My ex-mother-in-law won’t leave me alone.
My ex-husband has moved on ages ago—he’s even raising a new kid with someone else—but his mum still won’t let me breathe. Supposedly, she’s just *so* devoted to her granddaughter. Honestly, she’d be better off making sure her precious boy pays his child support on time.
I spent six years married to Steven. Absolute hell. In the end, I ran for the hills—didn’t even care that I’d be alone with a little one. No matter how much family nagged me that “a child needs her father,” I refused to put up with his cheating and boozing anymore.
Margaret never respected me. But after the divorce, she suddenly became *very* interested in my life—all under the guise of caring for her granddaughter. Pretty sure she’s just panicking that now she’s got no one to fetch her a glass of water in her old age.
*”Why are you making such a fuss? He doesn’t hit you, does he? Brings his wages home. Perfectly decent bloke,”* she’d whine.
Ah, yes. The *bare minimum*—what every woman dreams of. Obviously, arguing with her was pointless, so I stopped bothering. I didn’t even push for child support—figured it was worth dodging any future claims he might try on our daughter. He *promised* he’d help out financially. Well, surprise—he didn’t.
Six months later, he remarried. Funny thing—his mum didn’t seem thrilled about the new baby on the way. Instead, she kept sniffing around *me*, still trying to shove us back together. She’d show up unannounced, poking into my private life. *”I have every right to see my granddaughter!”*—convenient excuse, that.
Funny how she never cared this much before. No, she was just scoping things out.
After the divorce, I started fresh. Before, I was glued to the kitchen and the Hoover, never saw my mates, never went further than the playground. Now? Weekends are for my parents, trips to the countryside, cinema dates, and the zoo.
*”Stop dragging that child everywhere. She should learn proper housekeeping,”* Margaret snipped once.
*”Weekends are for fun. She’s happy, and your pots and mops aren’t going anywhere.”*
She acted like I should be sat at home weeping over my ex. Oh, and drilling a *primary-schooler* on cooking and scrubbing floors? Why? Let her enjoy being a kid—she’ll have enough adult worries later. She tidies her toys, sets the table—that’s plenty for her age.
*”You’re a hopeless homemaker, and that girl will turn out just the same,”* she’d mutter.
Once, I left an old toothbrush by the sink and put a new one in the cup. That was all it took for her to decide I was *”entertaining men”* with my daughter around. I didn’t even justify it—I’m a grown woman. I do what I like.
*”You’ve no business having a love life—you’re a mother! Your head should be full of nappies, not men!”* she screeched in the hallway.
*”But your darling boy gets to? He’s already knocked someone else up!”*
*”You left him! Decent men don’t grow on trees!”*
I told her to stay away—no more drop-ins, no more stress. If she wants time with my daughter, we’ll meet at the park. My home’s off-limits. Now she’s threatening social services. Joke’s on her—I’ve got nothing to hide. No matter what that woman concocts, I know I’m a good mum.
