Five years ago, my husband William divorced his first wife, Margaret. Their marriage had been brief—it fell apart after she was unfaithful and, without much delay, swiftly remarried. Two years later, I came into his life. We met, fell in love, and for the past three years, we’ve been husband and wife.
One might think it simple enough—people part ways, each moves on. But not everyone does. His parents, especially his mother, seemed stuck in the past, where their son and Margaret remained the “perfect family.” All my attempts at politeness, neutrality, and respect shattered against an impenetrable wall: they simply refused to accept me. The reason? William and Margaret had a child together, so in his mother’s eyes, theirs was the *real* family, and I was merely passing through.
When we first began courting, William was free, and Margaret had long settled into her new life. He was honest from the start—he had a daughter whom he adored and spent every spare moment with. Back then, Margaret didn’t interfere with his time with the child; in fact, she was grateful he hadn’t vanished from the girl’s life, as so often happens. Their conversations were strictly practical—cool and civil.
But this very civility drove his mother mad. She was determined to restore that “old” family at any cost. As for me? In her eyes, I was just “young and pretty,” with ample time to find “the right match.” She even remarked at our wedding:
“Why do you need this? He already has a family! There’s a child involved!”
I tried to explain that I respected William’s role as a father—that he was devoted to his daughter—but family wasn’t just a passport stamp and shared history. His mother wouldn’t hear it. Her heart belonged to Margaret alone.
When Margaret’s second marriage ended, his mother saw it as fate’s intervention. *Now*, she thought, things would fall back into place. She began inviting Margaret to every family gathering, as if she were still the “daughter-in-law.” At every dinner, I endured the same refrain:
“Margaret was such a fine wife… Oh, you’re not bad, I suppose, but…”
Margaret herself seemed indifferent. She’d arrive when summoned, smile politely, nod. No warmth, no desire to rekindle anything—just an icy detachment that, oddly enough, only endeared her further to my mother-in-law. To her, Margaret was “pliant,” “uncomplaining,” “the picture of grace.” Whereas I? Too “spirited,” no doubt.
William saw it all, tried to reason with her:
“Mother, enough. Margaret and I are over. We co-parent, nothing more. Why can’t you accept my wife?”
She’d pretend to listen, only to ring him days later:
“Are you with your wife? Or perhaps with Margaret?”
“Go fetch those jars from Margaret’s, son—while you’re there, see how she’s managing alone with the child…”
She threaded little hooks of jealousy, hoping I’d bite. But I wouldn’t. I know William is true to me. He provides for his daughter—pays her dues, buys her books, takes her to lessons. Sometimes she stays with us for weeks. Margaret and I have no quarrels. We keep things cordial and practical, as adults should after divorce.
Yet his mother dwells in some invented realm where only she knows what’s right. Where that *other* family was the *true* one, and I—an outsider, temporary. It doesn’t make me jealous or ashamed. It angers me. How long must one fight for acceptance never meant to be given?
Recently, William suggested things might change if we had a child. That his mother would relent, see we were a family now. I doubt it. Even our own babe won’t sway her. She’ll just say:
“So what? He has another child. And Margaret was the better mother…”
William isn’t blind. He sees it all and stands by me. But a mother is a mother—he can’t cut her off. And I understand that. Still, I’m weary of being caught between hammer and anvil. I don’t ask for her love. I don’t demand applause. Just respect. And silence.
Tell me—will a child soften her heart? Or is it forever lost to that old life, where I don’t belong?
