My name is Emily. I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been married to William for three years now. We have a strong, loving family, raising our little girl, Sophie, and trying to live a peaceful life. But there’s one person who refuses to let us have that peace—my mother-in-law. Or, more accurately, the woman who’s doing everything in her power to ruin our marriage and drag her son back into her clutches.
It all started five years ago when William and I first met during our final year at university. I introduced him to my parents almost right away—my family is warm and welcoming, no pretence. But he… kept putting it off. A whole year passed before he finally brought me home to meet his mother. And the moment I stepped into the flat, I knew I wasn’t wanted there.
William’s mother, Margaret, greeted me with a cold stare and a stiff smile. I thought it might just be first impressions, but over time, I realised her dislike for me was deep and genuine. She never accepted me—not as her son’s girlfriend, not as a woman, not even as a person.
When William and I decided to move in together and rent our own place, Margaret threw a fit. She screamed that her son was “still a boy,” that he wouldn’t survive without her, that I was a bad influence, that I was pushing him into adulthood. Never mind that William was a grown man of twenty-three—in her eyes, he was still a helpless child. But we moved out anyway.
That’s when the nightmare truly began.
Every day, I’d get messages: how to cook for William, what to feed him, how to wash his clothes, which oranges to buy—making sure to peel them in advance because, according to her, he couldn’t do it himself! When I calmly told her that her son was perfectly capable, she took offence. Then she had a meltdown because he visited her in a jumper—”Don’t you see how cold it is? Everyone’s wearing coats, and he’s underdressed!” Never mind that it was fifteen degrees outside, and not a single person was wearing a coat.
When we announced our engagement, things got worse. Margaret started inviting random women over—her friends’ daughters, neighbours, colleagues—and openly told William in front of me, “Now, this would be a suitable wife for you!” He was furious and stopped visiting her altogether. But she didn’t give up.
She started turning up at our flat unannounced. Every visit ended with some fresh criticism: “There’s dust under the wardrobe!” “Your soup tastes like cafeteria slop!” “You’ve let William go to ruin!” I tried to ignore it. Until I couldn’t.
Then, a week before the wedding, she blew up over my dress. Said it looked like “a rag, not a gown.” The restaurant menu, according to her, was “an embarrassment to the whole family.” She accused me of “humiliating them in front of everyone.” I snapped. I threw her out.
An hour later, William got a call: “I’m ill! I think I’m having a heart attack!” He rushed over, only to find his mother perfectly fine, cheeks flushed. It was all lies. Manipulation.
She didn’t come to the wedding.
After the wedding, when Sophie was born, she never once visited. Not a single nappy, not a toy. Not even a phone call. When we invited her to meet her granddaughter, she’d only say, “That’s not my grandchild. You must have had her with someone else.”
William was torn between his mother and his family. I saw how much it hurt him. But he always chose us. He set boundaries. And since then, she hasn’t 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 drag my daughter, my husband, or my life through the mud just because she can’t accept that her son grew up and chose a wife she didn’t approve of.
I’m tired. So tired. And sometimes I just close my eyes and imagine how nice it would be if I had a normal mother-in-law. One who brings over homemade cakes. Who doesn’t interfere in our marriage. Who doesn’t dictate how to raise our child. One who hugs me and says, “You’re doing great.” But that’s not my reality.
My mother-in-law is a woman who still dreams that her son will come back home. To her. Without me.
But you know what? That’s never happening. Because he chose me. And I’m proud that he didn’t break under the pressure.
As for me? I just want to live. Raise my daughter. Be a wife—not a rival to his mother.
But the exhaustion never really goes away…
