Five years ago, my husband William divorced his ex-wife, Emily. Their marriage had been brief—crumbling after Emily had an affair and, without hesitation, swiftly remarried. Two years later, I came into his life. We fell in love, and for the past three years, William and I have been husband and wife.
It should’ve been simple: a divorce, new lives. But not for everyone. His parents—especially his mother—were trapped in the past, clinging to the delusion of their son’s “perfect marriage” with Emily. Every attempt I made to be polite, neutral, respectful—shattered against a wall of refusal. To his mother, Emily was still family because she’d given William a child. I was just… passing through.
When we first started seeing each other, William was free, and Emily had long moved on. He was upfront about his daughter, who he adored, spending every spare moment with her. Back then, Emily didn’t interfere—she was grateful he stayed in their child’s life, unlike so many absent fathers. Their communication was cold, practical.
But that’s what drove his mother mad. She wanted *her* family back, no matter the cost. And me? In her eyes, I was just “young and pretty,” with plenty of time to find someone else. At our wedding, she even hissed, *”Why saddle yourself with him? He already has a family—a child!”*
I tried reasoning with her—that I respected his role as a father, that family was more than paperwork and history. But she wouldn’t hear it. Her heart belonged to Emily.
Then Emily’s second marriage collapsed, and his mother pounced. *This was her chance.* Suddenly, Emily was invited to every gathering—like she was still the wife. Every dinner, the same refrain: *”Emily was such a devoted wife… Not that you’re bad, but—”*
Emily herself seemed indifferent. She’d smile politely, nod. No warmth, no longing—just ice. And yet, his mother adored her for it. Called her “gentle,” “uncomplaining,” “proper.” Me? Too *alive*.
William saw it all. He tried reasoning with her: *”Mum, enough. Emily and I are done. We co-parent, but we’re not a couple. Why can’t you accept my wife?”* She’d pretend to listen—then call days later, sweetly probing, *”Is your wife there? Or—maybe you’re with Emily? Why don’t you drop by, check on her? She’s all alone with the child…”*
She dangled hooks of jealousy, baiting me—but I wouldn’t bite. I knew William was loyal. He provided for his daughter, paid for her clubs, had her stay with us for weeks. Emily and I? No drama. Just two adults handling things properly.
But his mother lived in a fantasy—one where *she* decided what was real. Where *that* family still existed, and I was just an intruder. It didn’t make me jealous. It infuriated me. How long could I fight for acceptance that was never coming?
William insists it’ll change when we have a child. That she’ll *finally* see this as his real family. But I doubt it. Even then, she’d just murmur, *”So what? He has another child. Emily was still the better mother.”*
He isn’t blind. He defends me, stands by me. But she’s his mother—he can’t cut her off. And I understand that. Still, I’m tired of being caught between them. I don’t need her love. I don’t demand applause. Just respect. And silence.
So tell me—will a child change anything? Or is her heart forever stuck in that old life—one where I don’t belong?
