“My daughter-in-law is living off my son’s hard work!” my mother-in-law exclaims, accusing me of laziness while I’m raising our two small children at home.
I never fooled myself. From the very first meeting, I knew she would never accept me. It wasn’t about my character, my actions, or how I treated her son. No. It was because I came from a village, and she was from London. That alone was enough for her to dismiss me entirely. To her, I was “beneath,” “unworthy,” “not good enough for him.” And that was that.
When Alex and I married, I already felt her chill—forced smiles, clipped words. She pretended all was well, but even the most harmless questions dripped with condescension. Her remark at our wedding—“Well, at least the countryside will bear us grandchildren”—stayed with me forever.
We chose to live separately from the start. A modest rented flat, but it was ours. Our freedom. I told my husband plainly, “I can’t live with your mother. I’d suffocate.” He understood. Even when she insisted—“Why pay strangers? I’ve a spare room, everything’s close!”—he stood firm. “Mum, we’ll manage.”
That was when she decided I was the problem. That I had turned her precious boy against his own family. Her disdain thickened—never spoken outright, but laced in every glance, every sigh. I endured it, for my husband’s sake. For peace.
Then I fell pregnant. Alex and I had dreamed of this—starting young while we still had the energy. But to her, it was another flaw in my character.
“How will you manage in a rented place with a baby? Just on Alex’s wages? You’ll end up in the gutter!” she lamented.
We refused to move in with her. Again. It was hard, but we never complained. I took odd remote jobs; Alex worked extra shifts. We took nothing from anyone. We stood on our own.
When our first child was born, she softened—for a time. She visited, brought toys, cooed over the baby. I almost believed she had changed. But when I fell pregnant again, her bitterness returned, sharper now.
“Have you lost your minds? Another child? So you’ll pop them out but not lift a finger, is that it? While my boy slaves away? He hasn’t a moment to himself! And there you sit, doing nothing!”
I held my tongue—until she snapped, “Get rid of it and go back to work like a proper woman!” That was when Alex finally shouted back. Not a quiet protest, but a roar down the phone. Firm. Final.
“Mum, enough! This is our family, our choice! We ask for nothing, take nothing! If you can’t respect that, don’t call!”
She walked away. She stopped visiting altogether. Now she only calls him—in secret. Behind my back, she paints me as a leech at family gatherings. A lazy country girl who had children to avoid work.
What stings isn’t her words—I’m used to those. It’s that she’s my husband’s mother. She could have been here. Could have loved her grandchildren. Could have helped. Instead, she twists everything to make us feel guilty. For what? For living as we choose?
Yes, I’m at home now. But that doesn’t mean “doing nothing.” It’s sleepless nights, tantrums, meals, laundry, tears, kisses, fears. This isn’t a holiday. I am a mother. Some days, I’m more worn than I ever was in an office. And I am not a burden—what we have is shared. Home, children, life. While Alex works, I raise them. When they’re older, I’ll return to my career. I’m no parasite.
Why can’t she see that? Why must she scorn what we’ve built?
We’re happy. We love each other. All I ask is to be left in peace—without judgment, without poison. Because we are a family. And no one has the right to tear down what we’ve made, not even a mother-in-law.
