One evening, Henry returned from visiting his mother, sighed deeply, and suggested they get a paternity test for their two-year-old daughter: “Not for me—for Mum.”
“…For six months before our wedding, she kept telling her son, ‘Don’t marry her, she’s not right for you!'” says thirty-year-old Emily, her voice trembling with hurt. “Too pretty, she’ll cheat! We laughed it off back then, joking that Harry should’ve married a ‘chimney sweep’ if he wanted guaranteed loyalty. But now? There’s no laughter left. None at all.”
Emily doesn’t consider herself some dazzling beauty—just an ordinary woman from the outskirts of Manchester who takes care of herself like anyone else. Slim, well-kept, and modestly dressed, she’s always been particular about relationships and held her self-respect high. Why her mother-in-law, Margaret Harris, decided Emily was flighty and unfaithful remains a mystery. But this woman has turned her daughter-in-law’s life into a waking nightmare.
She and Harry have been married four years, with a daughter. Emily’s on maternity leave, her days an endless cycle of cooking, cleaning, and nappies. The only people she speaks to are other mums at the playground. Yet Margaret won’t relent—she spies on Emily like a detective from a third-rate telly drama, convinced she’s having affairs.
“She’s always been watching me!” Emily sighs, tears welling. “Calling to check up, showing up unannounced, trying to control my every move. At first, I brushed it off, told Harry—we even chuckled. But it wears you down! I’ve snapped at her so many times. She’d go quiet for a bit, then come back worse than ever.”
The first big row happened a few months after the wedding. Margaret suddenly marched into Emily’s workplace—no call, no warning—just to confirm she really worked there. Or was she lying to Harry, off cavorting with lovers?
“I don’t even know how she got past security!” Emily recalls, indignant. “Our office has keycard access, guests need appointments. I nearly fainted when the receptionist ushered her in: ‘Someone to see you.’ I asked, ‘Margaret, what are you doing here?’ And she just said, ‘Wanted to see where you work.’ While eyeing the room! It’s an open-plan office—desks, computers, nothing hidden. God knows what she’d have done if I had a private office!”
Later, the receptionist, Claire, whispered that Margaret had grilled her—how long had Emily worked there? Was she ever late? Who did she talk to? Any office romances? “I told her you were married,” Claire murmured, baffled. Emily was livid. That night, she unloaded on Harry: “Your mother’s crossed a line! Talk to her—this isn’t normal! She might as well have checked under my desk for a secret boyfriend. Who knows, maybe she did!”
Harry must’ve said something sharp. For a while, things settled. Margaret only called in the evenings, asking after them, dropping off shepherd’s pies. Emily dared to hope the storm had passed. She was wrong.
The next incident happened while Emily was pregnant but still working. Home sick, she’d turned off her phone and was asleep when a furious pounding and relentless doorbell jolted her awake. “I leapt up, thought it was a fire or something!” she recalls. “Peeked through the peephole—Margaret! Face twisted, kicking the door, mashing the bell. I was too scared to open it. Called Harry: ‘Get here now, I don’t know what’s happening!’ He arrived in twenty minutes. She’d waited the whole time, just staring at the door!”
They both shouted at Margaret. Emily threatened police and psychiatric intervention if it happened again. “Keep her away from me!” she demanded. Another lull followed.
Emily gave birth to a daughter, but Margaret didn’t even glance at her granddaughter. The reason soon became clear: she didn’t believe the child was Harry’s. “Of course—I’m out gallivanting, why would it be his?” Emily scoffs. The logic? Harry’s family only had boys. A girl, to Margaret, meant infidelity. “I refused to entertain it,” Emily says. “We don’t speak. Harry visits her once a month, alone. Probably for the best. I’d never trust her with our daughter.”
But the worst was yet to come. One day, Harry came back from his mother’s, sighed heavily, fidgeted, and blurted out the idea of a paternity test for their toddler. “Not for me, Em—I swear!” he stammered. “It’s for Mum. She’s lost the plot, and I’m sick of hearing it! Just one test, and she’ll shut up forever.”
Emily laughed bitterly. “For Mum?” she spat, voice shaking with rage. “Admit it—you’re buying into her madness! You know she’ll never stop. Three tests from different clinics, and she’ll say the doctors were bribed! I won’t dance to her tune. Full stop.”
“It’s just a simple test,” Harry pressed.
“Why?” Emily stared, fighting tears. “I know who her father is. Do you? Fine, we’ll do it—right after we file for divorce. I won’t stay with a man who doesn’t trust me.”
Her words hung in the air like a verdict. Trust between them is crumbling, all because of a mother-in-law’s poison. Emily feels teetering on an edge, helpless to save her family from the madness.
