I cook for you, I clean, I wash, I dress you. Why do you hate me so much?
My life in a tiny village near Manchester has become a never-ending nightmare. I, Emily, have spent years under the same roof as my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, who’s made it her mission to turn my days into misery. Today, my patience finally snapped: I asked her the question that’s haunted me for years—”Why do you hate me so much?” No answer came, just icy silence and that smug look of disdain. My heart aches with the unfairness of it all.
That day, I was cleaning as usual—hoovering, mopping, polishing everything to perfection. Then Margaret, lounging in her favourite armchair, gleefully crumbled biscuits onto the freshly mopped floor. I froze, stunned. She’d done it on purpose, not even bothering to hide her spite.
“Mum, why would you do that? I saw you!” I blurted, fighting back tears.
She gave me that withering stare and scoffed, “Oh, you’ll clean it again. Won’t kill you.”
With a satisfied smirk, she went back to her decades-old newspaper, rereading for the hundredth time. Swallowing my anger, I grabbed the dustpan and brush. But inside, I was boiling. I fled to the garden—digging in the soil usually calmed me. But her words gnawed at me like poison.
Later, I confronted her. “Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you? I cook for you, I clean, I do your laundry, I take care of you! Our daughter, Charlotte, helps you too! Why?”
Not a word. Not even a glance. Just icy indifference. I broke down, tears streaming as I finished the washing-up. My life was a never-ending loop of humiliation, and I had no idea how to escape.
My husband, Charlotte’s father, died years ago. She was only eight. Right after the funeral, Margaret declared, “You’ll stay with me. And don’t even think of leaving—I won’t have the village gossips saying I threw you out.”
I agreed because I had nowhere else to go. My sister lived with her two kids at our parents’, no space left for Charlotte and me. Foolishly, I hoped Margaret and I might find common ground. But no such luck. In public, she played the doting grandmother, but at home, she tormented me. Always insisting I obey her.
“You’re useless, you are! Who’d want you? No man would look twice, not with a child in tow. You’ll stay here with Charlotte, and when I’m gone, you’ll get the house. But step out of line, and I’ll leave it to my nephews. You’ll be out on the street!”
I was terrified of her threats and endured it all, doing everything for Charlotte’s sake. Meanwhile, Margaret—pushing ninety—lived like a queen, spending her pension on gourmet treats while I scraped by. I realised too late I’d made a mistake staying. Years of cruelty broke me.
Charlotte’s finishing university, engaged to a wonderful bloke. They’ll live in his flat, and I pray she’ll be happy. But I’m heartbroken for myself—for the life I’ve wasted. I gave everything for my daughter and my mother-in-law, and in return? Only contempt and loneliness. How do I find the strength to walk away?
