“My daughter-in-law doesn’t even bother hiding how much she despises me,” she called me and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage with Michael.
I’m Margaret Elizabeth, just an ordinary woman in my sixties, a mother to my only son. I devoted my whole life to him, raised him alone after my husband walked out when Michael was barely two. Worked as a nurse in a clinic, pulling night shifts just to make sure he had everything—clean shirts for school, fresh notebooks, a hot meal on the table every evening.
He grew up to be a good man, kind and well-mannered. I’m proud of him. But now, it feels like he’s thrown it all away for a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me—she doesn’t even hide her hatred. His wife—Victoria.
From the first moment, she struck me as… too much. Too loud, too arrogant, too sharp. When Michael first brought her over to meet me, something felt off—the way she looked at me, the way she carried herself. Her big, dark eyes had this challenge in them, and her face showed not a hint of warmth. But I told myself—maybe I’m being unfair. Michael’s in love, so I should at least try.
We went to a café to get to know each other, and right then, I knew—this was going to be difficult. She snapped at the waiter, demanded her dessert be replaced because it “wasn’t Instagram-worthy,” as she put it. Spoke through gritted teeth like everyone around her was beneath her. And the way she was dressed—a tiny jumpsuit that left little to the imagination, cleavage down to her waist. To meet her future mother-in-law. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from pulling Michael aside.
I chalked it up to nerves, first-meeting jitters. But no—it only got worse. After the wedding, Michael stopped calling as often. I tried not to push, but I missed him. After a month, I caved and rang him myself. Coldness on the other end. Another time, when he did call me, I clearly heard Victoria in the background: “Hang up, you’ve talked to her long enough.” Not a whisper—loud, deliberate.
I didn’t want to make a scene, but eventually, I asked him—what’s going on? He sighed and explained. Turns out, Victoria has “baggage.” Some messy past, a failed relationship, a pregnancy that ended badly… therapy, breakdowns. He swears she’s fine now, just a little sensitive. But I know—this isn’t sensitivity. It’s hostility. Blatant, angry.
Days after that chat, Victoria called me herself. Screaming. Accused me of everything under the sun—turning Michael against her, sabotaging their marriage, meddling. I was stunned. Me? The woman who gave everything for her son, raised him single-handedly—now I’m the villain?
Michael, as usual, stayed quiet. Didn’t defend me. Just repeated the same old line: “Mum, I’m a grown man, I have my own family now.” And what am I? Nothing? The woman who brought him into this world—do I not even get a phone call?
They live in her flat—three bedrooms, freshly done up. Victoria boasted she bought it herself, no help. I get it—property’s a big deal. But does square footage mean tearing a son from his mother?
I’m not asking for anything. No money, no drop-ins. Just to still matter. To hear how he’s doing, visit now and then, hug him. Is that a crime?
Sometimes I think Victoria’s jealous. Not of Michael—no. Of my influence. Though what influence? All I have left are memories. He talks to her with his whole heart, but with me—polite, distant. Like I’m a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he’ll see the truth—that cutting your mother out because your wife demands it isn’t right. Hope they have a strong marriage, that they realise loving your mum doesn’t mean betraying your wife.
I’ve done my part. Raised him, stood by him, let him go. And now… I wait. For him to remember. To call. To hug me. Not because he has to. Because he wants to.
