My mother-in-law dreamed of a grandson for years… Now she doesn’t want to know him
Peter and I have been together for nearly ten years. We got married for love—no one pushed us into it. It just happened that way: we met, fell in love, and had a wedding. Everything was fine, except for one thing—his mother, Margaret. From the very first days of our marriage, she repeatedly insisted: “I need grandchildren, I want to cuddle a baby!”
I was only twenty-six then. Just starting my career, Peter and I lived in a rented flat in Brighton, saving for a mortgage deposit and planning renovations and career changes. A baby wasn’t part of the equation yet. I honestly explained to Margaret: “Not now. We’re not ready.” But it seemed like she didn’t hear me.
She would get upset, create scenes, and say I was ruining her son by not giving him a “real” family. In her mind, if a woman isn’t having children, she’s useless. I tried to smooth things over, but with each passing month, her pressure grew more intense. “You shouldn’t have married him if you don’t want kids. He’d have been better off with that girl from university,” she often said.
Maybe she’d have been calmer if she had someone else besides Peter. But he’s her only child, and all her attention, unsettling affection, and pressure were directed at us. We bought a house, got into debt, and lived under the weight of mortgage payments, but none of that mattered to her. She wanted a grandchild. Right now. This very minute.
Then another thing happened: one day, Peter’s cousin called, shocked to tell us that Margaret had visited her—not just for tea, but to ask her to sign over her property. The cousin, of course, refused. We pretended not to know and left it at that. Then two months later, I found out I was pregnant.
The news was unexpected but joyous. Peter and I hugged, tears of happiness in our eyes. Finally, our long-awaited baby. I thought surely everything would change now. Margaret would be delighted. After all, she had been pushing, pleading, crying, and accusing us for years. Her life’s dream was fulfilled. We invited her over when we got home from the hospital with little James in our arms. She came, not alone, but with family. I laid out a spread and dressed up the little one.
Then I heard her say, “Well, you finally got scared and had a baby. As if I had any other choice, it’s your own fault.” I felt sick. In front of everyone, she delivered this poisonous line with a smirk. As if she’d beaten us. As if the child wasn’t love, wasn’t a gift, but the result of her pressure.
From that day, something broke. She stopped calling. Showed no interest in how the baby was sleeping, eating, or if he was well. Occasionally, out of politeness, she’d ask Peter, “How’s James? Still not coughing?”—and that was it. No toys, no blankets, no birthday cards. Just coldness and indifference. Yet she swore she’d be the best grandmother in the world.
I don’t understand how she could plead, beg, and insist all those years, and then just turn away. My husband says it’s just her way of manipulating, that it’s our fault for always giving in. But I disagree. A mother, a grandmother—shouldn’t be like that. A grandchild isn’t a pawn or a response to blackmail. He’s a person. Small, kind, and innocent.
It hurts to watch my son grow up without the love of the one who loudly claimed her “right to be a grandmother.” It hurts because I believed that one day we’d have a strong, loving family, where both my mom and his mom would rock the cradle together. But in the end, only we do.
Now, I no longer invite her over. I’m tired of waiting for warmth that isn’t there. I gave her a chance. She crossed it out. And perhaps it’s time to do the same.
