Three years ago, my mother-in-law kicked me out with my child. And now shes shocked 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 pain hasnt gone away. Because three years ago, a woman I saw as family threw us out without a second thought. And now she cant understand why I wont talk to her. Worse, shes offended by it.
Oliver and I met in our first year at uni. Proper love at first sightno messing about, no games, things got serious fast. Then, surprise, I got pregnant. Even on the pill, the test showed two lines. Of course, there was fear, panic, tears but abortion wasnt an option. Oliver didnt runhe proposed instead, and we got married.
The problem? We had nowhere to live. My parents are up near Manchester, and Id been in student halls in London since I was seventeen. Oliver had lived alone since he was sixteenhis mum, Margaret, had remarried and moved to Bristol with her new husband, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to him. After the wedding, she *graciously* “allowed” us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked odd jobs, waited for the baby. I cleaned, cooked, pinched every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started visiting. Not just to chatto inspect. Opening cupboards, checking under the bed, taking off her gloves to run a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant, I was running around with a mop trying to please her. No matter how hard I tried, it wasnt good enough.
*Why isnt the towel centred? Crumbs on the kitchen mat! Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!*her nagging never stopped.
When our son William was born, it got worse. Barely enough strength to sleep or breastfeed, but she demanded hospital-level cleanliness. I deep-cleaned three times a weekstill not enough. 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 came back and spotted her old boxes on the balconyones I hadnt touched because they werent mineshe exploded.
*Pack your bags and go back to your parents! Oliver chooses: stay with you or here.*
And Oliver didnt betray me. He came with me to Manchester. We lived with my parents. Hed get up at six, go to lectures, work part-time, come home late. I tried freelancingbarely scraped anything together. Money was tight, counting every pound, eating egg and pasta. Without my parents, we wouldnt have made it. Or without each other.
Slowly, things got better. We graduated, found jobs, rented a place in London. William grew up; we became a proper little family. But the wound? Still there.
Margarets still on her own. The flat she kicked us out of sits empty. She calls Oliver sometimes, asks about her grandson, demands photos. He answers. He doesnt hold a grudge. I do. To me, its betrayal. She wrecked our lives when we were weakest. Left us helpless.
*Its my flat! I had the right!* she says.
Maybe she did, legally. But what about decency? Kindness? Where were those when we were standing at the train station with a baby and two suitcases?
I dont hold grudges. But I dont owe forgiveness. And I wont set foot in her life again.
