“What Do You Mean You Won’t Raise My Son’s Child?” – A Would-Be Mother-in-Law’s Fury and the Real Story Behind the Family Fallout at Our Class Reunion

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 1

What do you mean, youre not going to look after my sons child? Margaret demanded, quite unable to keep her voice steady.

Well, firstly, Im not acting all high and mighty about Jamie, said Rita, trying to stay calm. And lets not forget, its me hereafter a full days workdoing the second shift in the kitchen, scrubbing, and picking socks off every conceivable surface like any halfway decent wife and mother. Im more than happy to help out, offer some advice, but I have absolutely no intention of shouldering full parental responsibility.

What do you mean, no intention? Margaret stared at her as if Rita had announced her plans to join a circus. So this is the real you, is it? Hypocrite!

Oh come off it, youre one to talk, Susie. Who wants to work for zip? Of course, at their class reunion, Susannever one to miss an opportunity for moral outragecouldnt resist having her say.

Gone were the days, though, when Rita would stand there spluttering and awkward. No, she was well-armed with comebacks now, and she certainly wasnt about to let Susan and her acid tongue have the last word.

Just because youre living payday to payday doesnt mean everyone else is on the breadline, Rita said lightly, giving a nonchalant shrug. Ive got two London flats from my dad, you know. One we lived in before the divorce, the other from the grandparents, trickled down to me eventually.

And rents there! Well, lets just say I can pay for lifes little luxuries without having to work in a knicker shop just to make ends meet. Which, by the way, was the whole reason you left medicine for retail, wasnt it?

That bit, to be fair, was a secret. Rita had sworn on her best pair of shoes shed never tell a soul how Susan went from stethoscope to store assistant.

But honestly, Susan should have watched her mouth if she was that desperate to keep things hush-hush. Calling Rita stupid in public? Really? If she expected to get away with it, there was only one daft person here, and it clearly wasnt Rita.

You work as a shop assistant? Seriously?

You promised, Rita! Susan squealed, clutching her handbag like a life preserver, and fled the restaurant, barely holding back tears.

Serves her right, Andy announced after a shocked pause.

Absolutely. Ive had my fill. Who even invited her this year? added Tanya.

I did, actually, said Anna, the ex-form rep and current social secretary, a little sheepishly. I mean, Susan was never exactly a ray of sunshine at school, but people can change, cant they? Well, some people

But not always, Rita commented, shrugging, and the table burst out laughing. Then, inevitably, everyone began grilling Rita about her job.

The curiosity was understandablegenuine curiosity, not a hint of the old mockery about her choices or intelligencesince hardly anyone ever met people in her line of work. And, lets face it, you wouldnt wish a day in those shoes even on your worst enemy.

So Rita spent the evening busting myths and answering the endless string of questions from her old mates.

Whats the point of treating them if its hopeless? someone piped up from down the table.

Oh come onits not like that. Take this little lad I see, five years oldbirth complications, bit starved of oxygen, so hes behind in development. Luckily, the forecasts good. He started talking a bit late, but with practice and trips to specialists hell likely end up in a mainstream school, no trouble! If nobodyd bothered, it would be a totally different story.

So, basically, said Val, since you dont need to chase the pound, you do a job that actually matters.

Just then, the conversation turned to whose husband was most useless and which classmates still lived with their mums.

Rita, meanwhile, suddenly felt someones gaze prickling the back of her neckthen laughed at herself, as nobody was looking her way at all. Mustve been the wine, she thought, and forgot about it by dessert.

A week after the school reunion, Rita, about to drive to work, realised someone had boxed her car in at the block of flats. She phoned the number in the window and was met by a barrage of apologies: Terribly sorry, love, Ill be down in a tick! Sure enough, a charming chap jogged over, hand swept through fair hair. Max, he announced with a grin.

Rita, she replied, feeling an instant wave of goodwill. It was partly the aftershave, partly the way he held himself, but mainly that faint air of harmless mischief. He asked her out there and then, and Ritaagainst the advice of her own inner cynicsaid yes.

One date became two, then three, and three months later she couldnt picture life without Max, or his son Jamie.

