My daughter-in-law doesn’t even try to hide that she hates me. She called and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage with James.
Can you imagine? My daughter-in-law doesn’t even pretend to like me one bit! She throws it in my face at every chance she gets, without a hint of embarrassment. And the worst part is—my son knows about it! Here I am, a sixty-year-old lady from a peaceful town near Norwich, who 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 predicted it would turn into such a nightmare?
From the first moment I met Emma, my daughter-in-law, she seemed too sharp, too vivacious, like a storm that couldn’t be tamed. When James, my son, first brought her home, I felt a chill looking into her dark, piercing eyes. She examined every detail—every wrinkle, every corner of the room. My gut told me, “Beware,” but I brushed it off, dismissing it as nerves, and tried to accept this girl my son had chosen to marry. What could have possibly gone wrong at this first meeting? Oh, how mistaken I was!
The first thing that struck me was her arrogance. I’ve read that one sign of a toxic person is how rudely they treat those they deem beneath them. And even at my age, I still trust such insights. That day, we sat in a café, and Emma pounced on the waiter like a hawk on prey. Her dessert, apparently, looked “unappetizing,” and she demanded a replacement with a tone suggesting the young man was her personal servant. I tried to justify her behavior—maybe she was nervous, perhaps it was just a bad day. Now I know: that was the first red flag I ignored.
The second issue was her appearance. Forgive me, but her outfit that day was simply outrageous. A plunging neckline, a short skirt—no, more like a tight jumpsuit that barely covered anything. Was it sporty style? A fashion whim? I don’t know what’s in vogue now, but it screamed disrespect. She knew she was coming to meet me, the mother of her fiancé, and could have chosen something more modest if she had any respect for me. But no, she didn’t care at all.
After they married and started living together, I felt miserable. I missed my only son, his laughter filling our home. For a month, I held back from calling, didn’t intrude on their life. But slowly, I started dialing his number—after all, he’s my child, my own flesh and blood, do I need an excuse for that? Apparently, Emma was infuriated by this. She didn’t hide her annoyance and even told James in front of me, “Hang up, enough talking with her.” She stood by, and I heard every word she said—sharp and cutting like a knife.
I didn’t want to start a commotion, but I met James alone and asked directly: what’s going on? He sighed and explained. Emma, it turns out, has a troubled past: a boyfriend, a pregnancy, he left her without taking responsibility, and she lost the child. After that, her mental state cracked—she had to seek professional help. James assured me she’s just stressed, that it’s temporary, and consultations with a therapist would make everything better. But I saw something different: her look, her harshness—it wasn’t just nerves, it was something deeper. And I couldn’t pretend to believe his words.
Then came the explosion. A few days after our conversation, Emma found out James had talked to me about her. She snapped. A phone call in the dead of night hit me like a bolt from the blue. She screamed, accused me of trying to wreck their marriage, said I’m a wicked old woman dreaming of getting rid of her. Her voice shook with rage, and I realized: she does love James, but it’s a sick, clinging love like a spider’s web. The only ray of light in that darkness—her feelings for him are genuine. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me.
James didn’t stand up for me. I don’t understand why my son, my boy whom I raised with such love, can’t say a word against her. It’s as though he’s under her control, her gaze holding him like a leash. He doesn’t speak harshly to me, but each time he repeats, “Mum, I’m an adult. I have my family. I’ll decide when to call, when to visit.” Technically, he’s right, but I know: she’s laying out the rules for him. She controls their life.
By the way, they live in her flat—a three-bedroom, newly renovated beauty. I understand how important property is these days, especially in town. But is it worth severing ties with your mother for the sake of square footage? Are bricks and mortar more valuable than blood? I ask myself these questions, and my heart aches.
I still hope that time will set things right. Maybe I just need to wait, give them a chance to sort it out. But each day, it’s clearer to me: it’s time for me to let go. I’ve done my job as a mother—raised a healthy son, gave him wings. Now, it’s his path, his choice. Yet deep down, I pray for the storm to pass, for us to be a family again. But for now, I stand on the sidelines of their life, watching my son become absorbed in her world, unsure if I have the strength to wait for changes.
