My ex-mother-in-law won’t leave me alone
My ex-husband has long since moved on, raising a new child with someone else, yet his mum still won’t let me breathe. Apparently, she’s just *so* devoted to her granddaughter. Funny how that devotion doesn’t extend to making sure her precious boy pays his child support on time.
I spent six years with Oliver. Absolute misery. I ran for the hills, never once terrified at the thought of being a single mum. No matter how much family nagged that a child *needs* her father, I knew I couldn’t stand another night of his benders and reckless escapades.
Margaret never respected me. But after the divorce, she suddenly took *such* an interest in my life—all under the guise of caring for her granddaughter. More likely, she was panicking about who’d fetch her a glass of water in her old age now that I’d escaped.
*”Why are you making such a fuss? He doesn’t hit you, brings his wages home. Perfectly decent bloke,”* she’d whinge.
Ah yes, the *gold standard* of marriage: *”At least he doesn’t batter you.”* Obviously. Arguing was pointless, so I stopped bothering. I never filed for child support either—didn’t want him making any claims on my daughter later. He *promised* to help financially anyway. Spoiler: He didn’t.
Six months later, Oliver remarried. Oddly, news of an impending half-sibling didn’t thrill Margaret. Instead, she doubled down on *stalking me*, convinced we’d reunite. She’d drop by unannounced, *monitoring* my personal life under the noble banner of *”grandmother’s rights.”*
Funny how she’d never been this obsessed with my daughter *before*. Suddenly, it was all about *”checking in.”*
Post-divorce, I started fresh. No more chaining myself to the stove or being a hermit. Weekends now meant trips to the countryside, cinema outings, or the zoo with my parents—proper *living*, not just surviving.
*”Stop dragging that child everywhere. She ought to learn household duties,”* Margaret snipped once.
*”Weekends are for fun. Your pots and mops can wait.”*
She expected me to sit at home sobbing over Oliver while force-feeding an eight-year-old domestic servitude. *Why?* Childhood’s short enough—let her enjoy it. She tidies her toys, sets the table—that’s plenty for her age.
*”You’re a hopeless homemaker, and that girl will be just the same,”* Margaret huffed.
Once, I left an old toothbrush in the cup. Cue her *shocking* deduction: I was *”entertaining men”* with my child present. I didn’t justify it—I’m a grown woman; my house, my rules.
*”You’ve no business dating! You’re a mother—your head should be full of nappies, not men!”* she screeched, loud enough for the whole cul-de-sac.
*”But your golden boy can? He’s already knocked someone else up!”*
*”You left him! Decent men don’t grow on trees!”*
I told her to stay away. If she wants visits, we’ll meet at the park—my home’s off-limits. Now she’s ranting about social services. Joke’s on her: I’ve nothing to hide. Whatever lies she spins, I know I’m a damn good mum.
