“My Mother-in-Law Fed My Child Food from the Bin”: I Left and Gave My Husband an Ultimatum
When I first met Edward, we were both in our thirties. At that age, no one wastes time—and neither did we. We met, took a liking to each other, dated for a couple of months, and then filed for marriage at the registry office. We were both eager to start a family. I’d always dreamed of having a child, and Edward, who’d never been married before, wanted to become a father just as badly. We tied the knot quickly, without any fuss, and moved into my grandmother’s flat, which I’d inherited. We renovated, bought new furniture, and settled into our cosy little nest.
Before the wedding, I’d only met his mother, Margaret, a handful of times—once in a café and again at the ceremony itself. At first, she seemed pleasant: quiet, polite, outwardly approving of our union, letting her son go without protest, not interfering. I even thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. How wrong I was.
We didn’t wait to have a child. I got pregnant almost immediately, and the entire pregnancy felt like royalty. Edward doted on me—both literally and figuratively. At three in the morning, he’d peel satsumas for me. He’d make avocado toast at dawn, stroke my belly, whisper stories to our son. And for a while, Margaret kept her distance. Occasionally, she’d send over little treats through Edward—jars of jam, apples.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but the jars sometimes had a layer of dust, the jam was crystallised, and the apples had suspicious spots. I brushed it off—maybe her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, or she’d been sold dodgy goods. But then our little Alfie was born—and everything unravelled.
Margaret suggested moving in temporarily—claimed she’d help with the baby and rent out her own place for extra income. Edward was having trouble at work, and we’d taken out a loan for a car, so it seemed practical. I agreed.
But Margaret didn’t just move in—she invaded. With a lorry-load of what I hesitate to call *belongings*. It was junk: moth-eaten rags, chipped mugs, broken toys, mystery boxes, stacks of yellowed newspapers. Every day, her “collection” grew. I even noticed food wrappers in the bin from things we’d never bought.
Then, one day, I saw her returning from the street with a large, grubby supermarket bag. I peeked inside—and my blood ran cold. It was full of expired food: mouldy bread, yoghurts a week past their sell-by date, bananas not just blackened but *rotting*. She was bringing this into our home. **Our home**, where our newborn son lived!
And she intended to feed it to us! To me—still recovering—and to tiny Alfie! I blew up. I demanded Edward talk to her. But he… he *defended* her. Said she’d grown up in poverty, that her own mother had scavenged leftovers from neighbours, rummaged through bins just to keep them alive.
“But this isn’t wartime!” I shouted. “We’re not broke! We don’t need to eat rubbish! Do you even realise what this could do to our son?”
He stayed silent. Then, quietly: “Mum means well. She’s trying.”
**Trying?!** That was it. I packed our things, took Alfie, and left for my parents’ house in York. It’s peaceful there. Clean. No one feeds us out-of-date scraps from the dustbin.
I gave Edward an ultimatum: either he tells his mother to clear out—junk and all—or he can stay with her. But I won’t set foot back in that squalor.
Now, tell me honestly—did I go too far? Should I have explained it differently? Given her a chance? Or did I do right, protecting my child—and myself?
