They say both spouses share the blame in a divorce, but I’d argue till I was blue in the face—sometimes, the true villain of a marital tragedy isn’t the husband or wife, but someone else entirely. In my case, that person was my mother-in-law, a woman whose shadow loomed over our lives like a storm cloud.
Margaret Whitmore, my husband’s mother, had despised me from the very beginning. To her, I was nothing—a girl from a small town in Yorkshire, without wealthy parents, a flat of my own, or influential connections. She, proud and domineering, saw herself as the centre of the universe and had dreamed of a daughter-in-law to match—refined, well-off, with impeccable breeding. But her son, William, chose me—an ordinary lass with grand dreams and a fiery heart.
William still lived with his mother in their old terraced house in Leeds. He drifted from one odd job to another, never settling, never certain what he wanted from life. But I was too young and too smitten to care. Love blinded me, and I never stopped to wonder what kind of husband he’d be or how we’d manage. I soared on the wings of passion—until reality crashed down like a bucket of cold water. When I found out I was expecting, it was too late to reconsider.
Margaret did everything she could to stop our wedding. She called me “her son’s mistake” to my face and begged him to leave me. But William, despite his indecision, stood his ground. We married quietly at the registry office, just the two of us, marking the occasion with a modest meal at a pub on the city’s outskirts. There was no money for a grand affair, and my mother-in-law pointedly refused to even offer congratulations.
Moving into Margaret’s house became a waking nightmare. She made my life hell, lacing every day with cruel jabs. “Country bumpkin,” “useless,” “freeloader”—these were her favourite words for me. Every little thing I did—cooking supper, tidying up—was met with ruthless criticism. She seemed to relish watching my confidence crumble. I endured it for William’s sake, though inside, I seethed.
Then, one day, I’d had enough. After yet another row—where William half-heartedly defended me—I decided to leave and go back to my parents. As I packed my things, Margaret, furious, shoved me in the doorway. I stumbled and tumbled down the stairs. The bruises and scrapes healed, but the worst came at the hospital—I lost the baby. The world shattered. I wept for nights on end, unable to grasp what had happened. But life demanded I carry on. I found work as a hostess in an upscale restaurant in Manchester and began rebuilding myself. William and I reconciled, but the way I saw him had changed forever.
I suggested we rent our own place, to start fresh and shield ourselves from his mother. If he’d only find steady work, we could’ve managed it. But William refused, muttering something about not abandoning his mum. That’s when I knew—he’d always be tied to her apron strings. Heartbroken, I made my choice—I filed for divorce and began saving for my own flat.
I celebrated the divorce with gusto, as if breaking free from chains. I booked a private room at the finest restaurant in town, bought a splendid dress that showed off my newfound confidence, and invited all my friends. In a final act of defiance, I even sent an invitation to Margaret and William. Naturally, they didn’t come. Their absence only made my victory sweeter.
Years later, I spotted them by chance on the street. William, still as lost and dishevelled as ever, walked arm in arm with his mother. Margaret had aged, but her haughty air remained. William was still her little boy, forever unable to break free.