“Get out of our house! My son would never abandon his own mother!”
My heart ached with bitterness and fury. My mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson, adored my husband’s former sweetheart, a woman named Beatrice. Their romance had begun in their youth, when they were barely eighteen, and soon after, they’d had a daughter. Though never married, they drifted in and out of each other’s lives, yet Margaret cherished Beatrice and her only granddaughter—there were no other grandchildren to speak of.
Beatrice and my husband, William, lived like a merry-go-round—a year together, then two or three apart, while she took up with other men, only to return again. This dance continued until their daughter turned twelve. During one such parting, William met me. He longed for a proper family, where a child wouldn’t speak of “new dads,” and I, with all my heart, wished to give him that steadiness. So began our tale, full of hope yet shadowed by the past.
We moved into William’s flat in London, where his mother also lived. From the very first day, I felt her icy disdain, sharp as a winter gale. She made no secret of her dislike, forever reminiscing about Beatrice at every turn. The moment I stepped out, Beatrice would arrive—bottle of wine in hand, trading warm words about “the good old days.” Once, I overheard her sneer:
“Don’t get too comfortable, Eleanor. William will come back to me. He always does.”
And Margaret, with a sigh, added: “Sooner rather than later.”
When I fell pregnant, William was over the moon. But the more he rejoiced, the darker Margaret’s mood grew. Alone with me, she spun cruel whispers, urging me to reconsider:
“Think, Eleanor. I worry for you. William will tire of this game and leave, just as he always does—back to Beatrice. And I’ve no need for more grandchildren; one girl is enough. Here, take the money. Do what must be done.”
Her words burned like hot iron. I refused, yet she persisted, as if willing me to break. I swore she waited for my collapse, just to say, “I told you so.” At last, I could bear no more and gave William an ultimatum: we move, or we part ways.
Hearing this, Margaret’s face brightened.
“Well then, Eleanor, best start packing! My son would never leave his mother!”
We sold the flat, added savings from my parents, and bought a modest one-bedroom for Margaret, while we settled into a two-bedroom home. By the time our son was born, we lived far from Beatrice’s mocking gaze and flaunting ways. In time, she married and moved in with Margaret, cramped in that small flat—but that was no longer my concern.
Life steadied: I returned to work, our boy started nursery, and peace seemed restored. Then disaster struck—Margaret broke both heels in a fall, leaving her bedridden. Beatrice, troubled by a bad back, couldn’t care for her, and her marriage had crumbled by then. With Margaret needing months to heal, William decided to bring her to us.
Our boy moved into our bedroom; his grandmother frightened him, for he barely knew her. A month passed in uneasy cohabitation. By day, William tended to his mother; by night, the burden fell to me. I bit my tongue, striving for patience, until I noticed my things disturbed—my clothes rumpled, my cosmetics touched. How? She couldn’t leave her bed!
The truth came when our son fell ill, and I stayed home. Hearing the door, I thought William had returned early—but there stood Beatrice in the hall. Margaret had given her our keys! All this time, she’d slipped in by day, chatted with Margaret, and rifled through my belongings as if they were her own.
When I confronted her, she didn’t flinch. Brushing past as though I were air, she headed straight for Margaret. Their laughter rang from the room. Fury burned through me. This was my home! I tended a woman who despised me, fed her, endured her jabs while my son cowered—and she invited Beatrice to mock me under my own roof?
“Out!” I snapped, snatching the keys from her. “This is my house, and I won’t have you making free with it!”
She merely smirked. “I didn’t come for you, Eleanor. Be gone and let us be!”
Margaret hurled insults after me, but I stopped listening. Seizing Beatrice’s arm, I shoved her out, tossing her coat and boots after. Margaret shrieked, but her words bounced off me like stones against a wall.
When William returned, he’d already heard—his mother had rung him straight away. He demanded I return the keys—Beatrice “brightened her days.” I refused outright. That woman respected nothing—not me, not our home, not our sacrifices. Why must I endure her and her meddling guest, pawing through my things?
After that, Margaret’s taunts grew bolder, and William took her side. Our marriage strained at the seams, and Margaret, it seemed, rejoiced in it. I tried to explain—I’d bear her presence, but not strangers acting as though they owned the place. But he wouldn’t hear it. Now I stand at the crossroads, unsure how to mend what his mother and beloved Beatrice have torn apart—all that I’ve fought so hard to build.