Even more impressively, Maxs mother and Jamie himself welcomed Rita with open arms. Jamie had his quirksRitas professional expertise came in handybut she found ways to connect. She even gave Max some new techniques for helping Jamie fit in better at school.

After a year, Rita moved into Maxs flat with him and Jamie, letting her own place through the London agent who looked after her other properties.

Then the little warning bells started up.

At first, it was minorHelp Jamie get ready, would you? or Keep an eye on him while I nip out for milk. FineRita liked Jamie, and she wasnt rushed off her feet at those moments.

But slowly, the requests grew. It was as if Maxand then his mumassumed Rita would gleefully become Super Nanny, giving up evenings and weekends.

She had to have it out with Max: Look, Jamies your sonand your responsibility first. Ill help when I can, but Im not prepared to become the all-purpose caregiver. My patience for working with children with special needs is pretty much spent by five oclock.

Max seemed to get the pointuntil, right before the wedding, he and Margaret started going on about Jamies therapy plans. The way they talked, it was clearly understood Rita would manage the whole show, sacrificing her own time.

Right, hang on, both of you, Rita cut in sharply. Max, we agreedJamies your responsibility. I dont expect you to go round fixing my mums roof or running her errands, do I? I manage that stuff on my own. Same principle applies.

Oh, its hardly the same, huffed Margaret. Shes an adult living on her lonesome. Whereas Jamies a child.

You dont intend to keep this up after the wedding, do you? Turning your nose up at Jamiethe family wont stand for it!

Im not turning my nose up at anyone. But lets be clearI already cook, clean, and manage the washing-up brigade every night while holding down a job. Max is the parent here. I can give advice, but Im not taking over as substitute mum.

So youre not even going to try? So youre all talkhappy to brag to your friends about your busy, important job, but when it actually comes to looking after a child, its suddenly radio silence?

What are you on about? Rita asked, baffled. Then the penny droppedshe suddenly remembered that Margaret picked up shifts as a dishwasher at the very restaurant where her school reunion was held.

Theyd set the whole thing up, she realised, so she could be conveniently landed with Maxs child.

You sly foxes, you planned this all along, didnt you?

Think Im over the moon about being with someone like you? Max blurted out. If it wasnt for Jamieand your jobId never have bothered with you!

Oh, wouldnt you just? Well thendont! Rita whipped off her engagement ring and flung it straight at his chest.

Youll regret this, Max and Margaret threatened. What sort of proper English bloke wants a dowdy woman with a dead-end job and no cash?

Ah, but Ive got two London flats. Im not exactly counting coppers, Rita shot back with a grin.

She let herself relish the look on their faces as she went to pack her bags.

Of course, next came the desperate charm offensive: promises to handle Jamie, promises never to speak that way again, promises he was simply stressed, overtired, madly in love, sorry, sorry, sorry, pinky promise, on his mums life, never again.

But Rita wasnt the daft one here, so she just laughed, said, Well, youve lost your little grey mouse, Max, and walked outwithout a flicker of regret.

Her old schoolmates roared with laughter when she told them later. Rita, meanwhile, decided to wait for someone whod love her not for her money or her skill with troubled children, but for herself.

And in the meantime? Well, she had her job, her mates, and, if she fancied, she could finally get a cattheyre much easier to house-train than the average man, after all!

