Life in our quiet Yorkshire town became a waking nightmare the moment my daughter-in-law, Emily, announced her pregnancy. Our relationship had never been warm, but before, I endured her rudeness for the sake of family peace. Now, she’s crossed every line—shouting, hurling insults at me and my husband, while our son, William, stands silently, hiding behind her “condition.” Her cruelty gnaws at my soul, but William’s indifference cuts deeper.
My husband, Edward, and I knew from the start Emily was trouble. Crass, ill-mannered, she looked down on us with open disdain. Still, she once held back, toeing some invisible line. We’re not posh, but we’ve got standards—raised ours above her barbs. Everything shattered when she fell pregnant. Like a mask ripped away, she became unbearable, her venom unrestrained. She screams, calls us names, while William just shrugs: “She’s pregnant, be patient.” My anger chokes me, but he won’t hear it.
Take last year’s birthday. I’d spent hours cooking, laying out a proper spread. Emily took one bite of the trifle and slammed her fork down. “This is minging! Who serves this rubbish?” The room froze. Guests exchanged glances, my cheeks burned. I held my tongue, but inside, I boiled. William murmured something feeble, but she snapped, “What, I can’t say it’s vile? It is!” The others cleared their plates—only hers remained. Her words stung like a slap. William did nothing.
Their wedding was its own horror. Emily got hammered, babbled nonsense, then nearly throttled her cousin over some trivial row. Guests gaped as they were pulled apart. Her parents sat unfazed, like this was normal. That’s when I knew her cruelty wasn’t accidental—it was bred into her. Still, nothing prepared me for the pregnancy. Under the guise of “hormones,” she’s become a tyrant. Every word, every request sets her off. We’re just targets now.
When the scan revealed a boy, Edward and I brought a gift—a set of blue baby grows. We handed them over, smiling. Emily erupted. “Are you daft? That’s bad luck! You’re tempting fate!” She screeched, calling us superstitious morons. William stared at his shoes, silent. We left, humiliated. How could my son let his parents be treated this way?
Last week, our daughter, Charlotte, invited us all to a posh pub for her birthday. We dared hope for a nice evening. Emily wobbled in on towering heels—seven months gone. Gently, I said, “Love, maybe wear flats? It’s safer.” Hell broke loose. “You want me to fall, don’t you? Bet you’d love it if I lost the baby!” Her accusations were monstrous. Edward tried to defend me, but Emily shrieked, “Piss off, you daft old gits!” and stormed out. William chased her—no apology. The party was ruined. Guests whispered. We sat in shock.
I couldn’t shake it. If Charlotte—a mother of two—ever spoke to her in-laws like that, I’d die of shame. This isn’t just rudeness—it’s hatred. Three days later, William called. I refused the phone. Edward took it. Our son mumbled apologies but swore he wouldn’t make Emily say sorry—”she’s stressed.” His words gutted me. We raised three children: Charlotte, our pride; little George, kind and gentle; and William… Now he’s a stranger. Lets his wife stomp on us, humiliate us in public. It’s betrayal.
Edward and I won’t air our dirty laundry, though we could turn the family against her. But I won’t stoop to her level. My heart cracks—why won’t William defend us? Did we raise him weak, or has Emily hollowed him out? I don’t know how to live with a daughter-in-law who poisons every moment, or a son who lets her. Their child will be our grandkid, but I fear she’ll turn him against us. The thought strangles me, but I won’t yield. If William won’t stand up to her, I will—even if it tears us apart.
