Driven Away to Save Ourselves: How My Mum Nearly Ruined Our Marriage
This is the story of a daughter pushed to the edge by her own mother’s meddling and constant criticism.
My mum wore me down so badly that I faced an impossible choice: cut ties with her or lose my husband. Neither option sat right with me, so we did the only thing we could—we moved. It was the only way to save our marriage and what little peace we had left.
Years ago, I’d happily bought a one-bed flat in a quiet part of London, just down the hall from my mum’s place. It felt like the perfect setup—help nearby, familiar streets, and the comfort of home. Everything seemed ideal… until it wasn’t.
Then came Daniel. We met, fell in love, and married. He wasn’t from the city, didn’t own a place, so naturally, he moved in after the wedding. At first, everything was wonderful. He was kind, hardworking, dependable—everything I’d ever wanted.
But Mum? She despised him from day one.
“Where’d you dig this one up? No looks, no flat. Lost your mind, have you?” she sneered the second he left the room.
I defended him, insisting money and looks didn’t matter—it was his heart that counted. But my words bounced off her like a rubber ball. She’d scoff and mutter, “Just wait till you’re on maternity leave. You’ll regret this.”
Maternity leave was years off, but Mum made every day a nightmare. She’d drop by nearly every evening to remind me how “unlucky” I was, calling Daniel useless, mocking his every move. And all the while, he bent over backwards for her—giving her lifts, running errands, doing whatever she asked.
It only made her worse.
“Emma’s husband’s a proper catch—flat, car, worships his mother-in-law! And yours? Dry as toast! No flowers, no dates—just lets you slave away!”
If I ever mended a torn jumper, she’d explode: “Look at you now! Dressing like a ragpicker because your husband’s too cheap to buy new!”
Every visit was a performance. Neighbours stared as she’d screech in the hallway if we didn’t answer the door. The phone rang nonstop, and we couldn’t ignore it—what if it was an emergency?
Then, after one especially brutal night, Daniel and I sat down and talked. We couldn’t go on like this. We decided to let out my flat and move in temporarily with his mum. She had a big house and spent most nights at her partner’s—barely any contact, almost like having our own place. We’d save up, get a mortgage, and start fresh—far from all the daily chaos.
We didn’t tell Mum. We knew how she’d react. But secrets don’t last—some busybody neighbour spotted us loading the car. Mum stormed over, livid.
“This was *his* idea, wasn’t it? Scared I’ll make you see sense?” she spat, eyes blazing. “And you? Spineless! Trading your own mother for *his*!”
Daniel kept loading the boot in silence while I tried to explain—this was *my* choice. Because I was exhausted. Tired of walking on eggshells, tired of being torn in two. If she’d just let us live, we wouldn’t have left.
Her only reply? “You’ll come crawling back in tears!” before slamming the door.
Six months on, we’re at his mum’s—a peace we’d nearly forgotten existed. No knocks at the door, no one tearing Daniel down. The renters pay on time, we work, we save. Everything’s going to plan.
Mum? Not a word in three months. When I call, it’s like talking to a stranger. It hurts. I never wanted this. But I couldn’t let her wreck my marriage either.
Maybe one day she’ll understand, and we can start over. If not? Well, I won’t let anyone tear us apart again. Not ever.
