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I Lost the Desire to Help My Mother-in-Law When I Discovered What She Had Done—But I Still Can’t Walk Away

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I’ve lost my desire to help my mother-in-law ever since I found out what she’d done. Yet I can’t simply abandon her.

I have two children, each by a different father. My first child is a daughter. Emily is now sixteen. Emilys dad pays child support and remains actively involved in her life. Although my first husband has remarried and has two more children with his second wife, he never forgets about our daughter.

My son, though, hasnt been as fortunate. Two years ago, my second husband fell seriously ill and, only three days after being admitted, he passed away in hospital. Even now, I find it hard to accept that hes really gone. Sometimes I imagine the door will open, hell walk in, smile at me, and wish me a good day. On those days, I find myself in tears from morning until night.

Through all this, I was very supportive of my former mother-in-law, Patricia. I knew it had hit her just as hard as me; after all, my husband was her only child. We stuck together, helping each other cope during such a dreadful time. Wed ring each other often and visit whenever we could. Conversation would always come back to my husband.

There was a time we even considered moving in together, but Patricia changed her mind. Somehow, seven years passed. Patricia and I always got along brilliantlyyou could say we were more like friends than family.

I recall when I first fell pregnant, Patricia mentioned a paternity test. I dont know what prompted her. It turned out shed watched some programme on telly about a man whod raised someone elses child, only to discover the truth years later. I told her straight away how ridiculous the idea was.

If a blokes got doubts about being the father, hell never be there for his child properlyjust a Sunday dad! I said.

Patricia replied that she firmly believed Id got pregnant by her son. Secretly, I suspected that, once the baby arrived, Patricia would insist on a testbut she said nothing more.

This summer, Patricia became very poorly and her health declined rapidly. I decided she ought to live closer to me. I got in touch with an estate agent and began looking for a flat for her to buy.

But then Patricia was admitted to hospital, and we needed her late husbands death certificate for the agent. She wasnt able to go herself, so I popped over to her flat and started looking through her papers.

Whilst searching for the certificate, I stumbled across an unexpected documenta DNA test. It turned out that, when my son was just two months old, Patricia had arranged for a paternity test that confirmed my late husband was indeed the father.

I was furious. So all these years, Patricia never really trusted me? I confronted her and told her exactly how I felt. Now she keeps apologising and says shes deeply sorry for her foolishness. But I just cant let it go. I feel utterly betrayedfor all those years, she kept it to herself!

It makes me not want to help Patricia any more. Yet, at the same time, I realise she has no one else left to care for her.

I dont want to deprive my son of his grandmother, so Ill continue to support Patricia. But that closeness and trust we once shared are gone for good…

