**Monday, 12th June**
My name’s Emily, I’m thirty-two, and I’ve just come through one of the most painful chapters of my life—my divorce from my husband, James. We were married just over three years, and truth be told, those weren’t the easiest years. The reason for all the rows, the resentment, and in the end, the final break, wasn’t even James. It was his mother, Margaret Whitmore.
From the start, she had it in for me. Even when we were just dating, she’d whisper to James that I wasn’t good enough, that I came from “the wrong sort,” was “too headstrong,” and “dragging his career down.” Her favourite line?
*”Marry for money, not love, or you’ll spend your life in penury.”*
When we finally tied the knot, I tried to get on with her. I brought gifts, invited her over, looked after her when she was ill. No use. Every chance she got, she’d twist the knife. Told James I couldn’t cook, that our children would be “freaks” because my grandmother had a hump, even whispered that she’d seen me “giving a funny smile” to the neighbour.
She drip-fed poison into his ear. Meddled in every conversation, turned up unannounced at the worst moments, staged jealous scenes out of thin air. She convinced him I was cheating and once even brought a girl round—someone she’d picked out for him—and arranged a candlelit dinner in *our* flat while I was working late.
James used to laugh it off. *”Mum’s just a bit odd, ignore her.”* But bit by bit, he went quiet. Stopped defending me. Just let me cry alone.
In the end, I couldn’t take it. Waking up with panic in the night, my heart skipping beats, losing weight—until I realised: I wasn’t living. I was surviving. I couldn’t watch his mother pick our marriage apart while he stood by and let her. So I packed my things and left. No scene, no shouting. Just walked away.
James didn’t even try to stop me. Two days later, he went back to her. Margaret won.
Two months passed. Then, last Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. There she was. Margaret. Tear-streaked, hands shaking, clutching a box of biscuits “for tea.” *”Emily,”* she whispered, *”come back to James. He’s not himself. He quit his job. He drinks. Says he doesn’t want to live.”*
At first, I didn’t understand. Then I laughed. *”What did you expect? You wanted me gone. Well, here’s your prize—your son, all to yourself. Enjoy.”*
I shut the door. Not because I’m cruel. Because it hurts.
Now she texts me nearly every day. Begs. Says she never realised how well I kept James steady, what a good wife I was, how “bright” I made his life. And I read it all and wonder—is this the same woman who spent three years tearing me down?
I won’t go back. I can’t go back to a place where I was broken for so long. Even if he changes, even if he sees it now—that Emily is gone. I don’t live for scraps of love anymore. I don’t need approval. Just peace. Quiet. Joy. No more silent visits, no more empty eyes.
Let Margaret enjoy her victory. She got exactly what she wanted—just not the way she imagined. Let her sit with that. If she still knows how.
**Lesson learned: Some people don’t realise what they’ve got until they’ve smashed it to bits.**
