Three years ago, my mother-in-law kicked me out with my child. And now, shes baffled that I wont 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 once saw as family tossed us out without a second thought. And now? Shes offended Ive gone silent.
Oliver and I met in our first year at uni. Proper love at first sightno games, no messing about, just straight into seriousness. Then, surprise: I got pregnant. Despite the pill, that little test showed two lines. Of course, there was fear, panic, tears but abortion? Never crossed my mind. Oliver didnt bolthe proposed, and we married.
The trouble was, we had nowhere to live. My parents are near Manchester, and since I was seventeen, Id been in student halls in London. Oliver, though, had lived alone since sixteenhis mum, Margaret, after remarrying, had swanned off to Brighton with her new husband, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to her son. After our wedding, she *magnanimously* “allowed” us to live there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked odd jobs, waited for our baby. I cleaned, cooked, pinched every penny. Then everything flipped when Margaret started visiting. Not for chatsfor inspections. Shed rifle through cupboards, check under the bed, wipe a finger along the windowsill *just to be sure*. Pregnant, I was scrubbing floors to keep her happy. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
*”Why isnt the tea towel centred?” *”Crumbs on the kitchen mat!” *”Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!”her nitpicking never stopped.
When our son, Henry, was born, it got worse. Barely any strength to sleep or breastfeed, yet she demanded surgical-level cleanliness. I deep-cleaned three times a weekstill never enough. One day, she dropped the bomb:
*”Ill be back in a week. If I see a speck of dust, youre out.”*
I begged Oliver to talk to her. He tried. Margaret wouldnt budge. When she returned and spotted her old boxes on the balconyuntouched because they werent mine to moveall hell broke loose.
*”Pack your bags and go back to your parents. Oliver can choose: stay with you or here.”*
And Oliver didnt betray me. He came with me to Manchester. We crashed at my parents. Hed wake at six, dash to lectures, slog through a part-time job, come home late. I scraped by with online gigsbarely made a dent. Money was tight; we counted every pound, lived on egg and pasta. Without my parents, wed have sunk. Without our love, too.
Slowly, things improved. We graduated, found jobs, rented a flat in London. Henry grew; we became a proper little family. But that wound? Still there.
Margaret lives alone now. The flat she booted us from? Empty. She calls Oliver sometimes, asks about her grandson, demands photos. He humours her. Holds no grudge. Me? I do. To me, its betrayal. She wrecked our lives when we were weakest. Left us stranded.
*”Its my flat! I had every right!”* she says.
Maybe *legally*, sure. But morally? Where was her heart when we stood at the train station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not petty. But I dont owe her forgiveness. And in her life? I wont set foot again.
