My name is Victoria. I’m twenty-nine, and for the past three years, I’ve been married to Oliver. We have a strong, loving family, raising our daughter Emily and trying to live peacefully. But there’s one person who refuses to let us have that peace—someone who should be dear to us: my mother-in-law. Or, to put it bluntly, a woman who’s doing everything she can to ruin our marriage and drag her son back into her arms.
It all began five years ago when Oliver and I first met during our final years at university. I introduced him to my parents almost straight away—our home is warm, kind, without pretence. But he… hesitated. A whole year passed before he finally took me to meet his family. The moment I stepped into their London flat, I knew I wasn’t welcome.
Oliver’s mother, Margaret, greeted me with a stony glare and a frosty smile. At first, I thought it was just nerves, but time made it clear—her dislike for me ran deep. She never accepted me—not as her son’s girlfriend, not as a woman, not even as a person.
When Oliver and I decided to move in together, Margaret threw a fit. She screamed that her son was “still a boy,” that he couldn’t manage without her, that I was a bad influence, pushing him into adulthood. Oliver, a grown man of twenty-three, was still a helpless toddler in her eyes. But we moved out anyway.
That’s when the nightmare truly began.
Daily texts poured in: how to feed Oliver, what to cook, how to wash his clothes, which oranges to buy—and to peel them in advance because, according to her, he couldn’t do it himself! When I calmly pointed out that her son was perfectly capable, she took offence. Then came the meltdown over Oliver visiting her in a jumper—”Don’t you see how cold it is? Everyone’s in coats, and you’ve sent him out half-naked!” Never mind that it was fifteen degrees and not a single soul was bundled up.
When we announced our engagement, things got worse. Margaret started inviting women over—daughters of friends, neighbours, co-workers. Right in front of Oliver, she’d say, *”Now, this one would make a proper wife!”* Furious, he stopped visiting her altogether. But she didn’t back down.
She started showing up at our house. Unannounced. Always with complaints. Every visit ended in lectures: *”You’ve got dust under the sideboard!”*, *”Your soup tastes like railway station slop!”*, *”You’ve let Oliver go to ruin!”* I bit my tongue. Until I couldn’t.
A week before the wedding, she exploded over my dress. Called it *”a rag, not a gown.”* The reception menu was *”an embarrassment to the family.”* I’d *”humiliate them in front of everyone.”* I’d had enough. I showed her the door.
An hour later, Oliver got a call: *”I’m ill! It’s my heart!”* He rushed over—only to find his mother perfectly fine, cheeks flushed. A lie. A manipulation.
She didn’t come to the wedding.
After we married, when Emily was born, she never visited. Not a single nappy, not one toy. When invited to meet her granddaughter, she sneered, *”She’s not mine. You must’ve picked her up somewhere.”*
Oliver was torn between her and us. I saw the strain. But he always chose us. He set boundaries. And from then on, she stayed away.
I don’t speak to her. I’ve nothing to apologise for. I won’t let anyone destroy my family. I won’t let my daughter, my husband, or my life be trampled because one woman couldn’t accept that her son grew up and chose a wife she didn’t handpick.
I’m exhausted. Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine how lovely it’d be to have a normal mother-in-law. One who brings pies over. Who doesn’t pry into our marriage. Who doesn’t boss me around with parenting. Who hugs me and says, *”You’re doing well.”* But that’s not my reality.
My mother-in-law still dreams her son will come back. To her. Without me.
But here’s the truth: it’ll never happen. Because he chose me. And I’m proud he stood firm.
Me? I just want to live. To raise my daughter. To be a wife, not a rival to his mother.
But the weariness lingers.
Some battles leave scars, but love—real love—never falters. And one day, the weight of her bitterness won’t matter at all.
