“My daughter-in-law is taking my son for a ride!” my mother-in-law shrieks, accusing me of idleness while I’m on maternity leave with two children.
I never fooled myself. From the very beginning, from our first meeting, I knew—she would never accept me. It wasn’t my character, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. Simply that I was from the countryside, and she was from London. That alone was enough for her to write me off. I was “beneath,” “unworthy,” “not good enough for him.” That was that.
When Alex and I married, I already felt her frost. She smiled stiffly, spoke with restraint. She pretended all was well, but even the simplest questions carried a sneer, a barb. Her words at our wedding—”At least the village girl will give us grandchildren”—stuck with me forever.
We chose to live on our own from the start. A modest rented flat, but our own space, our own freedom. I told my husband plainly, “I can’t live with your mother. I’d suffocate.” He understood. Even when she pressed—”Why waste money on rent? I’ve got a spare room, everything’s close!”—he stood firm. “Mum, we’ll manage.”
And that’s when she decided—it was all my doing. I’d turned her boy against his family. From then on, her contempt grew. She never said it outright, but her words, her glances, her sighs—all dripped with disdain. I bore it. For my husband. To keep the peace.
Then I fell pregnant. Alex and I had longed for it. We wanted children young, while we had the energy. But to her, it was just another flaw.
“How will you manage in a rented place with a baby? Just on Alex’s wages? You’ll drown!” she scoffed.
Again, we refused to move in. Yes, it was hard. But we never complained. I took remote work, my husband picked up extra shifts. We took nothing from anyone. We stood on our own.
When our first was born, she softened at first. Came round with toys, cooing over him. I nearly believed she’d changed. But when I fell pregnant again, the bitterness returned—raw and vicious.
“Have you lost your minds? A second child? Happy to pop them out but too good to work, is it? While my son slaves away? He never gets a moment’s peace! And there you sit, feet up!”
I held my tongue. But when she spat, “Get rid of it and earn your keep like a proper woman!”—my husband snapped. Not a quiet word, not evasion. A shout. Clear. Sharp.
“Mum, enough! This is our family, our choice! We ask nothing of you—don’t call if you can’t respect that!”
Silence. She vanished. Stopped visiting. Only rings him now, furtively. But behind my back, she paints me lazy, a burden, a country bumpkin who shirks work and leeches off her son.
It hurts. Not her words—I’m used to those. That she’s my husband’s mother. That she could be here, delighting in her grandchildren, helping, supporting. Instead, she twists everything into guilt. For what? For living as we choose?
Yes, I’m at home now. But “doing nothing”? Sleepless nights, tantrums, nappies, laundry, tears, kisses, fears. No holiday—just motherhood. I’m no freeloader. What we have, we share. Home, children, life. While he earns, I raise them. Later, when they’re older, I’ll return to work. I’ve skills. I’m no parasite.
Why can’t she see that? Why scorn, not pride?
We manage. We’re happy. We love each other. All I ask is to be left in peace. No jibes. No poison. Because we’re a family. And no one—not even a mother-in-law—has the right to tear down what we’ve built.
