Three years ago, my mother-in-law kicked me out with my child. And now, shes baffled that I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in London, raising my son, and doing my best to build a stable life. But deep down, that ache hasnt faded. Because three years ago, a woman I saw as family tossed us out without a second thought. And now? She cant fathom why I wont talk to her. Worse, shes offended by it.
Oliver and I met in our first year at uni. A proper whirlwind romanceno games, no messing about, things got serious fast. Then, surprise, I got pregnant. Despite the pill, that little stick showed two lines. There were tears, panic, the lot but abortion was never an option. Oliver didnt bolthe proposed, and we got married.
The problem? We had nowhere to live. My parents were up in Manchester, and Id been in student digs since I was seventeen. Oliver, on the other hand, had lived alone since he was sixteenhis mum, Margaret, had remarried and moved to Brighton with her new husband, leaving her tiny flat in Croydon to him. After we tied the knot, she graciously allowed us to move in.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked odd jobs, and waited for our baby. I cleaned, cooked, pinched every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started dropping by. Not for a chatfor an inspection. Shed rifle through cupboards, check under the sofa, even wipe a finger along the windowsill to test for dust. Pregnant and exhausted, Id still scramble to mop floors just to keep her happy. But no matter what I did, it was never enough.
Why isnt the towel centred? Crumbs on the kitchen rug! Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!her critiques never ended.
When our son, William, was born, it got worse. Barely able to sleep or breastfeed, yet she demanded surgical-level cleanliness. Three times a week, Id deep-clean, but it was never enough. One day, she snapped:
Ill be back in a week. If I see so much as a speck of dust, youre out!
I begged Oliver to talk to her. He triedbut Margaret wouldnt budge. When she returned and spotted her old boxes on the balcony (which Id left alone because they werent mine), all hell broke loose.
Pack your things and go back to your parents! Oliver can choosestay with you or stay here.
And Oliver didnt betray me. He came with me to Manchester. We lived with my parents. Hed wake at six, head to lectures, work shifts, come home late. I scraped by with online gigsbarely making a dent. Money was tight, every pound counted, and we lived on beans on toast. Without my parents, wed have been sunk. Without our love, too.
Slowly, things improved. We graduated, found jobs, rented a flat in London. William grew up; we became a proper little family. But that wound? It never quite healed.
Margarets still alone. The flat she booted us from sits empty. She calls Oliver now and then, asks after her grandson, demands photos. He humours her. He doesnt hold a grudge. Me? I do. To me, it was betrayal. She shattered us when we were most vulnerable. Left us stranded with a baby and two suitcases.
Its my flat! I had every right! she says.
Maybe she did, legally. But where was her conscience? Her heart? Where were they when we were standing at the train station, clueless and broke?
Im not petty. But I dont owe her forgiveness. And I wont step foot in her life again.
