My ex-mother-in-law won’t leave me alone.
My ex-husband moved on ages ago—he’s raising a new child now—but his mother still won’t let me breathe. Apparently, she’s “just looking out for her granddaughter.” She’d do better making sure her precious boy pays his child support on time.
Oliver and I were together for six years. It was hell. I ran from him without a second thought, not even afraid of being left alone with a young child. No matter how much my family nagged me about a child needing her father, I refused to put up with his cheating and drinking any longer.
Margaret never respected me. But after the divorce, she started watching my every move, using my daughter as an excuse. Probably terrified she’d have no one to fetch her a glass of water in her old age.
“Why are you so difficult? He doesn’t hit you, brings his wages home. He’s a decent man,” she’d whine.
Ah yes, I should cling to a man simply because he doesn’t beat me. Right. I knew arguing was pointless, so I ignored her. I didn’t take him to court for child support either—didn’t want him making demands of our daughter later. He promised to help financially himself. Fat chance.
Six months later, he remarried. Oddly, news of another grandchild didn’t thrill Margaret. Instead, she kept pushing me to reconcile with him. She’d drop by unannounced, monitoring my life under the guise of “grandmother’s rights.”
Funny how she never cared this much before. It was obvious—she was just snooping.
After the divorce, I started fresh. No more being chained to the stove or the mop, no more missing out on friends or adventures beyond the playground. Now, I make time for myself. Weekends are for my parents, trips to the countryside, cinema outings, or the zoo.
“Stop dragging that child everywhere. She should learn housework,” Margaret snapped once.
“Weekends are for fun. Your pots and brooms can wait.”
She seemed to think I should sit at home crying over my ex. Oh, and that my eight-year-old should be cooking and scrubbing floors already. Why? Childhood’s short—there’ll be plenty of chores later. She tidies her toys, sets the table—that’s enough for her age.
“You’re a hopeless homemaker, and your daughter will be just as bad,” Margaret sneered.
Once, I left an old toothbrush in the cup. To her, that meant I was “bringing men home” with my child around. I didn’t justify it—I’m a grown woman.
“You’ve no right to date—you’re a mother! Focus on your child, not men!” she screeched in the hallway.
“But your precious boy can? He’s already knocked someone else up!”
“You left him. Good men don’t grow on trees.”
I told her never to come round again. If she wants to see my daughter, we’ll meet at the park. Our home’s off-limits. Now she’s threatening social services. Let her try—I’ve nothing to hide. She can invent whatever she likes. I know I’m a good mum.
