My name’s Emily. I’m 29, and I’ve been married to Oliver for three years now. We’ve got a solid, loving family, raising our little girl, Sophie, and trying to live a quiet life. But there’s one person who never lets us have that peace—my mother-in-law. Or rather, the woman who’s hell-bent on tearing our marriage apart and dragging her son back into “Mummy’s arms.”
It all started five years ago when Oliver and I first met at uni. I introduced him to my parents pretty quickly—my family’s warm, easygoing, no drama. But him? He kept putting it off. A whole year passed before he finally brought me home. And the second I stepped into their house in Southampton, I knew—I wasn’t welcome.
His mum, Margaret, greeted me with this icy stare and a fake smile. I thought maybe it was just first-meeting nerves, but over time, I realised—her dislike was deep and real. She never accepted me. Not as her son’s girlfriend, not as a woman, not even as a person.
When Oliver and I decided to move in together and rent a flat, Margaret lost it. She screamed that her “baby boy” couldn’t survive without her, that I was a bad influence, that I was pushing him into grown-up life. Oliver, at 23, was a full-grown man—but to her, he was still a helpless child. We moved anyway.
That’s when the nightmare really started.
Every single day, I’d get texts—how to cook for Oliver, what laundry detergent to use, which brand of tea bags to buy, even how to peel his oranges because apparently, he couldn’t do it himself! When I calmly told her he was perfectly capable, she took offence. Then came the meltdown because Oliver visited her in a jumper—”Don’t you see how freezing it is? Everyone’s in coats, and he’s half-naked!” It was 15 degrees outside. Nobody was wearing a coat.
When we got engaged, things got worse. Margaret started inviting random women over—daughters of her friends, neighbours, coworkers—and straight-up told Oliver, *”This* is the kind of wife you should have!” He avoided her for months after that. But she didn’t stop.
She started showing up at our place. Unannounced. Always complaining. Every visit ended with her nitpicking—”There’s dust under the sofa!” “Your cooking tastes like school dinners!” “You’ve let Oliver go to ruin!” I bit my tongue. For a while.
But everything exploded a week before the wedding. She threw a fit over my dress, calling it “a rag, not a gown.” Said the wedding menu was “an embarrassment to the family.” Accused me of humiliating them in front of everyone. I didn’t hold back—I kicked her out.
An hour later, Oliver got a call: “I’m ill! I think it’s a heart attack!” He rushed over. Only to find her perfectly fine, cheeks pink, sipping tea. All lies. All manipulation.
On the wedding day, she didn’t show up.
After we got married and Sophie was born, she never visited. Not once. No gifts, no baby clothes, not even a phone call. When we asked her to meet her granddaughter, she’d just say, “That’s not my grandchild. She’s not even yours.”
Oliver struggled—torn between his mum and his family. I could see it crushing him. But he always chose us. He set boundaries. And from that day, she never crossed them.
I don’t speak to that woman. I’ve got nothing to apologise for. I won’t let her wreck my family. I won’t let her trample over my daughter, my husband, or my life just because she can’t accept that her son grew up and chose a wife she didn’t pick for him.
I’m exhausted. Properly worn out. And sometimes, I just close my eyes and imagine what it’d be like to have a normal mother-in-law. One who brings round a Victoria sponge without digging for gossip. Who doesn’t interfere. Who doesn’t bark orders about raising my kid. Who just hugs me and says, “You’re doing great.” But that’s not my reality.
My mother-in-law? She’s still waiting for her son to come home. To *her*. Without me.
But here’s the thing—it’s never happening. Because he chose me. And I’m proud he didn’t cave under the pressure.
As for me? I just want to live. Raise my daughter. Be a wife—not some contestant in this twisted rivalry with his mum.
But God, the tiredness never really goes away…