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You Just Don’t Know What Happiness Is — Half a million? — Karen stared at the notification on her phone, reading it three times before the number sank in. — Did you take out a loan for half a million pounds? Dylan was sitting on the sofa, glued to his own smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing. Just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her plumbing’s leaking, the floorboards are warped, the wallpaper is mouldy… — Wait. — Karen sank onto the armchair, her legs refusing to hold her up. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without even telling me? Dylan finally looked up. His face showed genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something utterly obvious. — Karen, it’s Mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else can help her? — But you didn’t even discuss it with me? — Karen’s voice rose, but she couldn’t stop. — You didn’t ask what I thought or warn me at all? — You’d have just argued — Dylan shrugged. — Mum needed it right away. Four years. Four years enduring this woman: nightly calls to check what Dylan had eaten, surprise visits with criticism on cleanliness, family dinners with Karen seated at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill — Dylan kept his calm tone. — We’ll manage. We’ll pay it back quickly; it’s not a big sum. It’s just family. The tears came hot and furious. Karen wiped them away with the back of her hand, smudging mascara across her cheeks. — Family? Am I family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep among someone else’s clutter”? How on my birthday you and she went to choose her a new fridge? — That’s all trivial — Dylan dismissed. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at him — tall, soft features, dimples she once found charming. Now he just looked like a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the apron strings. — We’ll get through this — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen silently walked to the bedroom. Two large sports bags sat in the closet, the ones she brought when she first moved in. She pulled them out, dumped them on the bed, and started opening drawers. Dylan appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, the first bag packed to the brim. — What are you doing? Karen, this is silly. You can’t be serious. She didn’t answer. Carefully folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down her jewellery box — gifts from family and friends. Nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s up in Manchester! She zipped the second bag, checked her handbag — passport, bank card, keys to her mother’s flat, just in case. — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She gave him a long, silent look, then picked up her bags and walked out. … The next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, gripping the signed divorce application. Rain dotted the windows, grey clouds hung low, but inside, there was a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen sat bolt upright on her friend Lisa’s sofa, momentarily lost. — We have to talk — Dylan’s breathing was ragged, words scattered. — I get it now, I’ll change. Give me one chance. She let the call go. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You’re my whole world. By morning, forty-three messages had arrived. Each long, tearful, desperate — full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week later, he started appearing at her office. Karen left for lunch — there he was by the sandwich shop. Walked to the tube station after work — saw him across the road. — Just passing by — Dylan grinned when Karen demanded an explanation. — Wanted to see you. One evening, the doorbell rang at Lisa’s flat. Karen answered without checking — expecting the pizza delivery. Dylan stood outside, clutching red roses. — Just one chance — he whispered. — I won’t ask for more. Karen shut the door silently. He stood outside for two hours, until neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — as one adjusts to chronic pain. Not reading messages, blocking unknown numbers, not looking over her shoulder. Changed jobs to remote work, moved to a suburb where Dylan couldn’t just bump into her. The divorce went through after three months. Karen stepped out of the courthouse with the official paper in hand, crying at the steps — out of relief, not grief. The first months of freedom were scary in their emptiness. Karen had always checked every decision with someone — even when that someone did what they pleased anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she liked, regardless of whether Mrs Evans approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch things like that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — a dream Dylan called “a waste of money.” Began morning yoga, before sunrise, when the city was still quiet. Took a solo weekend trip to Brighton, wandered the lanes, sampling fudge and admiring the seaside. After half a year, the calls stopped. The messages too. Karen braced herself for a catch, then another month passed, and she realised she could finally relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency — bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at a company party — her colleague Marie dragged her along. — He’s our top programmer — Marie introduced the tall man in slim glasses. — Andrew, meet Karen from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, gentle. Smiled — easily, without posturing. — You’ve escaped karaoke too? — he nodded toward the stage, where finance was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Protecting my nerves — Karen grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, how odd life is. Andrew listened more than spoke, asking questions and waiting for her answers. Never lecturing, never telling her how to live. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded, then changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, picking a small, bright flat in the city centre with high windows facing a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Karen asked at the last viewing. — Should we see more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes, I really do. — Then let’s take it. Little things — having her opinion matter — meant far more than any flowery speeches. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, with the sky painted in pinks and golds. Took out a small box, opened it — inside shone a diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up beside you every day. If you can put up with my snoring and bad coffee. Karen laughed through her tears and nodded… …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was working late — urgent deadline, code bug. Karen cooked pasta, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang: sharp, persistent, demanding. She looked through the spyhole and recoiled. Dylan stood in the hallway — pale, eyes sunken, shirt crumpled. Two years, two years of silence — then he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered on the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dylan shouted. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook as he threw himself against it, trying to barge in. Karen pressed her back to the door, braced her feet. — Leave! — she screamed. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice turned shrill. — You were mine, you always will be! Two years I’ve been waiting for you to see sense! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s not over! — he shoved the door again, and she barely kept it closed. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! She glimpsed his face in the spyhole — twisted, obsessed. No longer the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — Dylan! One call — the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dylan froze. A few seconds of silence. Then he spun round and stormed toward the stairs. Down below, the front door crashed. Karen slid down against the wall, ears ringing. Only after half an hour did she stand and call Andrew. The police accepted the report next day. The officer — an older man with a moustache — wrote everything down, listened, nodded. — We’ll sort it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to Dylan, Karen never knew. But her ex never showed up again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …The wedding took place at a country restaurant in early June — just twenty friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives insisting on tradition. Karen stood opposite Andrew in her simple white dress, hands clasped in his. Through the window, birch trees whispered, the air smelled of blossoms and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — the officiant began. — I do — Karen replied before he finished, and laughter filled the room. Andrew slid a slim gold ring onto her finger — engraved inside were three words: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would now be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed pursuer. Just a man, who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead, awaited a life where her voice truly mattered…
