I Lost My Desire to Help My Mother-in-Law After Discovering What She Had Done—But I Still Can’t Bring Myself to Leave Her on Her Own

Author Walton MerrittReading 4 min

I lost my desire to help my mother-in-law when I discovered what she had done. Yet, I simply cant abandon her.

I have two children. Each of my children has a different father. My first child is a daughterher name is Emily, and she is now 16. Emilys father provides child support and keeps in regular contact with her. Even though my first husband has remarried and has two more children with his new wife, he always remembers Emily.

My son, on the other hand, hasnt been as fortunate. Two years ago, my second husband fell ill, and just three days later, he passed away in hospital. Some days I still cant believe hes really gone. I catch myself thinking Ill hear his key in the door, see his smile and hear him wish me good morning. On days like that, I cant help but cry.

Through it all, I made a special effort to support my late husbands mother, Margaret. It was as difficult for her as it was for meafter all, he was her only son. We leaned on each other, facing those bleak days together. We rang each other regularly and often visited to reminisce about him.

At one point, we even thought about moving in together, but Margaret changed her mind. The years have slipped byseven already. Margaret and I have always had a lovely relationship; you could have called us friends.

I remember when I was pregnant, Margaret mentioned something about a paternity testI couldnt quite see why. Shed apparently watched a programme on the telly where a man cared for a child for years before discovering he wasnt the biological father. I told her straight away, If a man doubts whether a child is his, he wont be a real fatherjust one for Sundays! Margaret assured me she believed I was carrying her sons child. I half expected her to ask for a test when my son was born, but nothing more was said.

This summer, Margaret’s health took a serious turn for the worse. Her condition was quickly deteriorating and I thought it best for her to move closer to me. I contacted an estate agent and planned to buy a flat for her.

When Margaret was admitted to hospital, I needed her late husbands death certificate for the estate agent, but Margaret wasnt able to get it herself. So I went to her flat to find it among her papers.

While I was looking through her documents, I found something surprising: a paternity test. It turned out that when my son was just two months old, Margaret had arranged for the test, which, of course, proved my late husband was his father.

I was shockedand deeply hurt. All this time, Margaret had never fully trusted me! I couldnt keep silent and confronted her about it. Now she apologises and admits it was foolish of her, yet I cant shake the sense of betrayal. She kept it to herself all these years, but now that I know, something has changed inside me.

Part of me doesnt want to help Margaret anymore, but I also recognise that she has no one else. I dont want to deprive my son of his grandmother, so Ill continue to care for her. Still, the warmth and trust we once shared is gone.

Sometimes life teaches us that even those closest to us can falter. Forgiveness doesnt mean forgetting, but holding on to anger only makes moving forward harder. Family isn’t built on perfection, but on choosing compassion despite disappointments.

