Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me out with my child. And now, she wonders why 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, the pain hasnt faded. Because three years ago, a woman I once saw as family cast us out without a second thought. And now, she cant understand why I wont talk to her. Worse, shes offended by it.
William and I met in our first year at uni. It was love at first sightno games, no parties, things got serious fast. Then, surprise, I fell pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test showed two lines. Of course, there was fear, panic, tears but the idea of an abortion was unthinkable. William didnt runhe proposed, and we got married.
The problem was, we had nowhere to live. My parents are near Manchester, and Id been in student halls in London since I was seventeen. William, on the other hand, had lived alone since he was sixteenhis mother, Margaret, after remarrying, had moved to Bristol with her new husband, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to her son. After our wedding, she “graciously” allowed us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked part-time, and waited for our baby. I cleaned, cooked, saved every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started visiting. Not just to chatto inspect. Shed open cupboards, check under the bed, run a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant, I was scrubbing floors just to please her. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
“Why isnt the towel centred?” “Crumbs on the kitchen rug!” “Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!”her criticisms never stopped.
When our son Oliver was born, it got worse. Barely able to sleep or breastfeed, yet she demanded spotless perfection. Three times a week, I deep-cleaned, but it was never enough. One day, she snapped:
“Ill be back in a week. If I see a speck of dust, youre out!”
I begged William to talk to her. He tried. But Margaret wouldnt budge. When she returned and found her old boxes on the balconyuntouched because they werent mineshe exploded.
“Pack your bags and go back to your parents! William can choose: stay with you or stay here.”
And William didnt betray me. He came with me to Manchester. We lived with my parents. He woke at six, went to lectures, worked odd jobs, came home late. I tried freelancingbarely scraped by. Money was tight, we counted every pound, lived on egg and pasta. Without my parents, we wouldnt have made it. Or without our love.
Slowly, things improved. We graduated, found jobs, rented a flat in London. Oliver grew, we became a proper family. But the wound never healed.
Margaret still lives alone. The flat she kicked us out of stands empty. She calls William sometimes, asks about her grandson, demands photos. He replies. He doesnt hold a grudge. I do. To me, its betrayal. She shattered our lives when we were most vulnerable. She abandoned us, left us helpless.
“Its my flat! I had every right!” she says.
Maybe she did, legally. But what about decency? What about heart? Where were those when we stood at the train station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not vengeful. But I dont owe forgiveness. And I wont set foot in her life again.
