My ex-mother-in-law won’t leave me alone.
My ex-husband has long moved on, raising another child with his new wife, yet his mother still suffocates me under the pretence of caring for her granddaughter. If she were so concerned, she’d make sure her darling boy paid his maintenance on time.
I spent six miserable years married to Oliver. It was hell. I ran from him without hesitation, unafraid of being a single mother. No matter how much family insisted a child needs her father, I refused to endure another night of his drunken escapades.
Veronica Wainwright never respected me. But after the divorce, she fixated on my life, using my daughter as an excuse. Likely terrified of ending up alone, with no one to fetch her even a glass of water in her old age.
*”Why are you making such a fuss? He doesn’t hit you, brings his wages home. He’s a decent man,”* she’d whine.
As if *not* being beaten is reason enough to stay. Of course. Arguing was pointless, so I tuned her out. I never took him to court for child support—didn’t want him making demands on my daughter later. He *promised* to help financially. Fat lot of good that did.
Six months later, he remarried. News of another grandchild didn’t thrill her. Instead, she stalked my life, determined to push me back to him. She’d turn up unannounced, meddling, insisting she had every right to see her granddaughter. A convenient excuse.
Funny how she never cared this much before. It was obvious—she was scouting, sizing up my new life.
After the divorce, I started fresh. No longer chained to the stove or trapped in endless cleaning, I finally had time for myself. Weekends now mean outings—trips to my parents’ cottage, the cinema, the zoo.
*”Stop dragging that child everywhere. She should be learning her duties,”* she snapped once.
*”Weekends are for fun. Your pots and mops can wait.”*
She expected me to grieve my failed marriage forever. Worse, to train my eight-year-old into servitude. Why? Childhood is fleeting—she’ll have a lifetime of chores soon enough. She tidies her toys, sets the table—that’s enough.
*”You’re a hopeless homemaker, and your daughter will be just as useless,”* she sneered.
Once, I left an old toothbrush in the holder beside a new one. She leapt to conclusions—*men* in my home, *scandal* under my child’s nose. I didn’t justify it. I’m a grown woman. My choices are mine.
*”You’ve no right to a personal life! A mother’s mind should be on her child, not men!”* she shrieked down the hallway.
*”Yet your precious boy’s already knocked up someone else!”*
*”You left *him*! Decent men don’t grow on trees!”*
I told her to stay away. If she wants visitation, we’ll meet in the park. My home’s off-limits. Now she’s threatening social services. Let her. I’ve nothing to fear—her lies won’t change the fact I’m a good mother.