A Taste of Freedom – We finished our renovation last autumn, – began Vera Ignatievna as she told her story. We spent ages picking wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over bathroom tile colours, and smiled, remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed about this very “three-bed”. – Well, – my husband said contentedly when we celebrated the end of our long renovation saga, – now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his wife here, they’ll have kids, and our house will finally be noisy and truly alive. But his dreams were not meant to be. Our eldest daughter Katya came back home with two suitcases and two children. – Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go, – she said, and those words erased all our plans. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t complain—just shrugged: – It’s fine, soon I’ll have my own place. “My own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat. Recently renovated, we’d been renting it out to a young family. Every month, a modest but crucial amount landed on our account—our “safety net” for when my husband and I got old and useless. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée Lera walking past the building, looking up and chatting animatedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. Then one day I overheard: – Vera Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We even found the perfect wedding venue! Just imagine! – Lera was glowing with happiness. – There’s a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden… – And where will you live afterwards? – I couldn’t help asking. – That kind of wedding must cost a fortune! Lera looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. – We’ll stay with you for a bit. After that…we’ll see. https://clck.ru/3RKgHm – We already have Katya with her children living with us, – I said slowly. This’ll be more like a hostel than a flat. Lera pouted. – Yeah. Probably not a good idea. We’ll look for a proper bedsit. At least no one will meddle. Her sharp “no one will meddle” really stung. Had I meddled? I’d just tried to stop them making stupid decisions. Next came my talk with Misha. My last attempt to get through. – Son, why the grand show? Just get legally wed quietly, and put the money towards a mortgage! – My voice shook. He stared out the window, his face hard. – Mum, tell me, why do you and dad always celebrate your wedding anniversary at “The Golden Dragon”? You could’ve had a cheaper dinner at home. I couldn’t think of a reply. – See? – he smiled slyly. – You have your traditions, we’ll have ours. He compared our modest family meal every five years with their half-a-million pound extravaganza. In that moment, Misha saw not his mother, but a judge. Someone who’d delivered a verdict: you’re hypocrites. You allow yourselves everything but me nothing. He’d forgotten that mum and dad were still paying off the loan for his car. As for our “safety net”—he’d never thought about it. But now he needed a wedding. And what a wedding! In the end, my son and future daughter-in-law, of course, resented me. Especially for not handing them the keys to grandma’s flat. *** One night, heading home late on an almost empty bus, I looked at my reflection in the dark window. I saw a tired woman, much older than her years. My hands clutched heavy bags of groceries, and in my eyes: fear. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised—I did everything out of…fear! Fear of being a burden. Fear of being abandoned by my children. Fear for the future. I don’t give Misha the flat—not out of selfishness, but out of fear I’ll end up with nothing. I make him “struggle”, yet clip his wings by paying his way—what if he fails, and my boy gets upset? I expect adult decisions from him, but treat him like a child who understands nothing. Yet Misha and Lera just wanted a beautiful start to adult life. Carriage and harp—it’s silly, it’s wasteful, but in the end, they have every right! On their own dime. First things first, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find somewhere else quickly. A month later, I phoned Misha: – Come over. We need to talk. They arrived tense, ready for battle. I set out tea and…placed a set of keys to mum’s flat on the table. https://clck.ru/3RKg9f – Take them. Don’t get too excited: this isn’t a gift. The flat’s yours for a year. In that time, you decide: either get a mortgage, or stay—but on different terms. The lost rental money, well, I’ll count it as an investment. Not in your wedding. In your chance to be a family, not just flatmates. Lera’s eyes widened. Misha stared at the keys as if he didn’t understand. – Mum… what about Katya? – There’s a surprise for Katya too. You’re adults now. Your lives are your own responsibility. We’ll stop being your backdrop and your bank. From now on, we’re just parents. Who love, but don’t rescue. The silence was thunderous. – And the wedding? – Lera asked, uncertain for the first time. – The wedding? – I shrugged, – Do whatever you like. If you can afford a harpist, have a harpist. *** Misha and Lera left, and I was terrified. Terrified they’d fail, terrified they’d resent me forever. But for the first time in years, I could breathe deeply. I’d finally said “no”! Not