Future Mother-in-Law Ruins the Holiday: How My Fiancé’s Family Turned a Dream Trip to Thailand into a Comedy of Errors—and What I Learned About My Future Husband Before the Wedding

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 7 minViews 1

It was many years ago now, but I remember it as if it happened only yesterdayhow my future mother-in-law managed to turn what should have been a delightful holiday into something quite different.

Even before we set off, she waved her hand and confided, You must see, my deartravelling alone with my daughter is a touch worrisome. Two women, no knowledge of the languagea mishap could happen at any time. But with you and Max there, its far less troubling. Besides, well all be close by should anything happen. Little did I know just how close she meant.

Oh, how frustrating it all seemed at the time! Just months before, Max and I, along with his brother William and Williams wife Emily, spent many pleasant evenings plotting our grand escape to foreign shores. William and Emily were, truth be told, the perfect companionsthey shared our fondness for gentle adventure and quiet days. Wed already holidayed together twice the previous year, both times returning with sun-kissed faces and hearts full of gratitude for the easy company.

But on this occasion things began to unravel. It was never in my nature to blame Emily for falling ill at the most inopportune momentsuch things are beyond our control. Still, I had every right to feel crestfallen, dont you think?

William, too, was clearly disappointed that our plans were spoilt. Yet leaving his ailing wife behind for pleasure was unthinkable for a man of his morals. Nor did any of us expect such from him.

What chafed more than anything was the money lost on the travel bookingsno hope of recouping the full sum at that late hourand the general sense of plans laid to waste.

That very evening, Maxs and Williams mother, Mrs Edith Chapman, stopped by our little flat under the pretence of bringing her sons some homemade Bakewell tartsa surprise in itself, though not extraordinary, for Max and Mrs Chapman kept a close, affectionate bond. She was, on the whole, quite agreeable in companyalbeit with the quirks one expects from a proper English mother-in-law. Like many before her, Mrs Chapman would sometimes try to teach me the right way to manage the household, but I knew well enough that this is the custom in most English homes.

All things considered, I knew Id drawn a kinder lot than many of my friends, who spoke in hushed tones of their dragon-in-laws. Mrs Chapman made frequent visitsfour times a week, perhapsbut only once a fortnight or so did she feel the urge to instruct me seriously. Some of her advice even proved handy, and I never thought of her as a great villain.

So I welcomed her suggestion to join our little party on our rearranged trip. She would take her younger daughter, Alice, buy the tickets forfeited by William and Emily, and join Max and me on a fortnight in Spaina chance for her to warm her old bones and experience something new.

You must realise, she said, I feel quite apprehensive about travelling alone with Alice. Two women, not a word of Spanish between usanything could happen. But with you and Max, well, it puts my mind at ease. And well all be together if trouble comes. I agreed, not suspecting how truly together wed become.

If I had known, Id have thought twice before accepting the company of my future mother-in-law and sister-in-law. Yet maybe it was for the bestI had the chance to see the true nature of both my intended husband and his family before any nuptials or tedious legal arrangements bound us tighter.

When I told my friends of the new arrangement, they all questioned my sanityWho goes on a holiday with her future mother-in-law? they demanded over cups of tea. Youll have no restshell expect both you and Max to wait upon her hand and foot! And Since shes bringing Alice, youll probably be roped into entertaining the girl the whole time.

I pointed out that Alice, at nineteen, hardly needed a babysitter, and in everyday life she spoke to me little beyond pleasantries at table. It seemed unlikely that shed be desperate for my company on Spanish beaches.

As for Mrs Chapmancertainly, wed need to mind her comfort as a woman of a certain age, but whats a small inconvenience for two weeks? Afterwards, if it truly proved unbearable, I could politely decline any future invitations under some goodly excuse. One must at least try before turning something downso my mother always insisted.

My friends, of course, didnt know Mrs Chapman as I did; they compared her unfairly to their own formidable mothers-in-law. They used to say what luck Id had, and now, suddenly, they were urging me to drop out post-haste.

