Oh, you won’t believe the drama with my mother-in-law. Her name’s Margaret Thompson, and let me tell you, she’s a piece of work. From the moment I met her, she saw me not as her son’s wife but as some intruder stealing her precious boy away. I thought it’d pass—just a bit of empty nest syndrome, you know? But I never imagined she’d end up fighting for his attention not just against me… but even against her own grandchild.
When our parents first met, my mum pulled me aside, her voice all shaky, and whispered, “Move as far away as you can. That’s the only way you’ll have peace. As long as she’s around, there’ll be no rest for you.”
Turns out, she was right.
We lived in a flat my husband—James—inherited from his nan. And wouldn’t you know it? The place was just a ten-minute walk from Margaret’s. So she might as well have moved in. Seven on a Saturday morning? She’d ring the doorbell—”Baked some scones, had to bring some for my boy.” Nearly midnight? “Oh, I just had this awful feeling, had to check on him.” Sometimes I’d come home from work, and there she’d be, perched on the bench outside our building, waiting to walk us to the door.
I put up with it for ages. Bit my tongue, forced a smile, played the good wife. But one day I finally snapped. “James, this can’t go on. We’ve got no space, no peace. You’ve got to talk to her.”
He did. I knew it the next day when the phone rang—full-on sobbing, and a line I’ll never forget: “You selfish girl! Trying to steal a mother’s son!”
After that, Margaret switched tactics. No more surprise visits—now she’d summon James to her place. Constantly. “My blood pressure’s up,” or “My heart’s acting up,” or just “I’m so lonely.” And of course, she’d bake his favourite Victoria sponge—how could he say no? He’d leave guilt-ridden, come back an hour later… sometimes much later.
Mum said there were two choices—divorce or endure. I chose endure. Shut my eyes, made myself small. Then I got pregnant.
Suddenly, James woke up. Dotting on me, all sweet and attentive—the perfect husband. But the happier I was, the darker Margaret got. And I realised… she wasn’t just jealous of me. She was jealous of the baby.
Day we brought the baby home from hospital? James nearly missed it. Margaret had called at dawn in a panic—”I’m poorly, my heart’s racing, I think I’m dying!” Instead of a doctor, she rang him. He rushed over, called an ambulance, and what did they say? “Bit of high blood pressure, but fine otherwise.” He showed up at the hospital last-minute, all ruffled and guilty. That’s when I knew for sure.
When we finally got home with the baby, Margaret came round—supposedly to see her grandson. But she wasn’t looking at him. Just pacing our flat, moaning about how lonely she was, how hard life was, demanding James “visit his poor mum more, instead of hiding away here.” Even her own sister lost patience: “Maggie, are you serious? There’s a newborn here! This is meant to be a happy time. What’s wrong with you?”
That was just the start. Every birthday, every celebration, every little plan—suddenly, Margaret would have a “crisis.” And not just whinging—full-blown performances. Fake tears, guilt trips, tantrums, the lot.
When I got made redundant, I stayed home with the baby. James worked twice as hard—out early, back late. Weekends were his only time with our son. But even then, Margaret wouldn’t let us be. “Fix the tap,” “move the wardrobe,” or just “come keep me company.”
I snapped. Called her myself, calm but firm: “Margaret, James only gets two days a week with his child. He’ll visit you, but later. Let him be a dad.”
Know what she said?
“He’s got his whole life to be a father. But he’s only got one mother. And who’s to say this baby’s even his last?”
That’s when it clicked. To her, none of us mattered—not her grandson, not me, not even her own son’s happiness. Only her.
Then came the final straw. Our son’s birthday. Margaret rang James to “fix a leak.” That day. When he said no, she threw a fit—screaming, threats, a dramatic “attack.” That was it.
James finally lost it. “Mum, I’ve got a family now. And I won’t let you wreck it. I love you, but I’m not dropping everything for you anymore.”
Of course, she blamed me. Always someone else’s fault. But I didn’t say a word. She did this to herself. Burnt every bridge with her own two hands.
Sometimes I wonder—if she’d just been kind, just been decent… maybe we’d all be one big family now. Instead? Nothing but scorched earth between us.
