Every family has its struggles. Some battle fiercely over inheritance, others fight against drinking or forgive betrayals, and some simply give up from despair. My husband and I, it seemed, had no major troubles—except for one big issue: my mother-in-law. It was her, Margaret Williams, who poisoned our peaceful days.
For a long time, I tried to find common ground with her, to adjust, to ignore her antics. But the more I tried, the clearer it became—it was useless. An invisible wall stood between us, growing higher and thicker with every effort I made.
I understand how strong and unique the bond between a mother and son can be. But when a thirty-seven-year-old man remains a mama’s boy, it’s a tragedy. My husband and his mother lived in their own little world—whispering behind my back, making secret arrangements, only letting me in when there was no way to hide it anymore.
Then, something happened that shattered my patience for good.
Our son, Oliver, usually spent summers at my parents’ countryside home. My mother, a doctor, rarely managed to take leave—even during the worst of the pandemic, she worked tirelessly. And my father, unfortunately, wasn’t well enough to handle Oliver alone.
I work for a big firm, and a long holiday was just a dream. So my husband and I decided to ask his mother for help. A month in advance, I carefully arranged everything with Margaret. She happily agreed to look after Oliver. I genuinely believed I could count on her.
But a week before our plans, she called.
“Emily,” she chirped, “I’ve got a holiday deal! I’m off to Tenerife! So you’ll have to sort Oliver out yourself.”
I was so stunned, it took me a moment to grasp what she’d said. She had betrayed us. Just like that.
Later, I found out there was no “deal”—she had planned it all herself: picked the resort, bought the ticket, booked the hotel. All while knowing full well she was supposed to help with Oliver!
To make it worse, just before leaving, Margaret asked my husband to water her greenhouse and tend her garden while she was away.
Of course, since he worked from dawn till dusk, the task fell to me. But I’d had enough. I said flatly,
“I won’t lift a finger. Your mother abandoned us when we needed her most. If her holiday matters more, then let her tomatoes wither and dry up along with her selfishness. That’s her problem, not ours.”
Naturally, when Margaret heard, the storm broke—accusations, blame, complaints, all aimed at me. But the ship had sailed. She left on her holiday anyway, leaving us to handle Oliver and her unfinished chores.
Now I’m scrambling across town, trying to find a decent summer camp or activity club for Oliver. He deserves a proper summer, not just being cooped up indoors.
This whole mess proved one thing: when times are tough, you can only rely on yourself—and your conscience. My mother-in-law chose her holiday. I chose my son.
And honestly? I don’t regret it for a second.