But how could I pull out when Mrs Chapman was positively gleeful at the prospect, and Max seemed delighted to be giving his mother such a treat abroad? I was caught, and the first sign of trouble came on the very flight.

Alice claimed the window seatnot a problem for me, as I travelled often for work and had ceased to find the view novel. Max had eyes only for the inflight films. I chose the aisle so I could make my way to the loo without disturbing anyone.

Across the aisle sat Mrs Chapman, visibly anxious as the plane juddered. When we hit a patch of rough air, she clutched her armrests and fought back tears.

Naturally, I couldnt refuse when she quietly asked to swap seats so she might sit next to her beloved Max. But once the turbulence was past, no one suggested returning things to their rightful places. Instead, Mrs Chapman watched Maxs movie with feigned interest, then dozed off on his shoulder.

Dont get bent out of shape, I told myself. Had you suffered such a fright, you wouldnt wish to move either. And it would be rude to wake a sleeping woman, after all.

Still, another voice whispered that she seemed to wake with uncanny precision the moment the trolleys began rolling with meals. And why, I thought, couldnt she have swapped places with Alice, who had long since closed the shade and was lost in her film like Max?

This family tableau grew only more irksome once we landed. Max, without so much as glancing at me, rushed to fetch his mothers bags, see her through customs, and find her a bottle of water.

For a brief span, it seemed as though I were invisible, the extra in a play where the leading lady was Mrs Chapman herself.

Darling, theres no need for this jealousy, Max chided gently. No one means to leave you out. Mothers simply never travelled abroad beforeyou saw how she gets with flights.

And though I bit back the retortThen why on earth did she join us?a part of me remembered my own upbringing, that one ought to respect elders, pity the nervous, and not just think of oneself. Max was only being a devoted son. I suffered nothing from his attentiveness; Id only had to carry my own bags.

Unbeknownst to me, though, these small grievances were only the prelude to larger difficulties.

For the very next evening, with much ceremony and scarcely a by-your-leave, Mrs Chapman turned up in our roombeginning the real adventure of our ill-fated holiday.

I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, Only for Her Father to Go Back to His Ex-Wife Ten Years. Ten years I raised this girl as if she were my own. I changed nappies when she was tiny. I took her to lessons every week. I helped with homework, taught her how to care for herself, hugged her through her first heartbreak. She called me “Mum”. Not “Dad’s wife”. Not “stepmother”. Mum. For her fifteenth birthday, I started planning months ahead. I hired a lovely venue, bought her a dress, arranged music and food for all the guests. I spent my savings, but I believed she was worth it. This was my child. Or so I thought. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother appeared. The woman who’d vanished for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly, she was standing in my home, upset, saying she wanted a fresh start. I should’ve sensed something was wrong. But I trusted her. On the day, I arrived early to check the last details. The venue was decorated and set up, everything perfect. As I made certain all was right, someone tapped my shoulder. They told me it was better if I left. That this was “a family moment”. That I didn’t belong there. I tried to explain that I raised this child. That I paid for everything. My words didn’t matter. The man I’d shared my life with just said it was “for the best.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just left. That evening, as I packed my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. There she was—in her party dress, tearful and exhausted. “I left,” she told me. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to say she should be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there.” I held her tight. She told me that at the party, when they thanked “the family”, she’d asked where I was. They told her I’d chosen not to come. She told the truth, in front of everyone. And she left. She stayed with me. We watched films until late, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. The next day, my phone rang nonstop. I didn’t answer. Months later it was over, officially. I started a new life. She moved on with her studies and chose to stay with me. She still keeps that dress hanging in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I ask myself: On that day, who really abandoned whom?

