Tabitha Nicholson was celebrating a milestone—her fifty-fifth birthday. The party was set to be a grand affair, held in a cosy riverside restaurant along the Thames. Friends, family, and colleagues turned up in droves, raising glasses, showering her with flowers and compliments. Her husband, Victor, presented her with a lavish gift—a delicate gold ring with a sapphire that left her gasping in delight. The host, beaming, announced:
“And now, the birthday lady’s daughter-in-law would like to say a few words!”
Up to the microphone strode Chantelle, chin held high.
“Dearest Tabitha,” she began, sounding positively regal, “our family has prepared a very special surprise for you!”
A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd. Tabitha, glowing with happiness, stood up, expecting something heartfelt—maybe even tear-jerking. Little did she know what kind of “surprise” Chantelle had in store.
Chantelle had never been popular with her in-laws—not with Tabitha, nor with her husband Andrew’s older sister, Philippa. At first glance, it seemed like the usual tale of tricky in-law dynamics, but the real issue here was Chantelle herself.
Andrew had always been a bit of a pushover. As a boy, he’d follow the crowd like a lost puppy—if his mates wanted to play football, he’d join in, even if he’d rather have stayed home with a book. If someone dared him to tease poor Emily from school, he’d mumble something half-hearted, despite secretly fancying her.
This carried on into adulthood. Andrew rarely made decisions for himself, as if afraid of his own shadow. Philippa openly called him a wet blanket. Tabitha, though she scolded her daughter for being blunt, secretly agreed. How could two children raised the same turn out so different? Andrew hadn’t been spoiled—his parents taught him to stand up for himself, his dad encouraged sports, his mum instilled a love for books and art. But it seemed nature had won over nurture, and no amount of parenting could change that.
When Andrew brought Chantelle home, no one was surprised. A sweet, kind-hearted girl dreaming of a cosy family life wouldn’t have given him a second glance. No, Andrew needed a firm hand to steer him—and Chantelle was that hand: domineering, self-assured, and sharp-tongued. Her bossy attitude put most people off—but not Andrew. He adored her, obeying her every whim like a devoted spaniel.
His family bit their tongues. If Andrew was happy, who were they to interfere? When he proposed, they accepted it as inevitable. After all, they wouldn’t be the ones living with her.
“We’re saving up for a trip to Cornwall,” Andrew announced one family dinner.
“Shouldn’t Chantelle chip in?” Tabitha asked gently, believing expenses should be shared.
“I’m the man of the house—that’s my job,” Andrew declared proudly, clearly parroting Chantelle’s words.
Then came the mortgage for a flat they could barely afford. Then the announcement that they were trying for kids.
“We want a big family,” Andrew gushed. “A house full of laughter!”
“And how exactly will you pay for that?” Philippa snorted.
“I’ve got a job,” he shot back, mildly offended. “Chantelle says there’ll be child benefits too.”
His parents sighed. They offered advice, but Andrew only listened to Chantelle.
Soon, Chantelle was pregnant—and suddenly, the world owed her everything. She fumed when a delivery driver wouldn’t bring her parcel upstairs.
“I’m pregnant!” she huffed. “And he still made me come down!”
“Was the box heavy?” Tabitha asked sympathetically.
“No, but I had to walk! With a bump, it’s exhausting!”
Everything was a trial—public transport was out of the question, so taxis were now a regular expense. Shopping, cleaning, cooking—all impossible tasks. Andrew, of course, agreed.
“I’m protecting her,” he’d say. “She’s carrying my child.”
His parents were torn—proud of his devotion, but baffled by her behaviour.
When the baby arrived, Chantelle’s demands escalated. Grandmothers were *required* to babysit so she could “rest.” Tabitha adored her grandson but resented being treated like an on-call nanny.
After complaining non-stop about money and exhaustion, Chantelle got pregnant again within a year. Clearly, she enjoyed playing the martyr. Andrew worked himself ragged, but finances were dire. His parents helped occasionally—just enough to feed and clothe the kids, never indulging her entitlement.
Chantelle managed to feud with everyone—the nursery staff, the GP, even a neighbour who dared suggest her pram was blocking the hallway. The world was against her, despite her being a “heroic mother.”
Andrew never argued. She controlled everything—finances, decisions, even his opinions.
At Tabitha’s birthday bash, the mood was joyous. Victor had gifted her not just the ring but a new sofa—the old one was threadbare. Of course, Andrew and Chantelle came with their two boys.
“Pack us the leftovers,” Chantelle demanded the moment she arrived. “No time to cook with the kids.”
Tabitha forced a smile. “Of course, dear.”
Half the evening, Chantelle moaned about her “struggles” to anyone who’d listen. Guests shifted awkwardly until the host changed the subject.
When talk turned to gifts, Chantelle—now tipsy—suddenly blurted:
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Silence fell.
“Excuse me?” Tabitha asked politely.
“This!” Chantelle waved a dramatic hand. “Flashing your fancy ring, your new sofa, this overflowing buffet—while your own grandchildren go without! They barely see fresh fruit!”
Philippa snapped.
“Have you no shame? Nobody owes you anything! Get a job—the little one’s in nursery! Maybe don’t have kids you can’t afford!”
“Shut it!” Chantelle shot back.
“Stay out of my parents’ wallets!” Philippa hissed. “They already help, and you’re still ungrateful!”
“Help? Pennies! If they can afford sofas, they can spare more for their grandsons!”
Tabitha stayed quiet, gripping Victor’s hand to stop him intervening.
Then—shockingly—Andrew spoke up.
“Chantelle, enough.”
“What? They insult me, and you side with them?!”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I’ve put up with a lot. But you don’t insult my parents—not today. They’ve done plenty for us. Time you showed some gratitude.”
Chantelle gasped, grabbed the kids, and stormed out. Everyone expected Andrew to chase her. He didn’t.
“I’m done,” he said quietly.
Tabitha had never been prouder.
Even more shocking? Andrew filed for divorce. Chantelle screamed, threatened, even tried using the kids as leverage—but he stayed firm.
He paid child support, stayed involved, bought them everything they needed. Chantelle played the victim, wailing about being “abandoned.” But everyone knew—Andrew had made the right choice. A family without respect was no family at all.
And as for Chantelle? Well. Life became much quieter without her.