When My Mother-in-Law Declared, “I’m in Charge Here,” I Was Already Holding a Small Blue Envelope She never raised her voice. Women like her don’t shout—they simply raise an eyebrow. The first time she did it was the very day we moved into our “new” home—a home I’d decorated down to the last detail, where I chose the curtains and every mug had its place. She marched in like an inspector, surveyed the living room, the kitchen, and then me. “Mmm… it’s very… modern,” she said. “I’m glad you like it,” I replied calmly. She didn’t answer me directly. Instead, she leaned towards my husband and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “Son, I just hope it’s at least clean.” He smiled awkwardly. I smiled for real. The problem with mothers-in-law like her isn’t that they attack; they claim territory. Like cats—with pearls around their necks. And when a woman starts marking her ground, you have two choices: stand your ground immediately or eventually become a guest in your own life. Over time, she started coming more often—”Just dropping something off,” “Only five minutes,” or “Let me show you how to make a proper roast.” Those five minutes became dinners, then comments, then rules. One morning, I found her rearranging my cupboards. Mine. When I caught her, I calmly leaned on the counter. “What are you doing?” I asked. Without a hint of guilt she replied, “Helping. This just makes more sense. You don’t seem to understand organisation,” and smiled like a woman who had already placed her crown. That’s when I realised: this wasn’t help. This was conquest. And my husband? He was one of those who believed, “Women will sort it out.” He saw “little domestic issues.” I saw something else: a quiet campaign to edge me out. The tipping point came on my husband’s birthday. I’d prepared a dinner—elegant, homely, understated. Candles. Glasses. Music. Everything just as he loved. She arrived early. And not alone. She brought a “friend”—a distant relative—who immediately sat in the lounge as the audience. I knew what was coming. When a mother-in-law brings a witness, it’s a show. The meal went smoothly—until she raised her glass for a toast. “I have something important to say,” she began, in that verdict-announcing voice. “Tonight, we celebrate my son, and one thing needs to be clear: this house…” She paused. “…is a family home. Not one woman’s.” My husband froze. The relative smiled slyly. I didn’t move. She continued, boldly: “I have a key. I come when I need to. When he needs me. And a wife…” She glanced at me like an unfamiliar piece of furniture, “…should remember her place.” And then came the line that gave her away altogether: “I make the decisions here.” The rooms’ silence was taut as a wire. Everyone waited for me to be humiliated. Most women would cry. Argue. Break. But I just straightened my napkin—and smiled. The week before, I’d visited someone. Not a solicitor, not a notary, but an elderly former neighbour who knew much more than she ever said. She’d invited me for tea and got right to the point: “She’s always wanted control. Even when it wasn’t hers to take. But there’s something you don’t know…” She pulled out a little blue envelope—plain, unmarked. She handed it to me as if it were the key to the whole truth. Inside was a postal receipt—a copy—for a letter sent long ago to my husband’s address, but… retrieved by his mother. The letter was about the house. He’d never seen it. The neighbour whispered, “She opened it. Alone. Not in front of him.” I took that blue envelope without emotion—but my mind flashed cold with understanding. The birthday dinner continued with her toast and satisfaction. And then—just when she expected everyone to nod along—I stood up. Not quickly, not dramatically. I simply stood. Looked at her calmly and said, “Fantastic. Since you’re deciding… let’s settle something tonight, too.” She smiled, ready to crush me: “Finally, you understand.” But I turned to my husband. “Darling… did you know who took a letter addressed to you?” His eyebrows shot up. “What letter…?” That’s when I pulled out the small blue envelope from my bag and placed it on the table, right in front of my mother-in-law. Just like a judge presenting the evidence. Her eyes narrowed. The relative was agape. I said, clearly, firmly, in a voice that allowed no argument, “While you were deciding for us… I found the truth.” She tried to laugh it off: “What nonsense…” But I’d started. I explained to my husband—how the letter was meant for him, how she’d taken it, how she’d hidden house-related information. He picked up the envelope with shaking hands, looking at his mother like he was seeing her true face for the first time. “Mum…why?” he whispered. She tried to turn it into “care”: “Because you’re naive! Women…” I cut her off with the sharpest weapon: silence. I let her words land like mud on her own dress. Then I delivered the finishing line: “While you were telling me my place… I reclaimed my home.” No yelling. Just a symbol. I took her coat from the rack, handed it over with a smile and said, “From now on… when you visit, you’ll ring the bell. And you’ll wait to be invited in.” She looked at me like a woman losing her power. “You can’t…” “I can,” I interrupted gently. “Because you’re not above me anymore.” My heels echoed on the floor like a full-stop to the sentence. I opened the door. I saw her out—not as an enemy, but as someone ending a chapter. She left. The relative followed. My husband stayed—shocked, but awakened. He looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry…I didn’t see it.” I looked back calmly: “Now you do.” And then I locked the door. Not hard—just final. The last thought in my head was crystal clear: “My home is not a battlefield for someone else’s power.” ❓And you—if your mother-in-law tried to run your life—would you stop her right away, or only after she’d already pushed you aside?

