My mother-in-law is called Margaret Wilkins. At first glance, she struck me as a strong-willed woman—and I wasn’t wrong. From the very beginning, she saw me not as a daughter-in-law but as an intruder, a rival who had stolen her only beloved son. I thought it would pass, that it was just jealousy—an ageing, lonely mother struggling to accept that her place in her son’s heart was now shared. But I never imagined she’d one day fight for his attention not just against me… but even against her own grandson.
After our parents met, my own mum whispered to me, her voice trembling with worry:
*”Move somewhere far away, and then maybe you’ll have peace. As long as she’s nearby, there’ll be no rest for you.”*
Sadly, she was right.
We lived in a flat that my husband—James—had inherited from his grandmother. And it was just a ten-minute walk from Margaret’s house. So she was practically living with us. She’d turn up at seven on a Saturday—*”baked some scones, had to bring some for my boy.”* She might drop by near midnight—*”something felt off, had to check on him.”* More than once, I’d come home from work to find her already perched on the bench outside our block, waiting just to walk us to the door.
I put up with it for ages. Bit my tongue, forced smiles, played the part. But one day, I finally told James:
*”Love, this can’t go on. It’s exhausting—we’ve no privacy, no peace. You need to talk to her.”*
He did. I knew it the next morning when the phone rang—her sobbing voice hissed words I’d never forget:
*”You selfish girl! Trying to steal a mother’s son!”*
After that, Margaret changed tactics. No more uninvited visits—now she summoned James. Constantly. Headaches, heart flutters, pure loneliness. Or she’d bake his *”favourite treacle tart”*—how could he say no? He’d leave guilt-ridden, return an hour—sometimes more—later.
Mum said there were only two choices: divorce or endure. I chose endure. Shut my eyes, made myself small. Until I got pregnant.
Then James woke up. Suddenly, he was the perfect husband—attentive, tender, doting. But the happier I grew, the darker Margaret became. And I realised—she wasn’t just jealous of me. She was jealous of the baby.
The day we left the hospital, James nearly missed it. His mum had called at dawn in a panic—*”can’t breathe,” “heart’s racing,” “I think I’m dying.”* Instead of a doctor, she called her son. He rushed over, dialled 999, only for the paramedics to shrug—*”slight blood pressure spike, nothing serious.”* He sprinted back to the hospital, flustered and late. That’s when I knew for sure.
When we brought the baby home, Margaret visited—*”to see her grandson.”* But her focus wasn’t on him. She paced the flat, sighing over her loneliness, demanding James *”visit his poor mum more, not stay cooped up here.”* Even her own sister snapped:
*”Maggie, have you lost the plot? There’s a newborn here. It’s a celebration. And you’re making it about you?”*
It was only the beginning. Birthdays, holidays, outings—Margaret had a *”crisis”* every time. And not just sulks—full-blown performances. Fake tears, guilt trips, tantrums.
When I was made redundant, I stayed home with the baby. James worked double shifts, left early, returned late. Weekends were his only time with our son—yet even those two days Margaret stole. *”Fix the boiler,” “move the wardrobe,” “just come keep me company.”*
I cracked. Called her myself. Calm, firm:
*”Margaret, James only gets two days a week with his child. He’ll visit you, but later. Let him be a father.”*
Know what she said?
*”He’s got a lifetime 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 hit me. To her, no one mattered—not her grandson, not me, not even her son’s happiness. Only her.
Then came the final act. Our son’s birthday. Margaret demanded James *”fix her tap.”* That day. When he refused, she exploded—screaming, threats, a dramatic *”turn.”* That was it.
For the first time, James snapped.
*”Mum, I have a family. And I won’t let you wreck it. I love you, but I’m not jumping at your beck and call anymore.”*
She blamed me, of course. Always someone else’s fault. But I stayed silent. She’d burned every bridge herself. With her greed for attention. Her selfishness.
Sometimes I wonder—if she’d just been kind, just been human… Maybe we’d all be one family now. Instead, there’s nothing left but scorched earth between us.
