My daughter-in-law doesn’t even hide the fact that she dislikes me. She called me and accused me of trying to ruin her marriage with Andrew.
Imagine that: my daughter-in-law doesn’t even try to pretend she likes me in the slightest! She throws it in my face whenever she gets the chance, without a hint of shame. And the worst part is — my son knows about it! Here I am, a sixty-year-old woman from a quiet town near Sheffield, who dreamed of being a loving mother and a mother-in-law, surrounded by warmth and respect. I always knew that raising an only child was risky. You shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, but who could have thought it would turn into such a nightmare?
My daughter-in-law, Emily, struck me as too abrasive, too lively, like a storm that couldn’t be tamed, from the first glance. When Andrew, my son, first brought her home, I felt a chill looking into her piercing eyes. She watched me as if scanning every detail, every wrinkle, and every corner of the room. My gut told me: “Be careful,” but I brushed it off. I decided it was just nerves, and I tried to accept the girl my son had chosen as his wife. What could have gone wrong at the first meeting with a future daughter-in-law? Oh, how wrong I was!
The first thing that caught my attention was her arrogance. I’d read in magazines that one sign of a toxic person is rudeness to those of a lower status. And at my age, I still trust such things. That day, we were sitting in a café, and Emily pounced on the waiter like a hawk on its prey. Her dessert, apparently, was “unappetizing,” and she demanded a replacement, doing so in a tone as if the young man was her personal servant. I tried to justify her actions — maybe she was nervous, maybe it was a bad day. But now I know: it was a warning sign that I ignored.
The second thing was her appearance. Forgive me for saying this, but her outfit that day was simply a challenge. A plunging neckline, a short skirt — no, rather, a tight jumpsuit that barely covered her body. Fashionably sporty? A fashion whim? I don’t know what’s trendy now, but it screamed disrespect. She knew she was meeting me, her fiancé’s mother, and could have chosen something more modest if she had any respect for me at all. But no, she didn’t care.
When they got married and started living together, I felt lonely. I missed my only son, his cheerful laughter in our home. For a month I held back, didn’t call, didn’t interfere in their lives. But then I started dialing the number little by little — he is my child, my blood, why should I have to justify myself for that? It turned out, Emily was annoyed by it. She made no secret of her irritation and even told Andrew in front of me: “Hang up, that’s enough chatting with her.” She stood there, and I heard every word, sharp as a knife.
I didn’t want to cause a scene, but I met Andrew alone and asked him directly: what’s going on? He sighed and opened up. Emily, apparently, had a tough past: a boyfriend, a pregnancy, he left her without taking responsibility, and she lost the baby. After that, her mental state was shaken — she had to see doctors. Andrew assured me that she was just stressed, that it was temporary, that psychological consultations would fix everything. But I saw something else: her gaze, her sharpness — it wasn’t just nerves, it was something deeper. And I couldn’t pretend to believe his words.
And then there was an explosion. A few days after our conversation, Emily found out that Andrew had talked to me about her. That’s when she lost it. A late-night phone call hit me like a bolt from the blue. She yelled, accused me of wanting to destroy their marriage, of being a nasty old woman wishing to get rid of her. Her voice trembled with rage, and I realized: she loves Andrew, but it’s a toxic love, clinging like a web. The only bright side in that darkness was her genuine feelings for him. But it didn’t make it any easier for me.
Andrew didn’t defend me. I don’t understand why my son, my boy, whom I raised with such love, can’t stand up to her. It’s like he’s under her spell, bound by her gaze as if on a leash. He isn’t rude to me, but every time he repeats: “Mum, I’m an adult. I have my own family. I’ll decide when to call, when to visit.” Formally, he’s right, but I see: it’s she who sets the rules. She rules their life.
By the way, they live in her flat — a three-bedroom, new, with a shiny renovation. I understand how important property is these days, especially in the city. But is it worth breaking ties with your mother over it? Can square meters really be worth more than blood? I ask myself these questions, and my heart aches.
I still hope that time will put everything in its place. Maybe it’s just necessary to be patient and give them a chance to sort it out. But every day, it becomes clearer: I need to let go. I’ve done my job as a mother — raised a healthy son, gave him wings. The rest is his path, his choice. And yet, deep down, I pray that this storm will pass, that we can become a family again. But for now, I stand on the sidelines of their lives, watching my son dissolve into her world, and I wonder if I’ll have the strength to wait for change.
