The only thing Ive ever truly feared in my life is an irate mother-in-law. I rather lucked out in my first marriage: my initial husband was brought up in a care home, no parents in sight. Blissfully, there was never a word of reproach lobbed my wayat least not from a maternal figure. Sadly, things didnt pan out with Husband No.1. We were barely married five years before I filed for divorce.
To be brutally honest, I married him whilst still at university, probably more for convenience than sense. A year in, he discovered the joys of the bottle, accumulated debts faster than I could count, and lucky me I inherited all the liabilities as his wife. So I ditched my studies, rolled up my sleeves, and became a full-time debt-reduction operative.
Honestly, that first marriage brought me nowt but a mountain of bother. When it finally ended, I felt as though Id completed a triathlon backwards. For two years, I kept quietly to myself, piecing my life back together with Pritt Stick and determination. Then along came Oliver. Never been married, no serious entanglements, no ex-wives stashed in garden sheds a rare breed indeed. The romance spun itself into a whirlwind and before I knew it, hed proposed and Id agreed. Time arrived to meet his mother.
The moment she opened the front door, I was greeted by what I can only describe as a frosty glare worthy of a November morning in Blackpool. A perfunctory hello tossed in my direction, and she was off, sweeping from the hallway with the air of a duchess displeased by her butlers ironing.
I couldnt quite pin down my crime. Wrong outfit? Wrong face? Turns out, Id simply been myself. At dinner, she eyed me up and down like an avocado past its best-before date, silence thick enough to spread on toast. Just as my cheeks began to glow, she launched inswift and sharp:
So, you dont even have a degree? Completely clueless, are you? she inquired with all the warmth of a tax inspector. I paused, sipped my tea, and replied calmly, Ive got some university behind me, but life got in the way. I do actually plan to finish my studies. She huffed impressively.
Oh, so youre planning to finish, are you? And whens that? When are you going to become a proper wife? Whos going to raise Olivers children and keep his dinner warm and his shirts ironed? She let out a derisive chuckle, lifted her mug, and practically spat it back onto the table. My son doesnt need flaky girls like you, not at all.
She gave me the once-over as if shed spotted something nasty on her shoe. Look at yougood looks, a decent figure, but not a brain cell to rub together. In that moment, I was mortified. I excused myself to the loo, locked the door, and burst into tears over the sink. Utterly defeated by a complete stranger while my dear fiancé sat, sausage roll in hand, and listened in silence.
Thankfully, we didnt stay long after that. I never fancied popping round to hers again, but she insisted on frequent visits to ours, bringing a new insult along with every Victoria sponge. Oddly enough, it never occurred to me to ask a therapists opinion on it all. A few sessions in, the penny dropped; she was a seasoned manipulator, and Id been the perfect mark simply because Id never learned to dish it back.
So, the next time she rocked up spoiling for a row, I politely asked her to leave. We havent spoken since, and honestly, lifes been rather more peaceful. As for Oliver, hes not much bothered by it either. Turns out, harmony is easiest when the mother-in-law is at a safe distancepreferably across town.
