Wednesday, 15th March
My name is Emily, I’m thirty-two, and I’ve just come through one of the most painful chapters of my life—my divorce from James. We were married just over three years, and honestly, they weren’t the easiest. The root of every argument, every tear, and in the end, the complete breakdown of us, wasn’t James. It was his mother, Margaret.
She despised me from the start. Even when we were dating, she whispered to James that I wasn’t good enough, that I came from “the wrong sort,” was “too headstrong,” and would “ruin his prospects.” Her favourite mantra was, “Marry for security, not for love, or you’ll spend your life counting pennies.”
When we finally married, I tried to mend things. I brought her gifts, invited her round, cared for her when she was ill. It was useless. She seized every chance to belittle me—telling James my cooking was dreadful, that our children would be “odd-looking” because my grandmother had been “hunchbacked,” even claiming she’d caught me “smirking at the neighbour.”
She poisoned his mind daily. Meddled in our conversations, appeared unannounced at the worst moments, staged jealous scenes. She insisted I was unfaithful, even invited some woman—her ideal daughter-in-law, no doubt—to our flat for candlelit dinner. She set the table herself, planned it all. I only found out when I came home from working late.
At first, James laughed. “Mum’s just eccentric, ignore her,” he’d say. But slowly, he withdrew. Spoke less in my defence. Stayed silent when I cried.
Eventually, I cracked. Waking at night with panic, heart palpitations, losing weight—I realised I wasn’t living, just surviving. Watching his mother pick apart our marriage while he did nothing was unbearable. I packed my things and left. No scene, no shouting. Just silence.
James didn’t stop me. By the next day, he was back at his mother’s. She’d won.
Two months passed. Then last Saturday, a knock at the door. There she stood—Margaret. Teary-eyed, hands shaking, clutching a box of chocolates “for tea.” “Emily,” she whispered, “come back to James… He’s not himself. He quit his job. He’s drinking. Says he doesn’t want to live…”
For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then I laughed. “You wanted this, remember? Us divorced. Me gone. Enjoy having your son to yourself—he’s all yours now. You worked so hard for it.”
I shut the door. Not out of spite. Because it hurt.
Now she texts nearly daily. Begs. Says she never realised how well I kept James steady, what a good wife I was, how “bright” I’d made his life. I read her messages and can’t believe it. Is this the same woman who spent three years dismantling me?
I won’t go back. I can’t return to where I was broken for so long. Even if he changes, even if he understands—I’m not that Emily anymore. I don’t live waiting for love. Don’t crave approval. I just want quiet. Peace. Joy. No more sharp words or hollow glances.
Let Margaret enjoy her victory. She got exactly what she fought for. Just not the ending she imagined. Let her sit with that. If she even knows how.
