My mother-in-law’s name is Margaret Whitcombe. From the very first glance, she struck me as a woman of strong will—and I wasn’t wrong. She never saw me as a daughter-in-law but as an intruder, a rival who had stolen her only beloved son. I thought it would pass, that it was just the jealousy of a lonely woman afraid of losing her place in her son’s heart. But I never imagined she would one day fight for his attention not only against me… but against her own grandson.
After our parents met, my own mother whispered to me, her voice trembling with unease:
*”Move far away, and then maybe you’ll find peace. As long as she’s near, there’ll be no rest for you.”*
Sadly, she was right.
We lived in a flat my husband—James—had inherited from his grandmother. It was only a ten-minute walk from Margaret’s house, so she might as well have moved in with us. She’d appear at seven on a Saturday—*”Baked some scones, had to bring them over for my boy.”* She’d knock at nearly midnight—*”Had a bad feeling, my heart’s been aching.”* Sometimes, walking home from work, I’d find her already perched on the bench outside, waiting to stroll up with us.
For a long time, I endured it. I clenched my teeth, smiled politely, did as I was raised to do. But finally, I told James:
*”Love, we can’t go on like this. There’s no peace, no privacy. You have to talk to her.”*
He did. I knew it the next day when the phone rang, and through her sobs came the words I’d never forget:
*”You selfish girl! Trying to steal a mother’s son!”*
After that, Margaret changed tactics. No more unannounced visits—now she summoned James to her. Constantly. High blood pressure, her heart playing up, loneliness. Or she’d bake his favourite treacle tart—*how could he say no?* Off he’d go, guilt-stricken, returning an hour later—sometimes much later.
My mother said there were only two choices: divorce or endure. I chose to endure. I made myself small, invisible. Until I got pregnant.
Then James woke up. He was the perfect husband—tender, attentive, loving. But the happier I grew, the darker Margaret became. And I realised—she wasn’t just jealous of me… but of the baby, too.
The day we left the hospital, James nearly missed it. She’d called at dawn in a panic—*”Something’s wrong, my heart’s racing, I think I’m dying!”* Instead of a doctor, she called her son. He rushed over, dialled emergency services, but they only laughed—*”Bit of a spike, but nothing serious.”* He arrived at the hospital last, rumpled and shamefaced. By then, I knew.
When we brought the baby home, Margaret came to see her grandson. But her attention wasn’t on him. She paced the flat, sighing about loneliness, insisting James *”visit his poor mum more often instead of shutting himself away.”* Even her own sister lost patience:
*”Maggie, have you lost the plot? There’s a newborn here. This is a celebration. What on earth are you doing?”*
That was only the beginning. Every birthday, every holiday, every outing—Margaret had a fresh *”emergency.”* And not just whims—full-blown performances. Fake tears, pity plays, tantrums, manipulation.
When I was laid off, I stayed home with the baby. James worked double shifts, leaving before dawn, returning late. Weekends were his only chance to be a father. But even those two days, Margaret stole. *”Fix the tap,”* *”move the wardrobe,”* *”just come sit with me.”*
I snapped. Called her myself. Calm. Firm.
*”Margaret, your son has two days a week to be a dad. He’ll visit you—but later. Let him be a father first.”*
And do you know what she said?
*”He’s got his whole life to be a father. But he’s only got one mother. And who’s to say this baby’s even his last?”*
In that moment, I understood completely. To her, nothing mattered—not the grandson, not the daughter-in-law, not even her son’s happiness. Only her.
Then came the final act. The baby’s birthday. Margaret demanded James come *”fix the leaky tap.”* That day. When he refused, she erupted—screaming, threats, a dramatic *”turn.”* That was the last straw.
James finally snapped.
*”Mum, I have a family. And I won’t let you break it. I love you, but I won’t come running anymore.”*
She blamed me, of course. It’s always someone else’s fault. But I said nothing. She dug this grave herself. With her greed. With her selfishness.
Sometimes I wonder—if she’d just been kind, if she’d just been human… maybe we’d be one family now. Instead, there’s only scorched earth between us.
