When me and Simon first met, we were both in our thirties. At that age, you don’t tend to drag things out—so we didn’t. We clicked right away, dated for a couple of months, and then went straight to the registry office. We were both desperate to settle down. I’d always wanted kids, and Simon—who’d never been married before—was just as eager to become a dad. We had a quiet little wedding, no fuss, and moved into my nan’s old flat, which I’d inherited. We gave it a fresh coat of paint, bought some new furniture, and made it our own little nest.
His mum, Margaret, I’d only met a handful of times before the wedding—once for coffee and then at the ceremony itself. She seemed lovely back then—polite, reserved, didn’t interfere, even gave her blessing without a fuss. I thought I’d hit the jackpot with a mother-in-law like that. Oh, how wrong I was.
We didn’t waste any time trying for a baby. I got pregnant almost straight away, and honestly, Simon treated me like royalty the whole nine months. He’d bring me oranges at 3 a.m., make avocado toast for breakfast, even whisper stories to my bump. And his mum? She kept her distance—except for the odd jar of jam or bag of apples she’d send over with Simon.
I didn’t think much of it at first, but sometimes those jars were dusty, the jam was crystallised, and the apples had weird spots. I chalked it up to her being older—maybe her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. But then our little Alfie was born, and everything went downhill.
Margaret offered to stay with us for a bit—help with the baby and rent out her own place for some extra cash. Simon’s work was going through a rough patch, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car, so it sounded like a good idea. I agreed.
But she didn’t just *visit*. She *moved in*. With a van full of… well, I’d call it junk. Musty old clothes, chipped mugs, broken toys, random boxes, stacks of newspapers. Every day, her ‘collection’ grew. I even started noticing wrappers for food we’d *never* bought in the bins.
Then one day, I saw her coming back from the street with this grubby supermarket bag. I peeked inside—and nearly lost it. Rotten bananas, mouldy bread, yoghurts a week out of date. She was bringing *bin food* into our home. A home with a *newborn baby*!
And she was feeding it to *us*! To me, while I was pregnant, and now to little Alfie! I lost my temper. I begged Simon to talk to her. But he—he *defended* her. Said she grew up in poverty, that her own mum used to scavenge leftovers just to keep them fed.
“But we’re not starving!” I shouted. “We’ve got money! We don’t need to eat out of the *bin*! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is for a baby?!”
He just stood there. Then he muttered, “She means well.”
*Means well?!* I’d had enough. I packed our things, took Alfie, and left for my parents’ place in York. It’s peaceful there. Clean. No one’s feeding us out-of-date rubbish from a supermarket skip.
I gave Simon an ultimatum: either he tells his mum to clear out—along with all her rubbish—or he can stay with her. But I won’t go back to living in filth.
Now, girls, be honest—did I overreact? Should I have handled it differently? Given her a chance? Or did I do the right thing, putting my baby first?
