One day, Tom came back from his mum’s, sighed, and casually suggested getting a paternity test for their two-year-old daughter—*Not for me, obviously! For Mum!*
*…For six months before our wedding, she kept telling her son: ‘Don’t marry her, she’s not right for you!’* says thirty-year-old Emily, her voice wobbling with frustration. *Too pretty—bound to run wild! We laughed it off, joked that Tom should’ve picked someone who looked like a garden gnome if he wanted *absolute* loyalty. But now? Not laughing anymore. Not one bit.*
Emily doesn’t consider herself some dazzling beauty. Just an ordinary girl from Surrey, keeps herself tidy like anyone else. Slim, well-groomed, dresses sensibly—has standards in relationships and self-respect. Why her mother-in-law, Margaret, decided Emily was a flighty temptress remains a mystery. But that woman has turned her daughter-in-law’s life into a Tesco car park on Black Friday.
Four years married, one toddler, and Emily’s days are a blur of nappies, mashed peas, and *Peppa Pig*. Her only social circle? The mums at the playground. Yet Margaret’s obsession persists. She treats Emily like a suspect in a bargain-bin detective drama, convinced she’s sneaking off with the postman.
*She was always spying!* Emily exhales, eyes misty. *Phoning to ‘check in’, popping round unannounced, tracking my every move like I’m on parole. At first, I brushed it off—told Tom, we had a chuckle. But it’s exhausting! I’ve snapped at her, proper rows. She’d simmer down briefly, then ramp it up again.*
The first blow-up happened months after the wedding. Margaret *stormed* Emily’s workplace—no call, no warning. Just *had* to verify: was her daughter-in-law *really* at her desk? Or off canoodling in a broom cupboard?
*How she got past security, I’ll never know!* Emily groans. *We’ve got keycards, receptionists—the lot. Nearly fainted when my colleague led her over: ‘Visitor for you.’ I said, ‘Margaret, what on earth are you doing here?’ She just chirps, ‘Thought I’d see where you work!’ and starts eyeballing the staff like she’s auditing for infidelity. Thank God I don’t have an office—she’d have dusted for fingerprints!*
Later, the receptionist, Sophie, whispered that Margaret had grilled her: *How long’s Emily worked here? Does she take long lunches? Any ‘special friends’?* *I told her you were married!* Sophie added, baffled. Emily erupted. That evening, she unloaded on Tom: *Your mother’s lost the plot! Sort her out—this isn’t normal! Next she’ll be swabbing my handbag for lipstick stains!*
Tom apparently had *words*. For a while, peace reigned. Margaret called only in the evenings, asking after the weather, dropping off dreadful fruitcake. Emily dared to hope the storm had passed. She was wrong.
The next incident struck when Emily was pregnant but still working. Home with flu, phone off, she was jolted awake by *banging*—like the house was being raided by HMRC. *I bolted up, half-expecting flames!* she recalls. *Peeked through the peephole—Margaret! Red-faced, kicking the door, jabbing the bell like it owes her money. I rang Tom: ‘Get home NOW, your mum’s lost it!’ He made it in 20 minutes. She *waited* there, glaring at the knob like it’d confess my sins.*
They tore into Margaret. Emily threatened the police *and* a psychiatric eval if it happened again. *Keep her away from me!* she demanded. Another lull followed.
Then the baby came—a girl. Margaret didn’t visit. The reason soon surfaced: she didn’t believe it was Tom’s. *Oh, of course—because I’m off shagging the entire football team,* Emily mutters darkly. The ‘logic’? Tom’s family only produces boys. A daughter, to Margaret, was *proof* of betrayal. *I tuned her out,* Emily says. *We don’t speak. Tom sees her monthly—alone. Frankly, I’d sooner leave our kid with a seagull.*
But the worst came later. Tom returned from his mum’s one day, fidgeted, then blurted: *Maybe we should do a DNA test. Not for me! For Mum. She’s doing my head in, Em—just want her off my back!*
Emily laughed, sharp as a knife. *For *her*?* she spat. *Don’t lie—you’ve swallowed her nonsense! She’ll *never* stop. We could test at three clinics, and she’d claim they’re bribed! I’m not playing her twisted game.*
*It’s just a test,* Tom pressed.
*Why?* Emily’s voice cracked. *I know who her father is. Do *you*? Fine. We’ll do it—right after the divorce papers. I won’t stay married to a man who doubts me.*
The silence hung like a guillotine. Trust between them is crumbling, all thanks to a woman whose paranoia could poison a river. Emily feels the ground giving way—and no idea how to pull them back from the edge.
