“She’ll never accept him as a son-in-law—never!”—how Grandma’s ruining my marriage.
Right from the start, she took a dislike to him. Won’t even say his name—just calls him “that one” or “your bloke.” I’ve begged her a hundred times to stay out of our relationship, but Grandma’s got her own way of seeing things. “If he were decent, he’d have married you by now. You’ve got a child together, and still no ring!”—that’s all she ever says. Zero respect for him, sighs 26-year-old Emily from Manchester.
She and Ryan have been together for over two years. Started off casually dating, then when Emily got pregnant, they moved in. Ryan didn’t run off—quite the opposite, he proposed. But of course, life got messy: first, she was put on bed rest, then he hit rough patches at work. A wedding was the last thing on their minds.
They were living at Emily’s grandma’s—a three-bed flat in a concrete high-rise on the south side of the river. The flat was hers, but Emily and her mum had been registered there since forever. Recently, Ryan was added to the paperwork. When their little girl arrived, space got tighter, but love kept them going.
They never made it to the registry office. First, health got in the way, then daily stress. But Ryan always said, “I want you to have the proper day. The dress, the rings—just like you’ve dreamed.” He wanted to save up for a real wedding, not just sign some papers.
That’s when Grandma—Margaret Anne—dug her heels in. Her stance was brutal: no ring, no husband. Even though Ryan never walked away from Emily or their daughter, Grandma called him a “wastrel.” Said if he really wanted to, he’d have done it by now. To her, formalities meant everything.
When Ryan lost his job, Grandma never let up. Called him lazy, a freeloader, “a boy with no backbone.” It got so bad he’d take any work just to stay out of the house—gruelling shifts, barely minimum wage, all while hunting for something better.
Emily’s mum’s more laid-back, stays out of their business, but even she admits Margaret Anne’s gone too far. She meddles, dictates, nitpicks. As if the young couple didn’t have enough on their plate.
Emily’s mate’s been telling her to move out for ages—even offered her spare room. But Ryan’s pay’s unpredictable, and rent would swallow half their income. They could scrape by on bills, but what’s left to live on?
“We’re hanging in there,” Emily murmurs. “Kept thinking things would settle. Then this happened. He went out with his mates one night, promised he’d be back by eleven. Midnight—no sign. One AM—still gone. I rang him frantic; Grandma watched it all. He rolled in at dawn, pissed. Apologies, excuses. And Grandma? She snapped. Screamed at him, threw him out. Said, ‘My house, my rules! Show your face again, I’ll call the police!'”
Since then, Ryan’s been crashing at a mate’s. Calls Emily daily, misses his little girl. Swears he’s figuring it out—promises to find a place, move them in. But it’s all talk. No cash, no real plan.
Now Emily’s torn: love on one side, a roof over her head on the other. Grandma won’t budge. Her house, her way—no negotiation.
But does she get to wreck a family just ’cause it doesn’t fit her mould? Since when does a piece of paper measure love or responsibility? Is formality worth robbing a child of her dad, a woman of her partner?
Emily’s stuck. No good options. No savings. Just hope in Ryan—and his promises aren’t enough.
So she sits nights in their half-empty room, staring at the space where his backpack used to be, wondering: “Maybe he’s not the one? Maybe Grandma’s right?”
Or maybe someone cared more about being right than about the love they tore apart.
