My name is Emily. I’m twenty-nine, and for the past three years, I’ve been married to Oliver. We’ve built a strong, loving family, raising our little girl Charlotte and trying to live peacefully. But there’s one person who refuses to let us have that peace—my mother-in-law. Or rather, the woman who’s done everything in her power to tear our marriage apart and drag her son back into her clutches.
It all began five years ago when Oliver and I first met during our final year at university. I introduced him to my parents early on—my family is warm and welcoming, no pretence. But he… he hesitated. A whole year passed before he finally took me to meet his mother. The moment I stepped into their house in London, I knew I wasn’t wanted.
His mother, Margaret, greeted me with a cold stare and a forced smile. I hoped it was just first-meeting nerves, but over time, I realised her dislike for me ran deep. She didn’t accept me—not as her son’s girlfriend, not as a woman, not even as a person.
When Oliver and I decided to move in together and rent a flat, Margaret threw a fit. She screamed that her son was “still a boy,” that he couldn’t manage without her, that I was a bad influence pushing him into adulthood. Oliver, a grown man of twenty-three at the time, was still a helpless child in her eyes. But we moved anyway.
That’s when the nightmare truly began.
Daily texts poured in: *How to cook for Oliver. How to do his laundry. Which oranges to buy—and peel them in advance because, according to her, he couldn’t!* When I calmly pointed out that her son was perfectly capable, she took offence. Then came the meltdown because Oliver visited her wearing a jumper—*“Are you blind? It’s freezing! Everyone’s in coats, and he’s underdressed!”* Never mind that it was a mild fifteen degrees outside.
When we announced our engagement, things got worse. Margaret started inviting women over—her friends’ daughters, neighbours, coworkers—and would blatantly tell Oliver, *“This is the kind of wife you should have!”* He was furious and stopped visiting her altogether. But she didn’t back down.
She started showing up at our flat unannounced. Every visit ended in criticism: *“Dust under the cupboard!” “Your soup tastes like cafeteria slop!” “You’ve let Oliver go to ruin!”* I bit my tongue. Until I couldn’t.
The final explosion came a week before the wedding. She threw a tantrum over my dress—*“That’s not a gown; it’s a rag!”* The restaurant menu was *“an embarrassment to the family!”* She accused me of humiliating them all. I’d had enough. I kicked her out.
An hour later, Oliver got a call: *“I’m ill! I think it’s a heart attack!”* He rushed over—only to find her perfectly healthy, cheeks flushed with rage. It was all a lie. A manipulative stunt.
She didn’t come to the wedding.
After we married and Charlotte was born, she never once visited. No baby clothes, no toys, not even a pleaseant phone call. When we invited her to meet her granddaughter, she snapped, *“She’s not mine. You must’ve gotten her from some other man.”*
Oliver was torn between his mother and his family. I saw how it crushed him. But he always chose us. He set boundaries. And from then on, she never crossed them.
I don’t speak to that woman. I have nothing to apologise for. I won’t let her destroy my family. I won’t let her trample my daughter, my husband, or my life just because she can’t accept that her son grew up and chose a wife she didn’t pick.
I’m exhausted. So exhausted. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine how nice it would be to have a normal mother-in-law—one who brings pies, doesn’t meddle, doesn’t dictate how to raise my child. One who hugs me and says, *“You’re doing well.”* But that’s not my reality.
My mother-in-law still dreams her son will come home. To her. Without me.
But you know what? That’ll never happen. Because he chose me. And I’m proud he stood his ground.
As for me? I just want to live. Raise my daughter. Be a wife—not a *competitor* in some twisted game with his mother.
But the exhaustion won’t fade…