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You Just Don’t Know What Happiness Is — Half a million? — Karen stared at the notification on her phone, reading it three times before the number sank in. — Did you take out a loan for half a million pounds? Dylan was sitting on the sofa, glued to his own smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing. Just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her plumbing’s leaking, the floorboards are warped, the wallpaper is mouldy… — Wait. — Karen sank onto the armchair, her legs refusing to hold her up. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without even telling me? Dylan finally looked up. His face showed genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something utterly obvious. — Karen, it’s Mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else can help her? — But you didn’t even discuss it with me? — Karen’s voice rose, but she couldn’t stop. — You didn’t ask what I thought or warn me at all? — You’d have just argued — Dylan shrugged. — Mum needed it right away. Four years. Four years enduring this woman: nightly calls to check what Dylan had eaten, surprise visits with criticism on cleanliness, family dinners with Karen seated at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill — Dylan kept his calm tone. — We’ll manage. We’ll pay it back quickly; it’s not a big sum. It’s just family. The tears came hot and furious. Karen wiped them away with the back of her hand, smudging mascara across her cheeks. — Family? Am I family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep among someone else’s clutter”? How on my birthday you and she went to choose her a new fridge? — That’s all trivial — Dylan dismissed. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at him — tall, soft features, dimples she once found charming. Now he just looked like a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the apron strings. — We’ll get through this — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen silently walked to the bedroom. Two large sports bags sat in the closet, the ones she brought when she first moved in. She pulled them out, dumped them on the bed, and started opening drawers. Dylan appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, the first bag packed to the brim. — What are you doing? Karen, this is silly. You can’t be serious. She didn’t answer. Carefully folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down her jewellery box — gifts from family and friends. Nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s up in Manchester! She zipped the second bag, checked her handbag — passport, bank card, keys to her mother’s flat, just in case. — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She gave him a long, silent look, then picked up her bags and walked out. … The next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, gripping the signed divorce application. Rain dotted the windows, grey clouds hung low, but inside, there was a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen sat bolt upright on her friend Lisa’s sofa, momentarily lost. — We have to talk — Dylan’s breathing was ragged, words scattered. — I get it now, I’ll change. Give me one chance. She let the call go. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You’re my whole world. By morning, forty-three messages had arrived. Each long, tearful, desperate — full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week later, he started appearing at her office. Karen left for lunch — there he was by the sandwich shop. Walked to the tube station after work — saw him across the road. — Just passing by — Dylan grinned when Karen demanded an explanation. — Wanted to see you. One evening, the doorbell rang at Lisa’s flat. Karen answered without checking — expecting the pizza delivery. Dylan stood outside, clutching red roses. — Just one chance — he whispered. — I won’t ask for more. Karen shut the door silently. He stood outside for two hours, until neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — as one adjusts to chronic pain. Not reading messages, blocking unknown numbers, not looking over her shoulder. Changed jobs to remote work, moved to a suburb where Dylan couldn’t just bump into her. The divorce went through after three months. Karen stepped out of the courthouse with the official paper in hand, crying at the steps — out of relief, not grief. The first months of freedom were scary in their emptiness. Karen had always checked every decision with someone — even when that someone did what they pleased anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she liked, regardless of whether Mrs Evans approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch things like that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — a dream Dylan called “a waste of money.” Began morning yoga, before sunrise, when the city was still quiet. Took a solo weekend trip to Brighton, wandered the lanes, sampling fudge and admiring the seaside. After half a year, the calls stopped. The messages too. Karen braced herself for a catch, then another month passed, and she realised she could finally relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency — bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at a company party — her colleague Marie dragged her along. — He’s our top programmer — Marie introduced the tall man in slim glasses. — Andrew, meet Karen from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, gentle. Smiled — easily, without posturing. — You’ve escaped karaoke too? — he nodded toward the stage, where finance was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Protecting my nerves — Karen grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, how odd life is. Andrew listened more than spoke, asking questions and waiting for her answers. Never lecturing, never telling her how to live. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded, then changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, picking a small, bright flat in the city centre with high windows facing a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Karen asked at the last viewing. — Should we see more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes, I really do. — Then let’s take it. Little things — having her opinion matter — meant far more than any flowery speeches. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, with the sky painted in pinks and golds. Took out a small box, opened it — inside shone a diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up beside you every day. If you can put up with my snoring and bad coffee. Karen laughed through her tears and nodded… …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was working late — urgent deadline, code bug. Karen cooked pasta, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang: sharp, persistent, demanding. She looked through the spyhole and recoiled. Dylan stood in the hallway — pale, eyes sunken, shirt crumpled. Two years, two years of silence — then he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered on the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dylan shouted. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook as he threw himself against it, trying to barge in. Karen pressed her back to the door, braced her feet. — Leave! — she screamed. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice turned shrill. — You were mine, you always will be! Two years I’ve been waiting for you to see sense! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s not over! — he shoved the door again, and she barely kept it closed. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! She glimpsed his face in the spyhole — twisted, obsessed. No longer the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — Dylan! One call — the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dylan froze. A few seconds of silence. Then he spun round and stormed toward the stairs. Down below, the front door crashed. Karen slid down against the wall, ears ringing. Only after half an hour did she stand and call Andrew. The police accepted the report next day. The officer — an older man with a moustache — wrote everything down, listened, nodded. — We’ll sort it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to Dylan, Karen never knew. But her ex never showed up again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …The wedding took place at a country restaurant in early June — just twenty friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives insisting on tradition. Karen stood opposite Andrew in her simple white dress, hands clasped in his. Through the window, birch trees whispered, the air smelled of blossoms and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — the officiant began. — I do — Karen replied before he finished, and laughter filled the room. Andrew slid a slim gold ring onto her finger — engraved inside were three words: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would now be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed pursuer. Just a man, who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead, awaited a life where her voice truly mattered…
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I Lost the Desire to Help My Mother-in-Law When I Discovered What She Had Done—But I Still Can’t Walk Away