Secrets That Tore a Family Apart
Olivia had prepared sandwiches, made tea, and sat at the kitchen table in her suburban home near Manchester, waiting for her mother-in-law. The doorbell rang.
“Thank you for coming!” Olivia exclaimed, opening the door to see Margaret.
“Why the urgency? What did you want to discuss?” Margaret asked warily.
“Come to the kitchen—I have a surprise for you!” Olivia masked her nerves with a smile.
Margaret followed her inside.
“Well? What’s this surprise?” she repeated, sitting down.
Olivia slid a sheet of paper across the table.
Margaret scanned the lines—then gasped, her face turning pale.
Olivia sat in the bedroom, hands pressed over her ears, but Margaret’s sharp voice cut through the walls. It felt like rusty nails scraping her soul, hollowing her out, leaving nothing but pain.
She had long accepted that she and Margaret would never see eye to eye. But why hadn’t her husband, James, defended her? Didn’t he see how his mother belittled her? She knew he loved her, but his silence shattered her. What had happened to their marriage?
Margaret had a gift for intimidation. Her favourite pastime was blaming Olivia for not giving her grandchildren. Three years since the wedding, still no children—and of course, it was Olivia’s fault. Never her precious son.
From day one, Margaret had disliked her. Before they’d even met, she’d decided James deserved better. When he first brought Olivia home—his father was already gone—her disapproval was unmistakable: pursed lips, icy tone, not a hint of warmth.
But Olivia had been too in love to notice. After all, no one had perfect in-laws. Besides, she and James had their own flat in the city centre. Their wedding had been modest but joyful. Both in their thirties, they’d chosen marriage with certainty—both successful, attractive, with shared passions. Life seemed perfect.
They hadn’t wanted to delay having children—Olivia was nearly thirty. But time passed, and no pregnancy came. For them, it wasn’t a tragedy—they could wait, enjoying each other. But Margaret wouldn’t tolerate waiting.
“Are you tracking your cycle?” she’d demand each visit. “You need to be careful!”
Olivia cringed at such bluntness. Raised in a refined family, she found Margaret’s tactlessness jarring. She longed to put her in her place, but James adored his mother. Hurting Margaret meant hurting him, so Olivia endured.
“Don’t scowl! I only want what’s best for you!” Margaret insisted. “Almost forgot—I booked you an appointment with a specialist. And take this.” She shoved a bag of herbs at her. “Brew this sage tea. It helps!”
Olivia drank the tea, saw doctors, underwent tests. The diagnosis was always the same: she was fine. “It just hasn’t happened yet,” specialists said. But Margaret, a staunch atheist, dismissed such explanations. She wanted grandchildren—all her friends had them, and envy gnawed at her.
“We’re seeing a fortune-teller on Saturday. I’ve paid the deposit,” she announced one day.
“Mum, really?” James scoffed. “You think a fortune-teller can magic us a baby?”
“Don’t mock! We must try everything now so we don’t regret it later!”
They went. The fortune-teller laid out cards and handed them a vial: “Three drops before sunrise.” No miracle came. Then Margaret dropped all restraint.
“A woman’s duty is to bear children. And you can’t!” she spat in Olivia’s face.
“She’s unbearable,” Olivia confided to her grandmother during a visit.
“What does she want?” the old woman asked.
“She says I can’t give her grandchildren.”
“Can you?”
“Of course!”
“And what about your James?”
Olivia froze. It struck her—James had never been tested. How had she missed that? It was obvious, but Margaret’s venom had blinded her.
“Our family has no history of infertility!” Margaret insisted.
“James, what if you get tested too?” Olivia suggested that evening in bed.
“Why? I’m fine!”
“So am I! But your mother blames me. If your results are clear, she’ll back off. Let’s not tell her—make it a surprise.”
Reluctantly, James agreed. There was logic in her words, and he wanted to prove his mother wrong.
The results stunned everyone—even Olivia. Sperm count: 10% of the healthy minimum; motility: under 8%, far below the 32% threshold. Few, barely moving. A complication from a childhood illness he hadn’t known about.
Olivia walked into the kitchen, where James was pouring Margaret tea, and silently placed the report in front of her.
“Here’s your surprise. Enjoy,” she said, locking eyes with Margaret. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”
Margaret’s stunned expression confirmed it. She’d known—and blamed Olivia for years. Why? Spite? Boredom? James stood silently, complicit, when he should’ve defended her long ago.
He fumbled with the paper, looking lost. His confidence had evaporated.
“So… we can’t have children?” he mumbled.
“You can’t. But I could, whenever I choose,” Olivia said coldly. “Your mother’s right—you need someone else. I’m leaving. You and her both.”
Victory brought no joy—only bitterness, regret for wasted years. Their love? It had withered like a blighted crop, yielding nothing. Olivia wasn’t barren—but her marriage to James had been.
She packed while Margaret and James stood dumbstruck in the kitchen. Their “innocent” secret had destroyed everything. Olivia left, the ruins of their marriage behind her.
Walking Manchester’s frosty streets, she thought: if she ever had a son, she’d care for his health better. And she’d never become a mother-in-law like Margaret.
