My name is Jeremy. I’m just an ordinary bloke who found himself caught in the crossfire between the woman I love and my own mother. What happened after the birth of our daughter turned my life upside down and made me question everything—including my marriage. Truth be told, I don’t know how to fix it.
My mum has never been an easy woman. She never quite grasped the idea of boundaries, always believing she had every right to meddle in my life. Why? Because I’m her only son. Her favourite. In her eyes, no one else—not even my wife—should have the final say over what concerns me.
My wife’s name is Eleanor. We’ve been together five years, and I love her deeply. She’s sharp, level-headed, stubborn in the best way, and always fair. When we first started dating, Mum took an instant dislike to her. Everything about Eleanor irritated her—the way she spoke, cooked, even laughed. I brushed it off as simple jealousy. After all, Mum always believed no one could care for me as well as she could. And perhaps that was the seed of our undoing.
Three weeks ago, Eleanor gave birth to our long-awaited daughter. The delivery was tough, and she needed time to recover. When Mum heard Eleanor had gone into labour, she threw a fit, demanding to be in the delivery room. Of course, Eleanor refused—she hadn’t even wanted her own mother there, let alone mine.
When Mum realised she wouldn’t be allowed in, she made a scene right there in the hospital corridor—shouting, crying, accusing everyone of robbing her of the right to be a grandmother.
After we came home, Eleanor, despite everything, allowed my parents to visit—on one condition: that Mum kept her opinions to herself. And Mum swore she’d behave. But the moment she stepped through our door, it all fell apart.
“What’s this mess in the garden? Do you live in a barn?” she snapped. “Aren’t you ashamed, Eleanor? You’re a mother now—you could’ve at least mopped the floors before guests arrived.”
Eleanor listened quietly, then said, calm but firm, “Don’t come back to this house. Ever.”
After that, every relative—mine and Eleanor’s—visited us. Even my dad. The only one missing was my mum. Eleanor didn’t miss her for a second. We were in our own little world, just us and our baby girl.
But one day, Eleanor went to the doctor’s, leaving me alone with our daughter. I felt sorry for Mum—she just wanted to see her granddaughter. What harm could two hours do? So I invited her over.
She rushed straight round. I warned her: two hours, no more. Of course, she ignored that. Two and a half hours later, Eleanor walked in to find my mother cooing over our baby.
What happened next was worse than anything I could’ve imagined.
Eleanor exploded. She screamed, sobbed, and tore our daughter from Mum’s arms with shaking hands, shouting at her to get out. Mum tried to defend herself. I stepped in. I lost my temper.
“You didn’t have this child alone!” I yelled. “She’s my daughter too! I have every right to decide who sees her. You can’t just throw my mother out!”
“Then both of you can leave!” she screamed back. “Now!”
She shoved us out—me and my mother—and told me not to come back.
Now I’m staying at my parents’ house. Dad says nothing, while Mum hisses about Eleanor every day. And I don’t know what to do. I miss my daughter. I miss my home. I know I was wrong—but I think Eleanor went too far as well.
How do you find a way out when you’re trapped between two women who each demand you take their side—and theirs alone?
Perhaps you can tell me—who’s really to blame here? Or have I lost the family I worked so hard to build? Sometimes love means knowing when to stand firm—and when to step back. That’s the lesson I’m learning the hard way.
