My ex-mother-in-law won’t leave me alone.
My former husband has long moved on, raising a new child, while his mother still refuses to let me breathe. Apparently, this is her way of showing concern for her granddaughter. She’d do better making sure her precious boy paid his child support on time.
Oliver and I endured six years together—a waking nightmare. I ran from him without a second thought, unafraid of raising our child alone. No matter how much family insisted a girl needs her father, I knew I couldn’t stomach his benders and infidelity any longer.
Margaret never respected me. Yet after the divorce, she fixated on me under the guise of caring for our daughter. Likely panicking that, without me, there’d be 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, brings his wages home. Perfectly decent bloke,”* she’d whine.
Ah yes, I should cling to a man simply because he refrains from violence. Right. Of course. Arguing was pointless, so I tuned her out. I never pursued formal child support either—no need for Oliver to demand rights over our daughter later. He *promised* to help voluntarily. Fat lot of good that did.
Six months post-split, he remarried. The news of another baby on the way somehow left Margaret sour. She stalked me, scheming to push us back together. Dropping by unannounced, meddling in my affairs—all under the noble banner of *grandmotherly rights*.
Funny how she never cared this much before. Clearly, she was just sniffing around for weaknesses.
After the divorce, I started fresh. No longer chained to the stove or confined to the playground, I reclaimed my life. Weekends now meant trips to my parents’ cottage, cinema outings, or the London Zoo.
*”Stop dragging that child everywhere. She ought to learn proper homemaking,”* Margaret snipped once.
*”Weekends are for fun. She’s eight—your pots and mops can wait.”*
She expected me to mope at home, pining for Oliver. Worse, to train our little girl into domestic servitude. Why? Childhood’s fleeting; adult drudgery comes soon enough. She tidies her toys, sets the table—that’s plenty for her age.
*”You’re a hopeless homemaker, and that daughter of yours will be just the same,”* Margaret sneered.
Once, I left an old toothbrush in the holder beside a new one. She spun it into proof I was *”entertaining men”* with my child present. I didn’t justify it—I’m a grown woman. My choices are mine.
*”You’ve no right to a personal life! A mother’s mind should be on her child, not men!”* she shrieked, loud enough for the whole building.
*”But your golden boy can? He’s already knocked up someone else!”*
*”You walked out! Decent men don’t grow on trees!”*
I told her never to come round again. If she wants visits, we’ll meet at the park. My home’s off-limits. Now she’s ranting about social services—empty threats. I’ve nothing to fear. Whatever lies Margaret concocts, I know I’m a good mother.
