“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 sixty-year-old woman and a mother to an only son. I devoted my whole life to him, raising him alone after my husband left when little Mike was barely 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 kind, polite, a proper gentleman. I’m proud of him. But now it feels like he’s thrown it all away on a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me—she makes a point of showing her contempt. His wife. Emily.
From the very first moment, she struck me as… *too much*. Too loud. Too haughty. Too sharp. When Michael first brought her to meet me, something felt off—the way she looked at me, the way she carried herself. Those enormous dark eyes stared me down like a challenge, and her smile never quite reached polite. But I told myself—*Don’t be unfair, Margaret. Mike’s in love. You’ll try.*
We went to a café to get to know each other better. And that’s when I *really* knew—this wasn’t going to be easy. She snapped at the waiter, demanded a different pudding because it “wasn’t Instagram-worthy,” as she put it. Spoke through gritted teeth, as if the world owed her a favour. And her outfit—a minidress that left nothing to the imagination, neckline plunging to her waist. Was this really how one dressed to meet their future mother-in-law? I bit my tongue so hard I nearly drew blood.
I blamed nerves. First impressions and all that. But no—it only got worse. After the wedding, Mike barely called. I didn’t want to intrude, but I missed him. After a month of silence, I caved and phoned. Ice. Absolute ice. Another time, when *he* rang *me*, I clearly heard Emily in the background: *”Hang up. You’ve talked to her long enough.”* Not a whisper—bold as brass.
I didn’t want to make a scene, but eventually, I asked Mike—*What’s going on?* He sighed and explained. Apparently, Emily had a rough past—a bad breakup, a pregnancy, betrayal. She lost the baby. Saw therapists, worked through it. He swears she’s fine now, just a bit sensitive. But I know better. This isn’t sensitivity. It’s spite. Naked, biting spite.
Days later, *she* called *me*. Screaming. Accusing me of everything under the sun. Said I was turning her husband against her, meddling in their marriage, ruining their lives. *Me?* The woman who scraped by to raise him alone—now I’m the villain?
Michael, ever the diplomat, didn’t defend me. Just repeated his usual line: *”Mum, I’m a grown man. I’ve got my own family now.”* And what am I? Nothing? Does the woman who carried him, fed him, held him when he cried no longer even deserve a hello?
They live in *her* flat. Three bedrooms, freshly done up. Emily never lets him forget she paid for it. Fine, property’s a powerful thing. But is square footage worth cutting a son off from his mother?
I don’t ask for anything. No money, no uninvited visits. I just wanted to stay in his life. To hear how he’s doing, pop round for tea, hug him. Is that so wrong?
Sometimes I wonder if Emily’s jealous. Not of Michael—of *me*. Of my influence. Though what influence? All that’s left are memories. He talks to her in every tone under the sun, but with me—formal, distant. As if I’m a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he’ll wake up one day, realise he can’t just erase his mother because his wife said so. Hope their marriage lasts, that they’ll see loving a parent isn’t betraying a spouse.
I did my part. Raised him, loved him, let him go. And now? Now I wait. For him to remember. To call. To hug me. Not out of duty. Just because he wants to.