022

The Fool Everyone thought Anna was a fool. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years, with two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband cheated almost openly—starting with the waitress on their second day of marriage and more flings than anyone could count. Friends tried to open Anna’s eyes, but she just smiled sweetly and kept quiet. Anna worked as an accountant at a children’s toy factory for a tiny salary, buried under work, often even on weekends. Quarterly and annual reports meant she’d sometimes not come home at night. Her husband earned plenty, but as a homemaker Anna was also hopeless. However much money she got, there was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she’d manage was borscht or meatballs with pasta. That’s how things were. Everyone wondered when they saw Derek with a new girlfriend. He’d often come home stone-cold sober, too. “Oh Anna’s such a fool, why does she put up with that womanizer?” they’d mutter. On the day Sam turned ten, Derek came home and told Anna he wanted a divorce—he claimed he’d fallen in love and the family no longer suited him. “Anna, don’t take it badly, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re as cold as a fish. If you were at least a good cook, but even that you’ve not mastered.” “All right, I agree to the divorce.” Derek nearly fell off his chair. He expected scandal, tears, and hysterics—not this calm. “Fine, then start packing your things, I won’t get in your way. Leave your key under the mat tomorrow.” Anna smiled at him a little too pleasantly. Derek thought it all a bit strange, but shrugged it off, picturing his new happy life without kids and a boring wife. Next day, he came home with his new flame. Looked under the mat—no key, which slightly soured his mood. “Oh well, I’ll just change the locks—easy,” he thought, but when he tried his own key, it no longer worked. He rang the bell, and a burly man in slippers and a dressing gown opened the door. “What d’you want, mate?” “This is my flat,” Derek blurted out. “Well, I’d argue with that. Got documents? If so, let’s see them.” Of course, Derek didn’t have any documents on him and wasn’t let in. Suddenly he remembered—his passport should have his residency listed! He hunted for it and finally found it. “Here’s my passport, the address is in there.” The man flicked through the passport, smirked, and handed it back. “When’s the last time you opened this little book?” Feeling uneasy, Derek checked the registration page. Two stamps. One for moving in, another one, dated two years ago, for moving out. How could this have happened? He didn’t dare argue with the giant and called Anna, but she was out of reach. He waited outside her work, only to learn Anna hadn’t worked there for a year. The daughter was studying abroad, but Sam should be at school. Even there, disappointment—Sam had transferred last year and, as Derek obviously didn’t know this, no one would tell him where. Completely defeated, Derek sat on a bench, his head in his hands. How could the quiet, mousey Anna pull this off? And how did she sell the flat? Oh well, he’d sort it in court. At the divorce hearing, Derek was ready to expose the fraud and get everything back. And in court, everything finally came out. Two years earlier, distracted by his affair with the stunner Elise, he’d signed a power of attorney over to Anna for paperwork their daughter needed for university, on a solicitor’s advice. So, by his own hand, Derek had stripped himself of everything. Now he was alone, out on the street, and to make matters worse, when Elise heard he’d lost the flat, she vanished without a trace. “Well, at least she’ll have to sue me for child support—that’s one thing I can deny her,” Derek thought. But instead of a maintenance claim, he received a summons for a paternity dispute. Turns out both children were fathered by another man. Anna had seen her husband’s first betrayal, with the waitress, on their wedding day. Something inside her snapped. She didn’t quite know what drove her, but she chose an unusual path: revenge through infidelity, stashing away the money Derek gave her, and seeing that the children were always well fed and cared for at their grandmother’s. Anna’s mother warned her: “Revenge will destroy you and ruin the children’s lives.” But Anna was determined. She even got DNA tests done—though she already knew the truth about the children’s father. That blow hit Derek harder than losing the flat. Beware the women you’ve wronged—there’s nothing so formidable as a woman scorned.