“My Mother-in-Law Fed My Baby Food from the Bin”: I Left and Gave My Husband an Ultimatum
When Simon and I first met, we were both in our thirties. At that age, no one wastes time—so neither did we. We clicked straight away, dated for a couple of months, and then filed for a registry office wedding. We were both eager to start a family. I’d always dreamed of having a child, and Simon—never married before—was just as keen to become a father. We tied the knot quickly, no fuss, and moved into my late grandmother’s flat, which I’d inherited. After a bit of DIY and some new furniture, we settled into our cosy little nest.
His mother, Margaret, and I had only met twice before the wedding—once over tea and again at the ceremony. She’d seemed perfectly pleasant—polite, reserved, even approving of our union. She let her son go without a fuss and kept her nose out of our business. I thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. Oh, how wrong I was.
We didn’t wait long to start trying for a baby. I fell pregnant almost immediately, and those nine months were nothing short of royal treatment. Simon treated me like a queen—literally. He’d peel oranges for me at 3 AM, make avocado toast in the mornings, rub my belly, and whisper stories to our unborn son. Even Margaret kept her distance—except for the odd jar of jam or bag of apples she’d send over.
At the time, I didn’t pay much attention, though some jars were dusty, the jam was crystallised, and the apples had suspicious bruises. I chalked it up to her being elderly—maybe her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, or she’d been sold dodgy goods. But then little Alfie arrived, and everything went downhill.
Margaret suggested moving in temporarily—to help with the baby and to rent out her own flat for some extra cash. Simon had hit a rough patch at work, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car, so it made sense. I agreed.
But “temporarily” turned out to be code for “permanently.” She arrived with a vanload of—well, I won’t call it “belongings.” It was junk: moth-eaten blankets, chipped mugs, broken toys, mystery boxes, stacks of yellowed newspapers. Every day, her “collection” grew. I even noticed wrappers in our bin from food we’d never bought.
Then one day, I caught her coming home with a filthy plastic bag from a supermarket. Peeking inside, I felt sick. It was full of out-of-date food—mouldy bread, yoghurts a week past their use-by date, bananas so far gone they were practically liquid. She was bringing this into our home. Our home, with a newborn baby!
I confronted Simon, demanding he talk to her. But he—well, he defended her! Said she’d grown up in poverty, that her own mother had scraped by on leftovers and bin-dived to keep them alive.
“But we’re not at war!” I shouted. “We can afford food! We don’t need to eat rubbish! Do you realise how dangerous this is for Alfie?”
He went quiet, then mumbled, “She means well.”
Means well?! That was it. I packed my things, grabbed Alfie, and left for my parents’ place in York—quiet, clean, and, most importantly, free of out-of-date bin fare.
I gave Simon an ultimatum: either he tells his mum to clear out her hoard and move back to her own flat, or he can stay with her. But I won’t live in a health hazard or a landfill.
Now, ladies, be honest—did I overreact? Should I have tried talking it out? Given her a chance? Or did I do the right thing, protecting my baby and myself?
