**The Wedding That Showed Me the Truth About My Mother-in-Law**
I suppose I should start from the beginning. We met online—me, a divorced woman with a school-aged daughter, struggling to rebuild my life in Bristol after the split. My ex took the car and vanished to another city, leaving me with the small flat. At first, it was just my girl and me, lonely and adrift. But then I realised I couldn’t spend the rest of my days alone.
Now, James wasn’t exactly a catch—no stable job, no home of his own—but he had a quick wit, and I admit, I was drawn to his easy charm. After a few months, I introduced him to my daughter. To my surprise, they got on well. So, one day, I invited him to move in.
James jumped at the chance—living with his mum had long since worn thin. A month later, he proposed. We agreed not to waste money on a lavish wedding—just a registry office and a modest meal at a pub. But his mother, Margaret, insisted on a “bridal ransom,” calling it tradition. I went along, biting my tongue.
On the day, wearing a simple dress, I stepped into the hallway to greet James and his family. Margaret gave a dramatic once-over and sniffed, “Where’s the bride? I don’t see anyone in white.”
I swallowed the sting. “I’m right here. We should leave soon—the registry office won’t wait.”
At the ceremony, my own mother teared up. Instead of sympathy, Margaret hissed, “Now, why the waterworks? If anyone should cry, it’s me—they’ve taken my son from me today!”
Later, at the pub, the host invited us for our first dance. I stood, but before James could move, Margaret yanked his arm. “The groom’s first dance is with his mother!” she declared, dragging him onto the floor. It was so absurd even I laughed.
Then came the “family photos.” I stepped forward—wasn’t I family now? But Margaret stared me down. “You’re not needed here. This is just for blood relatives.”
I froze. James looked away. And in that moment, I knew—he wouldn’t stand up for me.
The next morning, I rang the photographer and demanded every shot with Margaret be deleted. A small, quiet revenge.
A week later, she barged in while James was at his bartending shift. “At least your girl’s old enough,” she announced. “She can play nanny when you have another.”
“She’s eight!” I snapped.
“Perfect timing. And you? Straight back to work—no freeloading off my son.”
I laughed coldly. “Good thing I’m not pregnant. After this? I’d rather not.”
That was the end. Margaret poisoned James against me, whispering he deserved better—someone “child-free, with a flat, who’d worship him.” He left. I didn’t stop him. Still, Margaret called a week later: “We’ll split the flat. I’ll come by tomorrow to sort it.”
“It’s *my* flat,” I hissed. “And I put up with your son long enough.”
“You were hardly a prize—used goods with a kid!” she spat. “Compensate us, or we’ll take it all in court.”
I hung up. Blocked her number. Never saw either of them again. And good riddance.