Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me and my child out onto the street. Now she’s upset that I won’t speak to her.
I’m thirty, living in London, raising my son and trying to build a stable life. But even now, a deep hurt lingers inside me. Because three years ago, the woman I once considered family tossed us out without a second thought. And now she can’t fathom why I refuse to talk to her. Worse yet—she’s the one who’s offended.
Daniel and I met during our first year at university. It was love from the start—no games, no drama, just something real and instant. Then, unexpectedly, I got pregnant. Even though I was on the pill, the test came back positive. There was fear, panic, tears—but I could never have considered an abortion. Daniel didn’t run. He proposed, and we married.
We had nowhere to live. My parents were in the countryside near Sheffield, and since I was seventeen, I’d been in student halls. Daniel, though, had lived alone since sixteen—his mum, Margaret Whitaker, had remarried and moved to her new husband’s place in Brighton, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to him. After the wedding, she *graciously* “allowed” us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, took odd jobs, waited for the baby. I kept the flat tidy, cooked, cleaned, pinched every penny. But everything changed the day Margaret started dropping by—not to visit, but to inspect. She’d open cupboards, check under the bed, run a finger along the shelves. Pregnant and exhausted, I’d scramble to meet her standards, but no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
*“Why isn’t the towel hung straight?” *“Crumbs on the rug!” *“You’re not a wife—you’re a disaster!”*
After our son, Oliver, was born, things got better—for about a day. I was barely sleeping, barely functioning, but she demanded the place be *spotless*. I scrubbed the flat three times a week, but it wasn’t enough. Then came the ultimatum:
*“I’ll be back in a week. If I see so much as a speck of dust, you’re out!”*
I begged Daniel to talk to her. He tried—but Margaret wouldn’t budge. When she returned and found her old boxes on the balcony (untouched, because they weren’t mine), she exploded.
*“Pack your things and go to your parents! Daniel can decide—stay with you or stay here.”*
And Daniel didn’t betray us. He came with me to Sheffield. We squeezed into my parents’ house. He woke at six every morning, took the train to lectures, then worked late shifts, coming home after midnight. I tried freelancing online—barely earned a thing. We lived on beans on toast, counted every pence. Without my parents’ help, we wouldn’t have made it.
Eventually, things turned. We graduated, found jobs, rented a place in London. Oliver grew; we became a solid little unit. But the bitterness never faded.
Margaret lives alone now. The Croydon flat sits empty. She calls Daniel sometimes, asks after Oliver, wants photos. He talks to her—doesn’t hold a grudge. But I do. To me, it’s betrayal. She tore our lives apart when we were at our weakest. Left us with nothing but two suitcases and a baby at King’s Cross.
*“It’s my flat—I had every right!”*
Maybe she did. But where was her *decency*? Her *heart*?
I don’t hold grudges for the sake of it. But forgiveness? That’s not owed. And I won’t be part of her life again.
