**Secrets That Shattered a Family**
I made sandwiches, brewed a pot of tea, and settled at the kitchen table in my flat on the outskirts of Manchester, waiting for my mother-in-law to arrive. The doorbell rang.
“Thank you for coming!” I said brightly as I opened the door to Margaret.
“What’s all the urgency? What did you want to discuss?” she asked, her tone guarded.
“Come to the kitchen—I’ve got a surprise for you!” I forced a smile, masking my nerves.
Margaret followed me, sitting stiffly as I placed a sheet of paper in front of her. She scanned it—then gasped, her face paling.
I sat in the bedroom, hands pressed over my ears, but Margaret’s sharp voice still cut through the walls. It felt like she was scraping at my soul with a rusty spoon, hollowing me out until nothing remained but pain.
I’d known for ages we’d never see eye to eye, but why had my husband, James, failed to defend me again? Didn’t he see how his mother belittled me? I believed he loved me, yet his silence shattered my heart. What had happened to us?
Margaret was relentless. Her favourite pastime was berating me for not giving her grandchildren. Three years since our wedding, and still no baby—and of course, that was my fault. Never her precious son.
From day one, she’d despised me. Even before meeting me, she’d decided James deserved better. When he first brought me home—his father long gone—her disdain was plain: pursed lips, frosty tone, not a hint of warmth.
But I’d been too in love to care. Everyone knows no one gets the perfect mother-in-law. Besides, we lived separately in James’s cosy flat in the city centre. Our wedding had been modest but joyful. Both in our thirties, we’d married with clear eyes—attractive, successful, sharing interests. Life seemed perfect.
We didn’t delay trying for children—I was nearing thirty. But months passed with no pregnancy. For us, it wasn’t a tragedy—we could wait, content in each other. Margaret, however, refused to be patient.
“Are you tracking your cycle?” she’d demand sharply with every visit. “You must be more careful!”
I cringed at her tactlessness. Raised in a polite household, I recoiled from her bluntness. I wanted to put her in her place, but I loved James, and he adored her. To wound her would wound him—so I endured.
“Don’t look at me like that! I only want what’s best for you!” she’d snap. “Nearly forgot—I’ve booked you an appointment with a specialist. And here,” she thrust a bag of herbs at me, “brew this sage tea. It helps!”
I drank the tea, visited doctors, endured tests. The verdict was always the same: I was fine. “It just hasn’t happened yet,” they said. But Margaret, a staunch atheist, dismissed such explanations. She craved grandchildren—all her friends had them, and envy gnawed at her.
“We’re seeing a clairvoyant on Saturday. I’ve paid a deposit,” she announced one day.
“Mum, why a clairvoyant?” James laughed. “Will she magic us a baby?”
“Don’t mock! We must try everything!”
We went. The woman laid out cards and handed me a vial: “Three drops before dawn.” Nothing changed. Then Margaret stopped holding back.
“A woman’s duty is to bear children! And you can’t!” she spat in my face.
“She’s unbearable,” I confided to my grandmother during her visit.
“What does she want?”
“Says I can’t give her grandchildren.”
“And can you?”
“Of course!”
“And can James?”
I froze. It hit me—James had never been tested. How had I missed it? The truth was clear, but Margaret’s certainty had blinded me.
“Our family has no defects! Especially not in conceiving!” she always insisted.
“James, maybe you should get checked too,” I suggested that night in bed.
“Why? I’m fine!”
“So am I! But your mother blames me. If you prove you’re healthy, she’ll back off. Just don’t tell her yet—let’s surprise her.”
Reluctantly, he agreed. There was logic in my words, and he liked the idea of proving his mother wrong.
The results stunned us all. Sperm count: 10% of normal levels. Motility: below 8%. A childhood illness he’d never known about had caused it.
I walked into the kitchen where James was serving tea and placed the report in front of Margaret.
“Here’s your surprise. Enjoy,” I said, locking eyes with her. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”
Her flustered expression confirmed it—she’d known. Yet for years, she’d shamed me. Why? Spite? Boredom? James stood silent, complicit, when he should’ve stopped her long ago.
He fumbled with the paper, looking lost. His bravado had vanished.
“So… we can’t have children?” he mumbled.
“*You* can’t. I could, whenever I choose,” I said coldly. “Your mother’s right—you need someone else. I’m leaving. You and her.”
Victory brought no joy—only bitterness and regret for wasted years. Love? It had withered long ago, like tomatoes that never fruited. I wasn’t barren, but my life with James had been.
As I packed, they stood dumbstruck in the kitchen. Their “innocent” secret had destroyed us. I walked out, leaving a broken marriage behind.
Trudging through Manchester’s snowy streets, I vowed: if I ever had a son, I’d care for his health. And I’d never become a mother-in-law like Margaret.
