The threads of communication with my mother frayed and snapped when she took my ex-husband’s side, painting me as the villain of our divorce.
Long before I finally walked away from my first marriage, she had already chosen her priorities. She canonised him as some sort of saint while casting me as the architect of every quarrel and misunderstanding. Even after the divorce, she kept in touch with him, never missing a chance to remind my current husband what a “perfect” son-in-law she once had.
Naturally, such talk poisoned my relationships—both with my husband and my mother. There came a point when I made my decision: if Mum cherished my ex so dearly, let her have him. I would simply step out of the drama.
Oliver and I married fresh out of university. It was a whirlwind romance—everything happened too fast. Within months, we had a lavish wedding. Mum adored her son-in-law, all but carrying him on her shoulders. At first, it was endearing. Then it became infuriating.
The first six months were bliss—care, love, tenderness. But then something shattered. My husband grew aggressive, irritable, cruel. The rows became routine. More than once, I fled to my mother’s, desperate for support, only to be met with condemnation. She always took his side.
Whenever she visited, her complaints began at the doorstep—the house wasn’t clean enough, dinner wasn’t cooked right, the laundry wasn’t ironed properly. No matter how often I explained that work left me exhausted or that I felt unwell, it never mattered. “A woman ought to be the heart of the home! If you don’t like it, let your husband scold you! Handsome as he is, and you—no charm, no grace, and a wretched temper!” she’d chant like a mantra.
I reminded her she’d been married twice herself—both ending in divorce—but it only earned me a torrent of abuse. Oliver and I lasted just over two years. The end came the first time he hit me. I packed my things in silence and left. By morning, I’d filed for divorce.
Mum was furious. She insisted if a man raised his hand, I must have driven him to it. Oliver came begging—apologies, suicide threats. Mum piled on the pressure. But I held firm. A few months later, I moved out—unable to stomach another lecture about how worthless I was for failing to keep “such a husband.” It took me a year to recover.
Then James came into my life. Gentle, attentive, kind. We dated for over a year before marrying. I hid the relationship from my mother, knowing exactly how she’d react. And as predicted, the moment they met, she began comparing James to Oliver—always to James’s detriment.
She didn’t hold back, not even at her own birthday party. She invited my ex-husband and spent the evening sneering, praising him while tearing James down. We couldn’t take it—we left. After that, the calls came more vicious than ever: I’d married a pauper, someone beneath me. Every plea to stop only sharpened her insults.
Then one morning, I woke with perfect clarity—my mother was eroding me, my marriage, my sanity. Fear coiled inside me—for the future, for the husband I loved, for the children we might have, who’d endure the same belittling I had. I wouldn’t let anyone tell my children they were “less than,” the way I’d once been told.
So I made my choice: no more contact. I would live my own life. I wouldn’t let this marriage crumble like the last, poisoned by her words. If she missed my ex so dearly, she could have him. I wanted to be with someone who truly loved me.
And for the first time in years—I felt free.
