“My daughter-in-law doesn’t even hide her hatred for me,” she called me and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage to Michael.
I, Eleanor Whitmore, am an ordinary woman of sixty, mother to an only son. All my life, I devoted myself to him, raised him alone after my husband left when Michael was just two. I worked as a nurse at the local clinic, pulling night shifts so my boy would have everything—clean shirts, schoolbooks, a hot meal on the table.
He grew into a good man, kind and well-mannered. I was proud of him. But now, it seems he’s thrown it all away for a woman who not only disrespects me but openly shows her contempt. His wife—Charlotte.
From the first moment, she struck me as… too much. Too loud, too haughty, too sharp. When Michael first brought her to meet me, I sensed something amiss—the way she looked at me, the way she carried herself. Her big, icy eyes met mine with defiance, her face devoid of even a hint of politeness. But I told myself it was just nerves. Michael was in love, so I had to try.
We went to a tearoom to get acquainted, and even then, I knew she’d be difficult. She scolded the waiter without hesitation, demanded her scone be replaced because it wasn’t “presentable enough,” as she put it. She spoke through clenched smiles, as if everyone around her were beneath notice. And the way she was dressed—a skirt far too short, a blouse cut indecently low. At a meeting with her future mother-in-law! I barely held my tongue before pulling Michael aside.
I told myself it was nerves, first-meeting jitters. But no. As the years passed, it only worsened. After the wedding, Michael stopped calling. I didn’t push, though I missed him. After a month, I caved and rang him myself. All I got was frost. Another time, when he did call, I clearly heard Charlotte in the background: “Hang up. You’ve talked to her long enough.” She didn’t whisper—she said it plainly, as if daring me to react.
I didn’t want to make a scene, but finally, I asked Michael—what was happening? He sighed and explained. Charlotte had a troubled past, he said. A love affair in her youth, a pregnancy, betrayal… She’d lost the child. Saw therapists, took treatment. He insists she’s better now, just a bit guarded. But I know it’s not caution. It’s hostility. Blatant and bitter.
Days after that talk, Charlotte rang me herself. Shouting. Accusing me of everything—turning her husband against her, meddling, destroying their marriage. I was stunned. Me? The woman who gave her life to raising him, who scraped by alone—now I was the villain?
Michael, as always, didn’t defend me. Didn’t say a word. Just repeated his usual line: “Mum, I’m grown. I have my own family now.” And what am I? Nothing? The woman who bore and raised him no longer deserves so much as a conversation?
They live in her flat. Three bedrooms, freshly done up. Charlotte boasts she bought it herself. I understand—property is power. But is square footage worth cutting a son from his mother?
I ask nothing. No money, no uninvited visits. I only wanted to remain part of his life. To hear how he fares, to visit, to hold him. Is that a crime?
Sometimes I think Charlotte’s jealous. Not of me—of my influence. Though what influence remains? He speaks to her in every tone, but with me, it’s clipped and formal. As if I’m a stranger.
Still, I hope. That he’ll wake, see that a man shouldn’t erase his mother just because his wife bids it. That they’ll have a strong marriage, that they’ll know loving one’s mother isn’t betrayal.
I did my part. I bore him, raised him, set him on his feet. Now—I let go. But still, I wait. For him to remember. To call. To embrace me. Not out of duty. Because he loves me.
