’s life difficult. But I won’t stoop to her level. My heart’s breaking—why won’t James stand up for us? Did we raise him to be this weak? Or has Gemma turned him into a shadow of himself? I don’t know how to live with a daughter-in-law who poisons every moment and a son who lets her. Their baby will be our grandchild, but I’m terrified she’ll turn him against us too. The thought strangles me, but I won’t back down. If my son won’t stop her, I will—even if it tears us apart.
