I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—and Now I Regret It…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 2

Managed to get my son divorced, and now I regret it

My daughter-in-law dropped my granddaughter off for the weekend again yesterday moaned my neighbour, Margaret, as we passed each other on the stairs. I just cant get the child to eat properly! Mummy says princesses dont eat a lot! she pipes up, has two spoonfuls, and thats it! Shes practically see-through from under-eating, shes so pale she glows!

Margaret never took to Emily, her son Daniels wife, from the moment she first met her. The main reason: Emily was seven years older than Daniel, who was barely out of school.

Hed never even been with a woman before her! Margaret lamented to me. No wonder he fell under her spell! She lured him in with her experience, and look whats come of it!

Emily really was striking always well turned-out, paid careful attention to her figure, impeccably dressed, and full of ambition. I could see why Margarets son fell for her: men are infamously visual creatures, and Emily certainly stood out in the best way.

Emily was health-conscious, followed a sensible diet, and naturally taught her own daughter the same: eat just enough, dont overindulge, take care of your health and appearance.

Not long after they started seeing each other, Emily became pregnant. Whether it was a bit of rebellion after Margarets endless attempts to sabotage their relationship, or simply fate is anyones guess. Either way, Daniel was determined to marry Emily, even though hed just turned 18 and she was already 25.

After finishing school, Daniel enrolled in college, balancing his studies with work because they set up home on their own, renting a flat at first before finally buying a tiny studio.

Though they were happy starting out together, Daniels mother never gave up. She always found a flaw in Emily the cooking, the ironing, the way she dressed their child. According to Margaret, there was hardly a redeeming feature in the poor woman only endless faults. She wore Emily down and made endless complaints to Daniel, always criticising.

In the end, Emily kept her interactions with her mother-in-law to a minimum, taking sole charge of all responsibilities nursery runs, gymnastics, chess club. She seemed always to be dashing from work to the nursery, and then off to various clubs, barely having time to breathe. Shed squeeze in her own trips to the gym, for a manicure, to the hairdresser, and so on. She was rarely home as much as she would have liked.

Daniel would come home to an empty flat: his daughter at activities, his wife either waiting for her somewhere, or off at one of her own appointments.

One evening, their neighbour, Sarah a 38-year-old widow with two teenage kids knocked on Daniels door. The tap in the shared kitchen of their block had given up the ghost and started leaking, and she asked if he could help fix it to prevent a flood downstairs.

Daniel was handy, so he quickly sorted the leak, rummaging about for tools as Sarah made dinner spaghetti and homemade beef patties. As a thank you, she offered Daniel a plate, which he gladly accepted, since Emily hadnt made meat patties in ages; recently, shed had no time for any proper cooking.

After that day, Sarah often invited Daniel for dinner when neither his wife nor daughter were around. They passed pleasant evenings in the communal kitchen, chatting over homemade dumplings and apple pie. Before long, a spark ignited. They hadnt planned it, but their friendship became so close that they couldnt imagine life without these cosy evenings together.

Of course, life in a block of flats doesnt stay private for long. News travels fast. Eventually, someone told Emily that her husbands visits to the neighbour were not about borrowing books.

The fallout was spectacular the whole floor of the building was caught up in the commotion. Emily, being a proud woman, packed Daniels things in a flash and tossed them out into the corridor.

It was late to go home to his parents; there was nowhere really to go, apart from Sarahs, who welcomed him readily.

At that time, Daniel and Emilys daughter was 6, Daniel was 25, Emily was 32, and Sarah was 39.

Margaret, upon finding out her son had finally left Emily, was triumphant victory at last! But when she learnt that Daniel had gone straight to a woman with two teenagers, a full fourteen years his senior, she fell strangely silent.

It puzzled me, as for years Margaret had tormented Emily just for being a little older than Daniel; now, when the new partner was even older, there was not a word of complaint. Maybe it was an admission of defeat?

The end of Daniel and Emilys marriage happened years ago almost 15 now. Daniel has spent all that time with Sarah. They never had children together, but they live in perfect harmony, and their age difference has never bothered them: hes 40 now, and shes 54. Margaret welcomes both into her home, no complaints, everything peaceful and calm. Its a proper idyll. And I see that Daniel is truly content, at last.

I cant help but wonder: does age really matter for happiness, if the woman is older?

