A Grudge Thirty Years Long
Me and my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, haven’t spoken for thirty years. It all started when, at mine and Edward’s wedding, she gave us a bag of wheat and a set of chipped old plates. Back then, I was young, in love, full of hope, and that “gift” felt like a slap in the face. Now Edward, my husband, is asking me to look after her because she’s bedridden. “Emma,” he says, “she’s my mum, she’s alone—who else will help her?” And I look at him and think, *I don’t want to see your mother, Edward. After everything that happened, I don’t owe her a thing.* But still, this situation gnaws at me—I’m torn between this old grudge and this nagging feeling that maybe it’s time to put it all behind me.
Thirty years ago, when Edward and I got married, I was over the moon. We were young, barely a penny to our names, but love felt like enough. The wedding was simple, in a little pub, but me and my parents made sure it was nice. My mum and dad gave us money for furniture, our friends chipped in for crockery, and then there was Margaret Elizabeth… She handed us this sack of grain and six battered plates that looked like they’d been around since *her* wedding day. “This’ll set you up,” she said with this smile, like she was giving us gold. I nearly cried. Not because I expected something fancy, but because right then, I knew—she didn’t accept me. Like I wasn’t good enough for her son.
Edward just shrugged it off. “Don’t take it to heart, love, Mum’s just old-fashioned.” But I couldn’t forget it. From the start, Margaret Elizabeth made it clear she thought I wasn’t up to scratch. She’d criticise everything—how I cooked, how I kept the house, even how I dressed. “Emma, you’re not making roast beef without Yorkshire puddings? That’s not how *we* do things,” she’d say, standing in *my* kitchen. Every visit felt like a test I was bound to fail. And after that wedding “gift,” I just stopped speaking to her. Told Edward: “Either she stays out of our lives, or I don’t want to see her.” He chose me, and we agreed she’d only visit when I wasn’t there. And that’s how we lived—thirty years without a word between us.
Over those years, Edward and I built a life. Raised two kids, bought a flat, then a house in the countryside. I worked, kept the home, stood by Edward through hard times. And Margaret Elizabeth lived her own life—her little council flat, her neighbours, her allotment. Edward visited, helped with bills and repairs, but I kept my distance. And I was fine with that. I never felt guilty—she made her choice when she decided I wasn’t good enough for her son. But now, everything’s changed.
A month ago, Edward came home looking grim. “Emma,” he said, “Mum’s had a stroke. She can barely move. The doctors say she needs care.” I said I was sorry, but when he added, “I want her to live with us, and I need you to help,” I nearly choked. *Help* her? The woman who humiliated me at our wedding? Who never once apologised or tried to make things right? I stared at him. “You’re joking, right? After everything she’s done, you expect me to be her carer?” He started on about how she’s old, how he can’t abandon her, how it’s his duty. And what about *me*? What about my pride?
We argued till midnight. Edward kept saying I should understand—she’s his mum, she won’t be around forever. And I kept trying to explain I can’t just forget thirty years of slights. “Do you remember her calling me ‘hopeless’ in front of everyone? Giving me *grain* like I was some charity case?” I shouted. “And now I’m supposed to welcome her into *our* home?” Edward just shook his head. “Emma, that’s ancient history. She’s ill, she needs help.” But to me, it’s not history. It’s a wound that never healed.
I talked to our daughter, hoping she’d take my side. But she said, “Mum, I get why you’re upset, but Gran’s really poorly. Maybe try to forgive?” *Forgive?* Easier said than done. I’m not cruel—I don’t wish Margaret Elizabeth harm—but I can’t face seeing her every day, cooking for her, changing her sheets. It’s too much. I suggested hiring a carer or finding a nice care home—we can afford it. But Edward dug his heels in. “She’s family, she belongs with us.” And what am I, then? Why does *no one* care how *I* feel?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me hates seeing Edward so torn—he loves his mum, and I don’t want to force him to choose. But I can’t sacrifice my peace for a woman who never treated me like family. I even wondered: *What if I agree, but only if she apologises?* Then I realised how daft that is—she’s bedridden, barely coherent. She won’t be thinking about apologies. And I don’t want to be the sort of person who bullies an old woman.
For now, I’ve asked for time. Told Edward I need to think. He nodded, but I can tell he’s hurt. And me? I’m just… tired. Tired of holding onto this grudge, tired of feeling guilty. Maybe I *am* too stubborn. But how do you forget thirty years of being treated like dirt? I don’t know what to do. Maybe time will tell. For now, I’m trying to keep some peace in my heart—for Edward, for our family. But one thing’s certain: Margaret Elizabeth won’t step foot in *my* house until *I’m* ready. If that day ever comes.
