“She forced me out of my flat—now I’m ending my days in a village”: The story of a mother-in-law
It just so happened that in my twilight years, I was left alone. Not by my own choice, not by some cruel twist of fate—but because the woman I once welcomed into my home, my daughter-in-law, threw me out like an unwanted old relic. Now I live in a crumbling, dilapidated cottage in the middle of nowhere. No running water, just a wood stove I have to feed every morning, an outhouse, and buckets hauled from the well. Everything I once had now belongs to her.
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m from York. My son, Thomas, is thirty-two. He married five years ago—blinded by love, or so it seemed to me. He dragged home this woman, Emily—a girl from the South, no home, no trade, no shame or decency about her. My son was smitten. I saw through her from the start. But I held my tongue, hoping it would pass.
After the wedding, the three of us lived together in my two-bedroom flat. I gave them the larger room and squeezed myself into the tiny spare bedroom—hardly enough space to turn around. Barely two months in, Emily announced she was pregnant. Already far along. But the dates didn’t add up—Thomas had only known her a month before conception.
*”Early labour,”* she claimed.
*”Early? A full-weight baby, no complications, not even a hint of prematurity?”*
I said nothing. Thomas believed her. I didn’t. Deep down, I knew—that child wasn’t his. But how could I prove it when my son refused to see?
At first, she played the part—mopped floors, cooked meals. Then she stopped. The house became my burden alone. And then came the demand that shattered everything. Emily insisted I hand over my pension—*”for the household budget.”* No shame, no pretense. Just outright greed.
*”And what exactly do you contribute, Emily?”* I asked. *”Not a single day’s work before or after the wedding!”*
Thomas took her side. Ordered me to justify every penny I spent on myself. She had clearly gotten to him. Knew every benefit, every allowance. Nothing escaped her. I couldn’t even buy medicine without a lecture.
Finally, I snapped. Bought myself a fridge and kept it in my room. Refused to chip in for groceries, split the bills, stopped footing everything for her and that child. I wasn’t obliged to feed a layabout and her bastard. Simple as that.
That’s when Emily realised she’d have to force me out. One day, while I was gone, she ransacked my papers. Found the deeds to the flat. And there was the catch—after my divorce from Thomas’s father, I’d bought out his share but put everything in my son’s name. At the time, I thought—*what does it matter? He’s my only child.*
Emily was thrilled. Threatened me outright:
*”Get out. You’ve got no rights here. Say a word to Thomas, and I’ll divorce him—take half the flat. Then you’ll both be on the street!”*
What could I say? I knew my son was cornered. I didn’t want to break him. So I packed my things and left for my parents’ old cottage in the village. We’d bought it years ago but never finished the repairs. Now I’m stuck in this forgotten corner of the world—freezing in winter, the lone curl of smoke from my chimney the only proof I still exist.
I told Thomas I wanted peace, quiet, the countryside. He never questioned it. Emily was just glad to be rid of me. Now I hardly see my son. He visited that first year—now? Not a word. And I know—she won’t let him.
My only regret? Not putting the flat in my name. Believing my son’s love would protect me, trusting a stranger’s decency. Now, here I am—alone, no roof of my own, no family, no hope. Old age, meant for comfort, has become mere survival.
And so, one woman—an outsider who wormed her way in—stole everything. My home. My son. My dignity. Every night, I pray he wakes up. Sees her for what she is. But I fear it’ll be too late.
