“My daughter-in-law doesn’t need anyone—not even her own child!” — the story of a woman who doesn’t understand family.
After my son’s wedding, I’d hoped our family would find happiness. But from day one, it was clear—this woman, Emily, was not someone I could ever accept. It wasn’t jealousy, as some might assume. I’d long made peace with my son growing up, marrying, and having another woman take the central role in his life. I would’ve welcomed her, supported her—if only she’d given me reason to. But the more I saw, the more I realized: she didn’t love anyone. Not me. Not my son. And worst of all, not even her own child.
Emily always put herself first—her wants, her needs—with no regard for anyone else. I noticed it before the wedding but foolishly believed motherhood might soften her. It didn’t. She stayed as cold as ever. My son? Just a convenience, a temporary helper, useful only when it suited her.
They rarely visited. Family gatherings were always at my house, the only time Emily bothered to show—dressed impeccably, manicured, hair done, in designer outfits. And fine, if that was all. But my son… God, my son looked haggard. Exhausted. Lost. Not like a happily married man—like a prisoner struggling to survive.
“Oh, Emily, you’re not looking after your husband at all,” my sister murmured carefully over dinner once.
Emily just smirked.
“I wasn’t hired to mother him. He can look after himself.”
I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to ruin the evening for my son. But the thought burned in my mind: *Does she even care how he looks? As long as her lashes are curled and her nails shine, nothing else matters.*
Time passed. Then one evening, my son called, voice rough and weak.
“Mum, can I come stay with you? Just for a bit…”
He arrived an hour later, pale, feverish, barely standing. My heart nearly stopped. Needed injections twice a day—strict schedule. And Emily? She shrugged.
“I’m not setting alarms for that. If his mum’s so worried, *she* can deal with it.”
So he came to me. *That’s* his wife. No care. No concern. I thought, *Surely now he’ll leave her.* But no. Months later, they decided… to have a child.
My grandson was born. But love? I never saw it. Emily performed motherly duties like a checklist—feed, change, sleep. No kisses. No warmth. A machine, not a mum. Once, they planned a holiday. Emily refused to bring the baby—”He’ll just ruin it”—suggested dumping him on a friend. Couldn’t leave him with me or her husband’s parents—we had jobs. My son refused. So she went alone.
He stayed. Cooked, bathed, walked the pram—all of it. For the first time, he considered divorce. But hope lingered. *Maybe she’ll change.* She didn’t. They’re still together, though more fights send him to my spare room, clinging to scraps of peace.
Emily lives like she’s alone. No one matters to her. A husband? A flatmate. A child? An inconvenience. I don’t understand. Why marry if you don’t want a family? Why have a child if you don’t want *him*? Just to tick a box?
My son suffers. I see it. But he still hopes. And I still wait—for the day he finally realizes *she will never change.* Only then will his real life begin. No cold wife. No empty marriage. Just him and his little boy—loved, *truly* loved, at last.
