Imagine this: my daughter-in-law doesn’t even pretend to like me! She seizes every opportunity to throw it in my face without the slightest hesitation. The worst part is, my son knows about it! Here I am, a sixty-year-old woman from a quiet town near Reading, who always dreamed of being a loving mother and mother-in-law, surrounded by warmth and respect. I always knew raising an only child was risky. You shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, but who could have imagined it would turn into such a nightmare?
My daughter-in-law, Emily, seemed too sharp and lively from the first glance, like an unstoppable storm. When James, my son, first brought her home to meet me, I felt a chill seeing her piercing blue eyes. She seemed to be assessing every detail, every wrinkle, every corner of the room. Instinct whispered, “Beware,” but I brushed it off, thinking it was just nerves, and tried to accept the girl my son chose to marry. What could go wrong in the first meeting with the future daughter-in-law? Oh, how mistaken I was!
The first thing that stood out was her arrogance. I’ve read in magazines that one sign of a toxic person is rudeness to those of a lower status, and at my age, I still believe such things. That day we sat in a café, and Emily snapped at the waiter like a hawk on its prey. Her dessert, apparently, looked “unappetizing,” and she demanded it be replaced, speaking as if the waiter were her personal servant. I tried to excuse her—perhaps she was nervous, maybe it was a bad day. But now I know: this was the first red flag I ignored.
The second was her appearance. I’m sorry to mention it, but her outfit that day was just provocative. A plunging neckline, a short skirt—no, more like a tight jumpsuit that barely covered her body. A sporty style? A fashion whim? I don’t know what’s in trend anymore, but it screamed disrespect. She knew she was meeting me, the mother of her fiancé, and could have chosen something more modest if she had an ounce of respect for me. But no, she didn’t care.
After they got married and started living together, I felt lonely. I missed my only son, his cheerful laughter in our home. I held out for a month, not calling or interfering in their lives. But then I started dialing his number bit by bit—he’s my child, my blood; do I need an excuse for that? Turns out, Emily was annoyed by this. She didn’t hide her irritation and even told James in my presence, “Hang up, stop chatting with her.” She stood right there, and I heard her every word, sharp as a knife.
I didn’t want to stir up a scandal, but I met with James alone and asked directly what was happening. He sighed and explained. Emily, it turns out, had a difficult past: a boyfriend, a pregnancy, he abandoned her without taking responsibility, and she lost the baby. After that, her mental health faltered—she had to see doctors. James assured me she was just stressed, that it was temporary, that a psychologist’s consultations would fix everything. But I saw something different: her gaze, her sharpness—it was more than just nerves, it was something deeper. And I couldn’t pretend to believe his words.
Then, the explosion happened. A few days after our conversation, Emily found out James had spoken to me about her. And she broke down. A midnight phone call hit me like lightning from a clear sky. She shouted, accusing me of wanting to ruin their marriage, calling me a wicked old woman wishing to get rid of her. Her voice trembled with rage, and I understood: she loved James, but it was a sick, clinging love, like a spider’s web. The only ray of light in that darkness was her genuine feelings for him. But it was no comfort to me.
James didn’t defend me. I don’t understand why my son, my boy, whom I raised with such love, couldn’t say a word against her. He seemed to be under her control, beneath her gaze that held him like a leash. He’s not rude to me, but he repeats every time, “Mum, I’m an adult. I have my own family. I’ll decide when to call, when to visit.” Technically, he’s right, but I can see: it’s she who dictates the rules to him. She rules their life.
Incidentally, they live in her flat—a three-bedroom, newly furnished and beautifully decorated. I understand how important property is these days, especially in town. But is it worth tearing ties with one’s mother over it? Are square meters really more precious than blood? I ask myself these questions, and my heart aches with pain.
I still hope that time will put everything in its place. Maybe I just need to endure, give them a chance to sort things out. But with each passing day, I increasingly see: it’s time for me to let go. I’ve done my duty as a mother—raised a healthy son, gave him wings. The rest is his path, his choice. Yet deep inside, I pray for this storm to calm down, for us to become a family once more. But for now, I stand on the sidelines of their lives, watching my son fade into her world, and I wonder if I’ll have the strength to wait for change.
