The only thing Ive truly dreaded in my life is an irate mother-in-law. I had been married once before, and in that department, I suppose luck was on my side. My first husband grew up in care, no family to speak of, so I never felt the sting of pointed remarks or whispered criticisms. Still, our marriage didnt last. We managed five years before I filed for divorce.
Back when we wed, I was still at university in Manchester. It didnt take a year before hed started drinking. The debts mounted, and as his wife, they became my problem too. I had to leave my studies to work, just to keep the wolves from the door.
That marriage only brought me more trouble than I care to remember. But when it ended, I could finally breatheI was free. For two years I gathered the pieces of myself, as if Id been shattered and left to gather the fragments on my own. And then I met Oliver. Hed never been married, never had anyone serious. Things moved quicklya whirlwind romance, a proposal, and me, hardly daring to believe my luck, said yes.
Then came the meeting with his mother.
From the moment we crossed the threshold of her little house in Kent, I caught the grim pinch of her lips. She muttered a curt hello, barely meeting my eyes, and then vanished into another room. For a heartbeat, I wondered if something was wrong with me, or perhaps my dress. But no, I was tidy, understated. At the dinner table, she scrutinised me in silence, her gaze like cold drizzle, making me shift uncomfortably in my seat. When my cheeks burned, she pounced.
Well, so you havent even finished your degree? I suppose you havent a clue, then? Her words were laced with sarcasm, her tone unmistakably sharp.
I steadied myself, took a sip of tea, and with as much composure as I could summon, replied, I have some university, but I had to leave and start working. I do plan to finish my studies, though.
She scoffed, loud enough that Oliver flinched. Plans to finish, is it? And when do you suppose youll play at being a wife, then? Wholl look after the children? Wholl cook for my son, keep the house? Her lips curled in disdain. I can tell you, my Oliver doesnt need some tart like you.
Heat flooded my cheeks. She looked me up and down, her gaze dismissive. Look at youwhat have you got but a pretty face and no sense between your ears?
The hurt struck deep. I pushed my chair back and left the table, locking myself in the bathroom. I cried, bitter and silent, wounded by a strangers cruelty while my fiancé remained mute. Thankfully, we soon left. I had no wish to step inside her house again. But she made a habit of turning up at ours, each time finding new ways to needle me, always letting me know how little she thought of me.
For a long time, I did nothing. But eventually, after a few conversations with a counsellor, I understood it: my mother-in-law was a master manipulator. I tolerated her jibes, I let her trample me, all because of how Id been raised. But the next time she tried to wound me in my own living room, I stood firm and asked her to leave.
We no longer speak, but Im unbothered. Oliver doesnt mind, and thats all that truly matters to me.