to them. To my own fears. And let my son step into adult, difficult, independent life. Whatever it would be… *** Now, let’s look at things through my son’s eyes. Lera and I dreamed of an unforgettable wedding. But my sister’s divorce dashed our plans. When mum said we shouldn’t splurge on a fancy do, something inside me snapped. – Then why do you dine at a restaurant for every wedding anniversary? – I blurted out. – You could eat at home! It’d be cheaper! I saw my mother pale. I really did want my words to sting. I was deeply hurt. Sure, they bought me a car. So what? I didn’t ask for it! They keep reminding me they’re paying for the loan. What’s that got to do with me? Their decision. They said they renovated the flat “for us”. But now we can’t live there. Gran’s one-bed flat—a “sacred cow”, the precious reserve more important than their only son’s wedding! So what now? How do we prove to ourselves, and to the world, that we exist—that we’re a real couple? Lera once admitted, eyes downcast: – Misha, I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help. They’ve got their own mortgage. – You give me yourself, – I said, trying to reassure her. But inside, I was angry. Not with her, with the injustice. Why does everything fall on my mum and dad? And why do they help with such bitterness, as if every quid is another nail in their coffin? That sort of help doesn’t warm—it burns with guilt. Unspoken grievances lingered in the air. Then, a phone call. Mum’s voice was strange and firm. – Come over. We need to talk. We drove there as if to an execution. Lera squeezed my hand: – She’ll cut us off…for our wedding. – Maybe, – I nodded. *** The keys to grandma’s flat lay on the table—I recognised the childhood fob. – Take them, – said mum. Her speech was brief, but revolutionary. One year. A decision. No more being our “bank and backdrop”. Our old excuse—“nowhere to live”—was gone, and our eternal hope—“parents will fix everything”—had collapsed. I took the keys. They were cold. And unbelievably heavy. Just then came a sudden, awkward realisation. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never truly talked to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we get your fears. Let’s discuss how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just waited for them to magically guess and fulfil our wishes—no conversation, no conditions, just a smile. Like when we were kids. – The wedding? – Lera whispered, lost. – Your wedding? – mum shrugged, – If you find money for a harp, then have a harp. We stepped outside. I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. – What now? – Lera asked. Not just about the flat. About everything. – I don’t know. – I answered honestly. – Now it’s our problem. In this scary, new responsibility was a kind of wild and primal freedom. And the first step: figuring out if we really need that carriage and harp. Traditions are good, but they must rest on more than just a single special day… *** So, what happened in the end? Misha and Lera’s adult life began the very next day. Finally, together! Their own place! It’s not technically theirs yet, but still. Small, but cosy, freshly renovated. And best of all, no one else! Visitors came in droves at first. Well, it’s freedom, isn’t it? A month later, an unexpected joint itch: let’s get a dog! And no small mutt—a big one! Turns out, Lera had always wanted one, but mum never let her. Misha had had a dog once, back at school, but it ran away—a childhood tragedy. Soon, the missing piece of happiness appeared: a cute retriever, Lexus. https://clck.ru/3RKgGM Three months old, he immediately started ruling the place. Scratching the corners, chewing the furniture, making messes everywhere. Vera Ignatievna visited. No one had told her about the new arrival. – Misha! Lera! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! A dog like that needs attention. All day alone—it’ll misbehave, of course! So much fur! Do you ever clean? And the smell! No! This is outrageous! You must return the dog! Tomorrow! – Mum, – Misha said, annoyed, – you gave us the flat for a year. So, what? Are you going to tell us how to live, every time? Maybe you want your keys back? – Absolutely not, – Vera Ignatievna snapped, – I keep my word. A year means a year. But remember: it must be returned in the same condition. Got it? – Got it, – Misha and Lera replied in unison. – Then don’t expect me to visit until then. I don’t want to see this. *** Mum stuck to her word. She didn’t visit, barely phoned. Four months later, Misha was back home: he and Lera had split up. He spent ages explaining how bad she’d been as a housekeeper. Didn’t cook, didn’t look after the pup, didn’t walk him. Had to take Lexus back to the breeder—it took a week to convince them! They’d bought a three-month supply of dog food—quite pricey! – Maybe you rushed things with Lera, son? – Vera Ignatievna asked, hiding a smile, – Didn’t you want a wedding, with a carriage and a harp…? – What wedding, mum?! Please! Rent out grandma’s flat. – Why? You could live there, you must be used to it? – No, I prefer home, – Misha shook his head, – or do you mind? – I’m always happy, – answered Vera Ignatievna, – especially now Katya and the kids have moved out. It’s quiet again…

