“My daughter-in-law doesn’t even hide her hatred for me” – she called me and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage with Michael.
I’m Margaret Collins, an ordinary woman in my sixties, mother to an only son. I dedicated my life to him, raised him alone after my husband left when Michael was just two. I worked as a nurse at the local clinic, pulling night shifts so my boy would have everything—clean shirts, schoolbooks, a hot meal on the table.
He grew up to be a good man, kind and well-mannered. I’ve always been proud of him. But now I fear he’s thrown it all away for a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me—she openly shows her contempt. His wife is Emily.
From the very first moment, she struck me as… too much. Too loud, too arrogant, too sharp. When Michael first brought her to meet me, I felt uneasy—something in her gaze, in the way she carried herself. Her big, dark eyes challenged me, her face devoid of even a hint of politeness. But I told myself—this is just prejudice. Michael’s in love, so I should at least try to be civil.
We went to a café to get to know each other, and that’s when I knew—she was trouble. She scolded the waiter without hesitation, sent back dessert because it wasn’t “Instagram-worthy,” as she put it. Spoke through her teeth as if everyone around her were hired help. And the way she dressed… a minidress showing everything possible, neckline nearly down to her waist. To meet her future mother-in-law. I had to bite my tongue to keep from pulling Michael aside.
I dismissed it as nerves, first-meeting jitters. But no—it only got worse. After the wedding, Michael rarely called. I tried not to be clingy, but I missed him. After a month, I caved and rang him myself. The tone was icy. Another time, when he did call, I clearly heard Emily in the background: “Hang up, we’ve talked long enough.” Not a whisper—she said it loud, deliberate.
I didn’t want to cause a scene, but one day I asked Michael—what was going on? He sighed and explained. Apparently, Emily had a difficult past. A bad relationship in her youth, a pregnancy, betrayal… She lost the baby. Saw therapists, got help. He insists she’s fine now, just a bit paranoid. But I know—this isn’t paranoia. It’s hostility. Open, bitter hatred.
A few days later, Emily called me herself. Screaming. Accusing me of everything under the sun. Said I was poisoning Michael against her, meddling in their marriage, ruining their lives. I was stunned. Me? The woman who spent her life raising her son alone—now I’m the villain?
Michael, as always, didn’t defend me. Said nothing. Just repeated his usual line: “Mum, I’m an adult, I have my own family now.” And what am I? Nothing? The woman who birthed and raised him has no right to even a simple conversation?
They live in her flat—three bedrooms, freshly done up. Emily boasted she bought it herself. I get it—property is leverage. But are square metres worth cutting a son off from his mother?
I don’t ask for anything. No money, no visits. I just wanted to stay part of his life. Hear how he is, visit now and then, hug him. Is that a crime?
Sometimes I think Emily’s jealous. Not of Michael—no. Of my influence. Though what influence? All that’s left are memories. He speaks to her in every tone, but with me—it’s formal, distant. Like I’m a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he’ll see the truth, realise you don’t erase your mother just because your wife demands it. Hope their marriage stays strong, that they learn love for a mother isn’t betrayal of a wife.
I’ve done my part. Raised him, set him free. Now I wait. That he’ll remember. Call. Hold me. Not because he must—but because he wants to.
