“My son’s wife is nothing but a burden to him!” shrieks my mother-in-law, accusing me of laziness while I’m on maternity leave with two children.
I never fooled myself. From the very beginning, from our first meeting, I knew she would never accept me. It wasn’t my personality, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. It was because I came from a small town, and she was a Londoner. That fact alone was enough for her to write me off. To her, I was “beneath him,” “not good enough,” “wrong for her boy.” That was that.
When Alex and I married, I already felt her icy distance. She smiled tightly, spoke in clipped tones. She pretended everything was fine, but even her simplest questions dripped with condescension and jabs. Her remark at the wedding—*“Well, at least the countryside will give us grandchildren”*—stuck with me forever.
We chose to live separately from the start. A rented flat, modest but ours—our space, our freedom. I told my husband outright, *“I can’t live with your mother. I’d suffocate.”* He understood. Even when she pleaded, *“Why waste money on rent? I’ve got a spare room, everything’s close by!”*—he held firm. *“Mum, we’ll manage on our own.”*
That was the moment she decided—I was to blame. *I* had poisoned her son against his own family. From then on, her disdainful glances, her loaded sighs, her carefully veiled insults grew thicker. I endured it. Because I loved my husband. Because I didn’t want war.
Then I got pregnant. Alex and I had dreamed of this. We wanted children young, while we still had the energy. But for my mother-in-law, it was just another reason to snipe.
*“How will you survive on just Alex’s salary in a rented place? You’ll drown in debt!”*
We refused to move in with her. Again. It wasn’t easy. But we didn’t complain. I took on remote work; Alex picked up extra shifts. No handouts. Just us.
When our first child was born, she softened—briefly. She visited, brought toys, cooed over the baby. I almost believed she’d changed. But the moment I announced my second pregnancy, the mask slipped. Now her fury was brazen, venomous.
*“Have you lost your minds? A second child?! You’re happy to pop them out but not to work, is that it? Let poor Alex slave away while you sit at home with your feet up!”*
I stayed silent. But when she hissed, *“Get rid of it and get a job like every other woman!”*—Alex snapped. For the first time, he didn’t brush her off or placate her. He *shouted*. Right down the phone. Sharp. Final.
*“Enough, Mum! This is *our* family, *our* choice! We’re not begging for your help. If you can’t respect us, don’t call.”*
She went quiet. Vanished. No more visits. Just furtive calls to Alex when she thought I wouldn’t know. And behind my back? She spins her tale at every family gathering—paints me as a freeloader, a lazy country girl who trapped her son with babies to avoid work.
It hurts. Not her words—I’m used to those. It hurts because she’s my husband’s mother. She could be here. Could celebrate her grandchildren, lend a hand, offer kindness. Instead, she twists the knife. Makes us feel guilty—for what? For building the life *we* chose?
Yes, I’m at home now. But “doing nothing”? Try endless nights, tantrums, nappy changes, laundry, tears, sticky fingers, whispered lullabies. This isn’t a holiday. I’m a *mother*. I work harder now than I ever did in an office. And I’m no burden—Alex and I share everything. Home, children, *life*. While he earns, I raise. Later, when the children are older, I’ll return to work. I have a career. I’m no leech.
Why can’t she see that? Why must she sneer when she could be proud?
We’re happy. We make it work. We love each other. All I ask is to be left in peace—without scorn, without poison. Because we are a family. And no one, *not even his own mother*, has the right to tear down what we’ve built.