I Don’t Know How to Write This Without Sounding Like Cheap Drama, But This Is the Most Brazen Thing Anyone’s Ever Done to Me: I’ve Been Living With My Husband for Years, While the Second Key Player Is His Mother, Who’s Always Been Overly Involved in Our Marriage—Up Until Now, I Thought She Was Just Meddling “Out of Care,” but Turns Out That’s Far From the Truth. A Few Months Ago, He Convinced Me to Sign Papers for a House—He Told Me It Was Finally Something of Our Own, That Renting Was Nonsense and We’d Regret Not Doing It Now; I Was Overjoyed Because I’d Long Dreamt of Having a Home Instead of Living out of Suitcases and Boxes, So I Signed Without Question, Thinking It Was a Family Decision. The First Odd Sign Was When He Started Handling Institutions Alone, Saying It Was Easier, I’d Waste Time, and He’d Manage—He’d Come Home with Folders He Never Let Me See and Explained Things to Me Like I Was a Child; I Assumed Men Just Like to Control These Matters. Then Began the “Little” Money Games: Suddenly, the Bills Became Harder to Pay, Though His Salary Was the Same—He Pressured Me to Pay More Because “Right Now, We Have To,” and Promised It Would Be Fine Later. I Ended Up Paying for Groceries, Part of the Mortgage, Repairs, Furniture—Because, After All, We Were “Building Our Home.” Then, One Day While Cleaning, I Found a Folded Document in the Kitchen, Not a Regular Bill—It Was an Official Paper, Date-Stamped, Clearly Listing the Owner. It Wasn’t Me. It Wasn’t Him. It Was His Mother’s Name. I Stood There, Reading Over and Over, Unable to Process That I Was Paying, Taking Loans, Renovating, Buying Furniture—Yet His Mother Was the Sole Owner. The Overwhelming Feeling Wasn’t Jealousy—It Was Humiliation. When He Came Home, I Didn’t Make a Scene—Just Placed the Document on the Table and Looked at Him. I Didn’t Beg or Plead. I Was Simply Done Being Played. He Didn’t Look Surprised. He Didn’t Ask “What’s This?” He Merely Sighed, As If I Was the Problem Because I’d Discovered the Truth. Then Came His Most Brazen “Explanation” Yet—He Said, Calmly, That It Was “Safer” This Way, His Mother Was the “Guarantor,” and If Anything Ever Happened Between Us, the House Wouldn’t Be Split; He Explained It Like Shopping for a Washing Machine Instead of a Dryer. I Felt Like Laughing Out of Despair—This Wasn’t a Family Investment; This Was a Plan for Me to Pay and Leave With Nothing But the Clothes I Owned. The Worst Part Was Not Just the Document—It Was Realizing His Mother Knew Everything, Too; That Same Evening She Called, Lecturing Me As If I Were the Intruder, Saying She Was “Only Helping,” the Home Had To Be “In Safe Hands,” and That I Shouldn’t Take It Personally. Can You Imagine? I’m Paying, Sacrificing, Making Compromises, and She Talks of “Safe Hands.” After That, I Started Digging, Not Out of Curiosity, but Because Trust Was Gone. I Checked Bank Statements, Transfers, Dates—and Uncovered Something Dirtier: The Mortgage Wasn’t Just “Our Loan,” As He Claimed. There Was Another Debt, Paid From Money I Contributed, Including Payments Toward an Old Debt That Had Nothing To Do With Our Home—It Was His Mother’s. In Other Words, I Was Paying Not Only for a Home That Wasn’t Mine, but Also for Someone Else’s Old Debt, Dressed Up as a Family Need. That Was the Moment the Curtain Lifted—Suddenly, Past Situations Made Sense: Her Constant Interference, His Unwavering Defence of Her, My Role as the “Naïve One,” and How Decisions Were Always Just Between Them While I Simply Funded It All. The Most Painful Truth Was Realizing I’d Only Been Convenient—Not Cherished—The Woman Who Worked, Paid, and Didn’t Ask Too Many Questions for the Sake of Peace. But Peace in That House Was Clearly for Them, Not Me. I Didn’t Cry or Shout—Instead, I Sat in the Bedroom and Did the Maths: What I’d Given, What I’d Paid, What I Had Left; For the First Time, I Saw Just How Many Years of Hope Had Made Me Easy To Use, and Being Made a Fool with a Smile Hurt More Than Losing the Money. The Next Day, I Did the Unthinkable—Opened a Bank Account in My Name, Moved All My Income There, Changed Every Password and Locked Him Out; Stopped Funding Anything “For Us,” Because There Clearly Was No “Us.” Most Importantly, I Began Gathering My Documents and Evidence Since I No Longer Believe in Promises. Now We Live Under the Same Roof, But I’m Alone—No Begging, No Fighting, Just Looking at the Man Who Chose Me as His Cash Machine and at His Mother, Who Thinks She Owns My Life. I Wonder How Many Women Have Endured This, Whispering “Stay Quiet or It’ll Get Worse.” But Honestly—Is There Anything Worse Than Being Used With a Smile? ❓ If You Found Out You’d Spent Years Paying for a “Family Home” That Was in His Mother’s Name, Making You Just the Convenient One—Would You Leave Immediately, or Fight To Get Back Everything You’ve Put In?