When My Mother-in-Law Declared, “I’m in Charge Here,” I Was Already Holding a Small Blue Envelope She never raised her voice. Women like her don’t shout—they simply raise an eyebrow. The first time she did it was the very day we moved into our “new” home—a home I’d decorated down to the last detail, where I chose the curtains and every mug had its place. She marched in like an inspector, surveyed the living room, the kitchen, and then me. “Mmm… it’s very… modern,” she said. “I’m glad you like it,” I replied calmly. She didn’t answer me directly. Instead, she leaned towards my husband and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “Son, I just hope it’s at least clean.” He smiled awkwardly. I smiled for real. The problem with mothers-in-law like her isn’t that they attack; they claim territory. Like cats—with pearls around their necks. And when a woman starts marking her ground, you have two choices: stand your ground immediately or eventually become a guest in your own life. Over time, she started coming more often—”Just dropping something off,” “Only five minutes,” or “Let me show you how to make a proper roast.” Those five minutes became dinners, then comments, then rules. One morning, I found her rearranging my cupboards. Mine. When I caught her, I calmly leaned on the counter. “What are you doing?” I asked. Without a hint of guilt she replied, “Helping. This just makes more sense. You don’t seem to understand organisation,” and smiled like a woman who had already placed her crown. That’s when I realised: this wasn’t help. This was conquest. And my husband? He was one of those who believed, “Women will sort it out.” He saw “little domestic issues.” I saw something else: a quiet campaign to edge me out. The tipping point came on my husband’s birthday. I’d prepared a dinner—elegant, homely, understated. Candles. Glasses. Music. Everything just as he loved. She arrived early. And not alone. She brought a “friend”—a distant relative—who immediately sat in the lounge as the audience. I knew what was coming. When a mother-in-law brings a witness, it’s a show. The meal went smoothly—until she raised her glass for a toast. “I have something important to say,” she began, in that verdict-announcing voice. “Tonight, we celebrate my son, and one thing needs to be clear: this house…” She paused. “…is a family home. Not one woman’s.” My husband froze. The relative smiled slyly. I didn’t move. She continued, boldly: “I have a key. I come when I need to. When he needs me. And a wife…” She glanced at me like an unfamiliar piece of furniture, “…should remember her place.” And then came the line that gave her away altogether: “I make the decisions here.” The rooms’ silence was taut as a wire. Everyone waited for me to be humiliated. Most women would cry. Argue. Break. But I just straightened my napkin—and smiled. The week before, I’d visited someone. Not a solicitor, not a notary, but an elderly former neighbour who knew much more than she ever said. She’d invited me for tea and got right to the point: “She’s always wanted control. Even when it wasn’t hers to take. But there’s something you don’t know…” She pulled out a little blue envelope—plain, unmarked. She handed it to me as if it were the key to the whole truth. Inside was a postal receipt—a copy—for a letter sent long ago to my husband’s address, but… retrieved by his mother. The letter was about the house. He’d never seen it. The neighbour whispered, “She opened it. Alone. Not in front of him.” I took that blue envelope without emotion—but my mind flashed cold with understanding. The birthday dinner continued with her toast and satisfaction. And then—just when she expected everyone to nod along—I stood up. Not quickly, not dramatically. I simply stood. Looked at her calmly and said, “Fantastic. Since you’re deciding… let’s settle something tonight, too.” She smiled, ready to crush me: “Finally, you understand.” But I turned to my husband. “Darling… did you know who took a letter addressed to you?” His eyebrows shot up. “What letter…?” That’s when I pulled out the small blue envelope from my bag and placed it on the table, right in front of my mother-in-law. Just like a judge presenting the evidence. Her eyes narrowed. The relative was agape. I said, clearly, firmly, in a voice that allowed no argument, “While you were deciding for us… I found the truth.” She tried to laugh it off: “What nonsense…” But I’d started. I explained to my husband—how the letter was meant for him, how she’d taken it, how she’d hidden house-related information. He picked up the envelope with shaking hands, looking at his mother like he was seeing her true face for the first time. “Mum…why?” he whispered. She tried to turn it into “care”: “Because you’re naive! Women…” I cut her off with the sharpest weapon: silence. I let her words land like mud on her own dress. Then I delivered the finishing line: “While you were telling me my place… I reclaimed my home.” No yelling. Just a symbol. I took her coat from the rack, handed it over with a smile and said, “From now on… when you visit, you’ll ring the bell. And you’ll wait to be invited in.” She looked at me like a woman losing her power. “You can’t…” “I can,” I interrupted gently. “Because you’re not above me anymore.” My heels echoed on the floor like a full-stop to the sentence. I opened the door. I saw her out—not as an enemy, but as someone ending a chapter. She left. The relative followed. My husband stayed—shocked, but awakened. He looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry…I didn’t see it.” I looked back calmly: “Now you do.” And then I locked the door. Not hard—just final. The last thought in my head was crystal clear: “My home is not a battlefield for someone else’s power.” ❓And you—if your mother-in-law tried to run your life—would you stop her right away, or only after she’d already pushed you aside?

