My mother-in-law constantly compares me to her daughter, and now she’s moved on to the grandchildren!
I’m Veronica, married to Anthony for eight years, and all this time, I’ve been at war with his mother, Margaret. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough, while her daughter, Sophie, is absolute perfection. At first, I put up with it, but now she’s crossed the line—comparing our children. My patience has run out, and I won’t stay silent when it comes to my son!
Anthony and I married right after university. We lived in a small town near Manchester, scraping by on little money, but I refused to move in with his mum. Margaret disliked me from day one. Anthony tried to reassure me: “Mum’s like this with all my girlfriends—thinks no one’s good enough.” It wasn’t much comfort. We squeezed into a tiny flat, saving every penny. When Margaret found out we were renting, she exploded: “Why waste money? You could’ve lived with me and saved for your own place!” For four years, she acted like we’d committed a crime.
Meanwhile, Anthony’s sister, Sophie, got married. She didn’t want to live with her mother-in-law either, and—surprise—Margaret praised her for it! “Good for them, no need to crowd under someone else’s roof,” she said. Anthony was stunned. “Mum, why were we wrong to move out, but Sophie and her husband are brilliant?” Her reply crushed me: “Her mother-in-law’s a nightmare—she’d make their lives hell.” I nearly snapped back, “And you think you’re making mine easy?” It was a slap in the face. I knew then—I’d always be second-best to her daughter.
To be fair, I got on well with Sophie, but she’d inherited her mum’s sharp tongue—always lecturing, never satisfied. I avoided fights with Margaret, but she provoked me anyway. She needed someone to vent at, or she couldn’t sleep. When I got pregnant—around the same time as Sophie—Margaret showed her true colours. “Sophie’s doing the right thing, having a baby young. You’re just working my son to the bone,” she’d say. I was exhausted from pregnancy, and her words cut deep. At family dinners, Sophie got the best portions—”Eat up, you need your strength”—while I got nagged: “You’ve put on too much weight; wait till the doctor sees you.” (The doctor said I was fine.) I bit my tongue, but eventually, I stopped visiting, blaming fatigue.
Sophie and I had boys a week apart. Margaret immediately declared Sophie’s son the spitting image of Anthony, while our Liam “took after no one.” I didn’t care—I was wrapped up in motherhood. But when she started comparing the boys, my blood boiled. This wasn’t just about me anymore—it was about my son. I won’t let Liam grow up feeling less than. Anthony thought I was overreacting, but I saw how Margaret doted on Sophie’s boy and barely glanced at ours.
By the time Liam turned four, it got worse. “Sophie’s son is already reading, and you’re not even trying,” Margaret sneered. When I enrolled Liam in nursery, she called me neglectful: “Dumping him off so you can laze about! Sophie stays home and raises hers properly.” Her words burned like acid. Even Anthony noticed the unfairness. I’ve held my tongue, but not for much longer. If he won’t talk to her, I will.
I can stomach being compared to Sophie. But dragging Liam into it? That’s too far. He’s her grandson, yet she’ll always treat him as lesser. My efforts to keep the peace are crumbling—I’m done playing nice. Margaret’s poison is ruining our lives, and I won’t let her belittle my boy. If it comes to it, I’ll confront her, even if it tears the family apart. My heart aches, but for Liam’s sake, I’ll fight this to the end. He deserves love—not his grandmother’s disdain just because she only has eyes for Sophie’s child.