“I Gave Birth to Your Son, But We Don’t Want Anything From You” – The Mistress’s Call That Changed Everything Her husband looked at Lera like a beaten dog. “Yes, you heard right. Lera, I had someone else half a year ago. Just a few meetings, honestly. A fling, nothing more. And she had my son. Just recently…” Lera’s head was spinning—what a revelation! Her loyal, loving husband had a child on the side! It took all Lera’s focus to process what her husband had just told her. Minutes passed as she tried to comprehend. Her husband sat opposite her, shoulders slumped, hands clasped between his knees. He seemed smaller than usual, as if all the air had been sucked out of him. “A son, then,” Lera repeated. “So, you, a married man, have a son. And it wasn’t your wife who gave birth. Not me…” “Lera, I swear, I didn’t know—not until she decided to keep him. We split up months ago, she went back to her husband. I thought it had all ended. But yesterday, I got a call: ‘You have a son. Seven pounds. Healthy.’ And she hung up.” Lera stood; her legs felt weak, as if she’d just finished a marathon. Autumn raged outside—the scene out the window was beautiful, she noticed. “So what now?” she asked without turning. “I don’t know,” her husband replied. “Great answer, for a real man. The head of the family. ‘I don’t know.’” She spun around sharply. “Are you going to see them? The baby?” A frightened Nick looked at her from under his brow, embarrassed. “She wrote down the hospital’s address and told me the date of discharge. She said: ‘Come if you want. If not, don’t bother. We don’t need anything from you.’ Proud woman… She said she wanted nothing.” “Noble. Nothing at all, eh?” Lera echoed, irony in her voice. The front door banged—the older kids were home. Instantly, Lera pasted on a professional smile—a survival skill honed in the business world. Their eldest poked his head into the kitchen, tall and broad-shouldered. “Hey, you two. Why the gloomy faces? Mum, is there anything to eat? We’re starving from training.” “Manty in the fridge, heat it up,” Lera called. “Dad, you promised to look at my old car’s carburettor,” piped up the younger son. Lera watched them, heart tightening painfully. They called him Dad. Their real father had vanished years before, leaving only limping cheques and the odd Christmas card. Nick had raised them—taught them to drive, patched up knees, handled school crises. He was their father, truly. Nick managed a weak smile. “I’ll take a look, later. Let me finish talking with your mom.” After the boys left, Lera said quietly, “They love you. And you—” “Stop, Lera. I love them too. They’re my lads. I’m not going anywhere.” “It was a stupid mistake. Just a bit of fun. There was nothing real.” “Yeah, just a bit of fun—leading to nappies and milk bottles!” Lera snapped. Suddenly, six-year-old Masha flew into the room, breaking Lera’s last defences. She leapt into her father’s lap. “Daddy! Why are you sad? Did mum tell you off?” He hugged her tight, burying his face in her blonde hair. Lera knew he would do anything for their daughter. His love was total, unconditional. “No, princess. We’re just discussing grown-up things. Go watch some cartoons—I’ll be there in a moment.” When Masha skipped out, silence filled the kitchen again. “You realise everything changes now?” Lera asked, as she sat. Nick shook his head. “I’m not leaving. I love you. The kids. I can’t live without you all—” “Those are just words, Nick. The fact is: you have a son out there. He’ll need a father. That woman—she says she needs nothing, for now. Give it a month—or a year. The child will need things. You’ll get a call: ‘Nick, he needs a winter coat. Nick, the doctor said—’ And you’ll go. Because you’re kind. And you’ll find the money.” She watched as he flinched. Nick’s business had collapsed; Lera’s income supported the whole family, even his credit cards were in her name. “And the money, Nick? Where will you get it?” “I’ll manage somehow,” he muttered. “How? Late-night Uber jobs? Or dipping into my purse to fund your love child’s upkeep? Can you picture the absurdity—me supporting our family, while you use my money to support your lover’s baby?” “She isn’t a lover!” “Babies tie people together stronger than marriage certificates, Nick. Are you going to the hospital?” Nick rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know, Lera. Honestly. Morally, I feel I should. The baby’s not to blame.” “Oh, I see—‘morally.’ And what about us? Your moral duty to Masha? The boys?” Lera’s voice quivered. “If you go, you’ll hold him—you’ll melt. I know you. First weekly visits, then weekends. You’ll lie to me—more time spent away. We’ll wait here, for you…” She stood at the sink, turning the tap on and off, trying to collect herself. “She’s eight years younger, Nick. Thirty-two. She gave you a son, your own flesh and blood. My sons aren’t even yours by blood, though you raised them. But that one—he shares your blood. Don’t you think that matters?” Nick snapped, standing up. “Enough! I said I’m staying in the family. But I’m not heartless. My child was born—I can’t turn away. I’m in the wrong—but don’t blackmail me!” Lera froze, fear gripping her. If she told him to go, he would. Proud—stupidly proud. He’d go, penniless, to that other woman—where he’d be welcomed as a hero. And then she’d lose him for good. But she didn’t want to lose him. Despite the pain, the burning humiliation—she still loved Nick. And their children loved him. “All right. Sit down,” she said, quietly. “No one’s making you go.” He sat, breathing hard. “Lera, forgive me. I’m so bloody stupid.” “You are. But you’re our idiot,” she replied softly. The evening passed in a haze. Lera helped Masha with her schoolwork, did her own work—but couldn’t stop imagining the other woman. Young, beautiful, victorious. “We don’t want anything,” she’d said—playing the noble card. It wrenched something deep in Nick—a man’s pride. Of course he’d want to rush over. That night, Nick tossed and turned, while Lera lay awake. She was forty-five. Still beautiful and successful—but not young anymore. Youth was always waiting on the horizon, somewhere else. *** Morning was worse—Lera was still in a state. The boys gobbled breakfast and left. Masha, for once, was fussy. “Daddy, plait my hair! Mum always does it lopsided!” Nick took the comb. His big hands, more at home with a steering wheel or hammer, deftly parted and plaited thin blonde hair with determined concentration, tongue poking out. Lera drank her coffee, watching. Here he was—her husband. Familiar, warm, entirely hers. But somewhere out there was another child, who had as much claim on him. How could this be? “Nick,” she said when Masha ran off to dress. “We have to decide. Now.” He set the hairbrush down. “I thought about it all night,” he said. “And?” “I won’t go to the hospital.” Lera’s stomach twisted, though she didn’t show it. “Why?” “Because if I go, I’ll give her hope. I’ll give myself hope. And the baby, too. I can’t be a dad to two families. I don’t want to lie to you, or take time from Masha and the lads. I made my choice eleven years ago. You’re my wife; this is my family.” “And the other boy?” She was surprised at herself for asking. “I’ll support him. Financially—through proper channels, maintenance, a bank account, whatever she needs. But not visits—no. He’ll grow up not knowing me, rather than waiting for me on Sundays. That’s fairer.” Lera turned her wedding ring. “Are you sure? Won’t you regret it later?” “Of course I will. I’ll wonder about him, worry. But if I go there—I’ll lose all of you. You couldn’t bear it, and I don’t want you to hate me. I know my explanation’s messy…” He got up, came behind her, and laid his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want another life. I have you, and the children. The rest—that’s the price for my mistakes. I’ll pay, but only with money. I can’t share my time, my care, my attention with that baby. Not now.” Lera covered his hand with hers. “Money, you say?” she half-smiled. “I’ll earn it. I’ll break myself to earn it. I won’t touch a penny of yours. This is my mess to clear up, Lera.” Lera felt a calm settle. Maybe he’d done wrong by her. But these were the words she needed: she wouldn’t share her husband—she didn’t care a jot about the feelings of “the other woman.” She got what she got—the consequences were hers. *** Nick never went to the hospital. For weeks after, the mistress bombarded his phone—angry, pleading, accusing him of not showing up. Nick made it clear: she could count on financial help, nothing more. After that, the mistress vanished. She never called again. And for Lera, that was all she wanted.