030

The Fool Everyone thought Anna was a fool. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years, with two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband cheated almost openly—starting with the waitress on their second day of marriage and more flings than anyone could count. Friends tried to open Anna’s eyes, but she just smiled sweetly and kept quiet. Anna worked as an accountant at a children’s toy factory for a tiny salary, buried under work, often even on weekends. Quarterly and annual reports meant she’d sometimes not come home at night. Her husband earned plenty, but as a homemaker Anna was also hopeless. However much money she got, there was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she’d manage was borscht or meatballs with pasta. That’s how things were. Everyone wondered when they saw Derek with a new girlfriend. He’d often come home stone-cold sober, too. “Oh Anna’s such a fool, why does she put up with that womanizer?” they’d mutter. On the day Sam turned ten, Derek came home and told Anna he wanted a divorce—he claimed he’d fallen in love and the family no longer suited him. “Anna, don’t take it badly, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re as cold as a fish. If you were at least a good cook, but even that you’ve not mastered.” “All right, I agree to the divorce.” Derek nearly fell off his chair. He expected scandal, tears, and hysterics—not this calm. “Fine, then start packing your things, I won’t get in your way. Leave your key under the mat tomorrow.” Anna smiled at him a little too pleasantly. Derek thought it all a bit strange, but shrugged it off, picturing his new happy life without kids and a boring wife. Next day, he came home with his new flame. Looked under the mat—no key, which slightly soured his mood. “Oh well, I’ll just change the locks—easy,” he thought, but when he tried his own key, it no longer worked. He rang the bell, and a burly man in slippers and a dressing gown opened the door. “What d’you want, mate?” “This is my flat,” Derek blurted out. “Well, I’d argue with that. Got documents? If so, let’s see them.” Of course, Derek didn’t have any documents on him and wasn’t let in. Suddenly he remembered—his passport should have his residency listed! He hunted for it and finally found it. “Here’s my passport, the address is in there.” The man flicked through the passport, smirked, and handed it back. “When’s the last time you opened this little book?” Feeling uneasy, Derek checked the registration page. Two stamps. One for moving in, another one, dated two years ago, for moving out. How could this have happened? He didn’t dare argue with the giant and called Anna, but she was out of reach. He waited outside her work, only to learn Anna hadn’t worked there for a year. The daughter was studying abroad, but Sam should be at school. Even there, disappointment—Sam had transferred last year and, as Derek obviously didn’t know this, no one would tell him where. Completely defeated, Derek sat on a bench, his head in his hands. How could the quiet, mousey Anna pull this off? And how did she sell the flat? Oh well, he’d sort it in court. At the divorce hearing, Derek was ready to expose the fraud and get everything back. And in court, everything finally came out. Two years earlier, distracted by his affair with the stunner Elise, he’d signed a power of attorney over to Anna for paperwork their daughter needed for university, on a solicitor’s advice. So, by his own hand, Derek had stripped himself of everything. Now he was alone, out on the street, and to make matters worse, when Elise heard he’d lost the flat, she vanished without a trace. “Well, at least she’ll have to sue me for child support—that’s one thing I can deny her,” Derek thought. But instead of a maintenance claim, he received a summons for a paternity dispute. Turns out both children were fathered by another man. Anna had seen her husband’s first betrayal, with the waitress, on their wedding day. Something inside her snapped. She didn’t quite know what drove her, but she chose an unusual path: revenge through infidelity, stashing away the money Derek gave her, and seeing that the children were always well fed and cared for at their grandmother’s. Anna’s mother warned her: “Revenge will destroy you and ruin the children’s lives.” But Anna was determined. She even got DNA tests done—though she already knew the truth about the children’s father. That blow hit Derek harder than losing the flat. Beware the women you’ve wronged—there’s nothing so formidable as a woman scorned.