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Back to Her Again — Are you going back to her, again? Helen asked the question, already knowing the answer. David nodded, avoiding her gaze. He tugged on his coat and checked his pockets — keys, phone, wallet. Everything was there. He could leave. Helen waited. For a word. Even just “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But David simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked quietly, almost apologetically, as if excusing its owner. Helen moved to the window. The street below was lit by dull street lamps, and she easily spotted the familiar figure. David walked quickly, determinedly, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old Sophie. Helen pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She knew. She’d known from the start what she was signing up for. When she met David, he was still married. Technically. A stamp in the passport, a shared flat, a child. But he no longer lived with Anna — he rented a room, only visiting for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” David had said back then. “I couldn’t forgive. I filed for divorce.” And Helen believed him. Oh, how easily she believed him. Because she wanted to. Because she had fallen — foolishly, desperately, as if she were seventeen. Café dates, long phone calls, the first kiss in the rain by her flat. David looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, joint plans, talks about the future. Then it began. First — the calls. “David, bring medicine for Sophie, it’s urgent, she’s ill.” “David, our tap’s leaking, I don’t know what to do.” “David, Sophie’s crying, she wants to see you, come right now.” David would rush over every time. Helen tried to understand. A child — that’s sacred. The daughter wasn’t at fault for the split. Of course, he should help, be present. Sometimes David listened, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna simply changed tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, it upsets her.” “She asked why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And David broke down. Every time. When he tried to refuse yet another “urgent” request — Anna hit where it hurt. Within a week, Sophie would repeat her mum’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t invent that herself. David returned from these talks broken, guilty, eyes dull. And again dashed to his ex’s at the first call — just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, just so she wouldn’t look at him with cold, distant eyes. Helen understood. She truly did. But she was tired. David’s figure disappeared round the corner. Helen peeled herself from the window, absently rubbing her forehead — a red mark remained from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. The clock read nearly midnight when the key turned in the lock. Helen sat in the kitchen, an untouched cup of cold tea before her. She hadn’t taken a sip — just watched a dark film spread over the surface. Three hours. Three hours she waited, listening for every sound on the landing. David entered quietly, peeled off his coat, hung it up. Moved with caution, like a man hoping to sneak by unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Helen was surprised how calm her voice was. Three hours she’d rehearsed that phrase, and by midnight all emotion had burnt out inside her. David hesitated. “The boiler broke. I had to fix it.” Helen slowly looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to come in. He looked somewhere past her, into the dark window. “You can’t fix boilers.” “I called a plumber.” “And you had to wait there?” Helen pushed the cup away. “You couldn’t call from here? From your phone?” David frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened: heavy and unpleasant. “Do you still love her?” Now he looked. Sharply, angrily, hurt. “What nonsense is this? I do everything for Sophie! For my daughter! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen, and Helen involuntarily edged back with her chair. “You knew, when you got involved with me, that I’d have to go round. You knew I have a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I go to my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Helen wanted to reply sharply, proudly, but instead her eyes stung, and the first tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought…” she choked, fighting a lump. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. Make an effort.” “Helen, come on…” “I’m tired!” her voice broke into a shout, and she startled herself with the sound. “Tired of being not even in second place! Third! After your ex, after her whims, after midnight boilers!” David struck his palm on the door frame. “What do you want from me?! To abandon my daughter? Not go see her?!” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Helen jumped up, the cup wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me — to her! To Anna!” “I’m sick of your drama!” David spun round, grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?” The only answer was the door slamming shut. Helen stood in the kitchen, tea dripping onto the linoleum, ringing in her ears. She grabbed her phone, dialled his number. Ring, ring, ring. “The subscriber cannot answer.” Again. And again. Silence. Helen slowly sank onto a chair, clutching her phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Back to her again? Or was he roaming the night streets, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Not knowing made it worse. The night dragged endlessly. Helen sat on the bed, clutching her phone — the screen would blink, then go dark. Dial the number, hear the rings, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Then another: “Please reply.” And another: “I’m scared.” Send — and watch each one get a single lonely grey tick. Not delivered. Or delivered, but unread. What difference does it make? By four a.m., Helen stopped crying. The tears simply ran out, drying up somewhere inside, leaving only a hollow ring. She got up, switched the bedroom light on, and opened her wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. The suitcase was on top of the closet, dusty, with a torn tag from some old trip. Helen dropped it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. Not sorting, not thinking — just stuffing it all in, whatever she could reach. If he didn’t care — neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat. Let him search, call, send messages she’d never read. Let him know how it feels. By six, Helen stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, a shoulder bag, coat fastened crookedly — one side hanging longer than the other. She looked at the bunch of keys in her hand. Time to remove hers, leave it on the table. Her fingers fumbled. Helen jiggled the ring, tried to prise her key off with a nail, but it wouldn’t come, her hands were trembling, and her eyes stung again, who knew from where, more tears— “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The keys clattered onto the tile. Helen stared at them for a second, then just collapsed onto a suitcase, hugged her arms round herself, and sobbed hard. Loud, ugly, choked, like a child who’d broken mum’s favourite vase and thought the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Helen…” David knelt before her, right on the cold hall floor. He smelt of smoke and the night city. “Helen, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up. Her face was wet, swollen, mascara streaked black. David gently took her hands in his. “I was at Mum’s. All night. She gave me a real earful… knocked some sense into me.” Helen was silent. She stared at him — uncertain whether to believe or not. “I’m going to take Anna to court. Ask for a proper schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, set by the courts, like it should be. She won’t be able to manipulate things, use Sophie against me.” His fingers squeezed Helen’s hands tighter. “I choose you, Helen. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something trembled inside her. A little shoot of hope, silly and stubborn, the one she’d tried all night to tear out. “Really?” “Really.” Helen closed her eyes. She would trust David. One last time. After that… whatever happens, happens.

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Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Lost My Desire to Help My Mother-in-Law After Discovering What She Had Done—But I Still Can’t Bring Myself to Leave Her on Her Own