I Made the Decision to Stop Taking My Daughters—Aged 14 and 12—to Family Gatherings, After Years of Not Realising What Was Really Happening From a Young Age, My Girls Faced “Normal” Comments: “She eats too much.” “That outfit doesn’t suit her.” “She’s too old to dress like that.” “She should watch her weight, even as a child.” At First, I Dismissed It—“That’s Just How Our Family Is.” They’d Smile Politely, Stay Quiet, Bow Their Heads, while I Told Myself It Was Just Part of Family Traditions. Yes, There Was Laughter, Hugs, Photos… But Also Long Stares, Cousin Comparisons, Unnecessary Questions—“Jokes” That Left My Daughters Silent at the Dinner Table. As They Grew Older, the Comments Shifted: “Her body’s too developed.” “She’s far too skinny.” “No boy will ever fancy her.” “If she keeps eating like this, she’ll regret it one day.” Nobody Asked How They Really Felt. Nobody Realised That These Are Teenage Girls Who Listen—and Remember. Everything Changed When My Eldest Finally Said, “Dad… I Don’t Want to Go Anymore.” She Described How These Gatherings Made Her Feel: The Pressure, The Fake Smiles, The Hurt. My Younger Daughter Just Nodded Along Quietly. It Hit Me—They’d Felt This Way for Years. That’s When I Started Paying Real Attention. I Recalled Every Scene, Every Remark, Every Comparison. I Heard Other People’s Stories of Being Mocked “for Their Own Good” and Saw Just How Deeply It Hurts Confidence. My Wife and I Made a Choice: Our Daughters Wouldn’t Be Forced To Attend Places Where They Didn’t Feel Safe. If They Want to Go One Day—That’s Up to Them. If Not—Nothing Bad Will Happen. Their Peace Is More Important Than Family Tradition. Relatives Noticed. The Questions Started: “What’s Going On?” “Why Aren’t They Coming?” “You’re Overreacting.” “That’s the Way It’s Always Been.” “You Can’t Wrap Kids in Cotton Wool!” I Didn’t Explain. I Didn’t Argue. I Just Stopped Bringing Them—Sometimes Silence Says Everything. Now My Daughters Know Their Dad Won’t Put Them in the Path of Humiliation Dressed Up as “Opinion.” Some May Judge. Some May Call Us Difficult. But I’d Rather Be the Father Who Sets Boundaries, than One Who Looks Away While His Daughters Learn to Loathe Parts of Themselves—Simply to “Fit In.” ❓ Do You Think I Made the Right Choice? Would You Do the Same for Your Child?