For eight years, I, Veronica, have been married to Anthony, locked in a silent battle with his mother, Margaret. No matter what I do, it’s never right—her daughter, Sophie, is the golden child. But now, she’s crossed the line by dragging our children into it. My patience has snapped. I won’t stay quiet when it comes to my son.
We married right after uni, scraping by in a tiny flat outside Manchester, counting every penny. Margaret despised me from the start. Anthony brushed it off: “Mum’s like this with all my girlfriends—thinks no one’s good enough.” Cold comfort. When she found out we were renting, she erupted: “Why waste money? You should’ve stayed with me and saved!” For years, she acted as if we’d committed a crime.
Then Sophie married. She refused to live with her in-laws too—*and Margaret praised her for it!* “Smart girl, no one should be cramped with in-laws,” she said. Anthony was stunned. “Mum, why was it wrong when we left, but brilliant when Sophie did?” Her answer crushed me: “Her mother-in-law’s a nightmare—she’d make their lives hell.” I bit my tongue to keep from shouting, *And you think you’re any better?* That’s when I knew: I’d always be second-best.
Sophie and I got along, but she had her mother’s knack for criticism. Margaret needed a target, and I was it. When we both fell pregnant, her true colours bled through. “Sophie’s doing it right, young and sharp. You’re just burdening my son,” she’d snipe. Pregnancy was hard enough without her jabs. At dinners, Sophie got the choicest cuts—”Eat up, you need strength”—while I got lectures: “You’ve put on too much weight.” Doctors said I was fine. Eventually, I stopped visiting, pleading fatigue.
Our sons were born a week apart. Margaret declared Sophie’s boy Anthony’s twin, while my Oliver had “no family resemblance.” I shrugged it off—until she started comparing *them*. That’s when my blood boiled. This wasn’t just about me anymore. Anthony called it exaggeration, but I saw how she doted on Sophie’s child and barely glanced at ours.
By Oliver’s fourth birthday, it worsened. “Sophie’s son sits properly—you don’t even try,” she’d scold. When I enrolled him in nursery, she branded me neglectful: “Dumping him off like trash! Sophie stays home to raise hers properly.” Even Anthony noticed the cruelty now. I’ve held my tongue, but not for much longer. If he won’t confront her, I will.
I can stomach her barbs at me. But Oliver? No. He’s her flesh and blood, yet she’ll always see him as lesser. My attempts at peace are ashes. I won’t play nice anymore. If she keeps poisoning our lives, I’ll tear the family apart before I let her belittle my son. My heart aches, but for Oliver, I’ll burn every bridge. He deserves love—not his grandmother’s blind favouritism.
