Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me and my child out of her house. And now, she cant understand 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 hurt hasnt gone away. Because three years ago, a woman I once saw as family tossed us out without a second thought. Now, she acts surprised that I dont acknowledge her. Worseshes offended by it.
Oliver and I met in our first year at university. Love at first sightno games, no nonsense, things got serious fast. Then, out of the blue, I fell pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test showed two lines. There was fear, panic, tears but abortion was never an option. Oliver didnt runhe proposed, and we got married.
The problem was, we had nowhere to live. My parents were in Manchester, and Id been in student halls in London since I was seventeen. Oliver, though, had lived alone since he was sixteenhis mother, Margaret, had remarried and moved to Bristol with her new husband, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to him. After our wedding, she “graciously” allowed us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked odd jobs, and waited for our baby. I cleaned, cooked, pinched every penny. But things changed when Margaret started visiting. Not for chatsfor inspections. Shed open cupboards, check under the bed, wipe a finger along the windowsill to test for dust. Pregnant and exhausted, Id rush around with a mop just to please her. 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 comments never stopped.
When our son William was born, it got worse. Barely able to sleep or breastfeed, yet she demanded spotless perfection. I scrubbed the flat three times a weekit was never sufficient. One day, she snapped:
Ill be back in a week. If I see a speck of dust, youre out!
I begged Oliver to talk to her. He tried. But Margaret wouldnt budge. When she returned and spotted her old boxes on the balconyones I hadnt touched because they werent mineshe exploded.
Pack your things 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 lived with my parents. He woke at six, went to lectures, worked late shifts, came home exhausted. I tried freelancingbarely made a penny. We counted every pound, lived on egg and pasta. Without my parents, we wouldnt have survived. Or without our love.
Slowly, things improved. We graduated, found jobs, rented a flat in London. William grew up; we became a proper family. But the wound never fully healed.
Margaret still lives alone. The flat she kicked us out of stands empty. She calls Oliver now and then, asks about her grandson, demands photos. He answers. He doesnt hold grudges. I do. To me, it was betrayal. She shattered our lives when we were at our weakest. Left us defenceless.
It was my flat! I had every right! she says.
Maybe she had the right. But where was her conscience? Her heart? Where were they when we stood at the train station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not a vengeful person. But I dont owe her forgiveness. And I wont set foot in her life again.
