My husband has been living with his “ill” mother for six months now, with no intention of coming home—and he accuses me of failing to understand him.
He moved back in with her half a year ago. She keeps pretending to be unwell. Before this, he stayed with her for three weeks at most, but now it’s beyond ridiculous. And still, he throws it back at me—claiming I won’t sympathise or lift a finger to help.
How am I supposed to help a mother-in-law who’s deliberately sabotaging our marriage? She’s latched onto her son in the simplest way possible—by faking frailty. I’ve lived under the same roof as that woman before. Never again.
His mother took the news of our engagement—mine and William’s—like a physical blow. She never hid her distaste for the idea. Oh, she stopped short of outright arguments—too desperate for her son to see her as the saintly mother. But every encounter was a calculated provocation, seething with quiet resentment.
I refused to rise to it, especially since we barely crossed paths. We had our own flat, William and I—a fact that only fuelled her bitterness. Hard to control a son who doesn’t live under your thumb, harder still to bully a daughter-in-law who couldn’t care less about her approval.
But she found another way. Not an original one—plenty have tried it. The performance of a lifetime: the ailing matriarch, desperate for her son’s constant care.
William, bless him, had never faced this brand of manipulation. He turned tender overnight, camped at her bedside. The “poor old dear” had so many symptoms, she could’ve been a medical anomaly. Hospitals would’ve fought over her case notes.
High blood pressure, low blood pressure, chest pains, backaches, creaky knees, fainting spells—you name it. And I’ll admit, it took me a while to see the act. I assumed stress, at first. Her golden boy had moved in with another woman—no wonder her body was rebelling.
The first time she had a “serious” episode—William had already been there a week—I packed an overnight bag and rushed to help. I believed it was real. That first day? Oscar-worthy.
By day two, I noticed a pattern. The moment William stepped out, every ailment vanished. She’d brighten up, humming to herself—until the door creaked open again. Then, like clockwork, the laboured breaths, the weak voice.
I told William. He didn’t believe me—no surprise there. She’s good. But I wasn’t buying it. I grabbed my things and left.
He came home days later, saying she’d “improved.” Small wonder—she must’ve been giddy the second I walked out. But give it a few weeks, and the act started again.
And every time, William marched right back to her. The only thing that snapped her out of it? The threat of a doctor’s visit. The second she sensed one might turn up, she’d rally like nothing happened. And William—convinced his precious mum was out of danger—would finally return to me.
Now? It’s been six months. At first, there was reason—a knee operation. She took a bad fall years ago, needed surgery to avoid complications. William stayed by her side—the dutiful son. I didn’t argue; she genuinely needed help then.
But a week passed. Then a month. No sign of him. She spun tales of phantom pain, near-falls when he wasn’t there. Six months on, he’s still there, swallowing every word. Doctors insist she’s fine—the surgery was a success, she walks unaided. No marathons, but she’s mobile. But what do they know?
I gave him an ultimatum: come home for good, or I file for divorce. Now he twists it—says I don’t love him, don’t understand. “It’s not like I’m with another woman,” he argues. “She’s my mother. She needs me.”
Every friend I have tells me the same: it’s over. And maybe—finally—I’m starting to believe them. Even if part of me still hoped, right until the end, that he’d wake up and see the truth.
