I can’t help feeling wronged by the strained relationship with my mother-in-law.
My husband Tom’s grandmother lives in a quiet market town in the Midlands. She’s not alone—her spacious three-bed council flat is crowded with seven people: herself, her son and his wife, their daughter, and her two little ones.
She’s far from neglected, surrounded by warmth and chatter. But she only remembers her own daughter and son around Christmas. She’ll ring her daughter, asking after her life, and—until recently—she’d also send money with instructions to buy gifts for herself and Tom. A hundred quid for a throw blanket, fifty for tea towels, seventy-five for new bedsheets. In Gran’s mind, these were perfect presents.
Then I came into Tom’s life, and things shifted. I had a son from my first marriage, and when we moved in together, my mother-in-law made sure Gran knew. She was thrilled—her grandson had found a family: a woman he loved and a child. To Gran, there’s no such thing as someone else’s kid. Years ago, she took in her cousin’s orphaned nephews and raised them like her own. Now they send her money and beg her to move in, but she won’t leave her grandchildren.
Tom and I had been together six months when we decided to register our wedding in early December. As usual, Gran sent cash for gifts and gave my mother-in-law a strict shopping list. She rang Tom, asking for a lift—there’d be too much to carry. The car was mine, and Tom hadn’t got his licence yet, something she knew full well. Still, we went together—me driving, my son buckled in the back—to collect her.
The moment she slid into the seat, her cough frightened me. It sounded like she couldn’t breathe. My son had just been discharged from hospital, and panic shot through me. “Are you ill?” I demanded. She waved me off. “Just these cheap fags. Too tight to throw ‘em out.” My dad smoked his whole life—I’d never heard a cough like that. Then she rubbed her temples like her head was splitting. No question—she was sick.
I said it plainly: I wouldn’t risk my son’s health. Two choices—she and Tom get a taxi to the shops while we went home, or I drove her alone while they took the cab. She picked the first.
Three hours later, Tom returned with Gran’s haul: a tablecloth and kitchen curtains for me, a remote-control car for my son, toiletries and a new towel for himself. My mother-in-law seemed miffed. She rang Gran, declaring she’d never buy our gifts again. Gran called me immediately, asking for my bank details to send money straight to me.
That New Year’s, we celebrated just us, turning down my mother-in-law’s invitation. Tom went alone, handed over presents, wished her well. For Gran, we chose a tin of shortbread, a jar of caviar, fancy chocolates, and her favourite smoked sausage.
I married Tom soon after, and the next New Year, I was his wife. Gran sent gifts again—and separately transferred money to her daughter. When she asked Tom how much we’d got, he told her honestly. Turned out, our share was triple my mother-in-law’s. Made sense—four ways split four, didn’t it? She still wanted to shop with us, but Tom refused. I didn’t even know—wouldn’t have minded.
Come the holidays, we sent treats again—posh biscuits and gifts for her, luxury ham and a cashmere shawl for Gran. But at midnight, my phone buzzed. Her text dripped resentment—how a wife should respect her mother-in-law, not come between mother and son. She wished me “many lonely Christmases, just like hers.”
I showed Tom. He wouldn’t let it ruin the night—waited two days before ringing her. “What’s this about?” Turned out, in her eyes, I’d “stolen” her son. She accused me of robbing her right to buy Gran’s gifts, of cutting her off from Tom. He told her she was making drama from nothing, told her to have a cup of chamomile and calm down.
By the next New Year, I was pregnant with our daughter. Gran knew—sent extra for a coming-home outfit. In the end, we got five times what my mother-in-law did. She found out from Gran, and when she quizzed Tom, he stayed silent.
A year on, nothing’s improved. To her, I’m a thief—I stole her son, I stole her mother. How she reached that conclusion, I’ll never know. Tom never visited much even before me. She’s the one who quit buying gifts. But I suppose it’s easier to blame me.
She won’t even see her granddaughter. Burned every bridge so badly even Tom struggles to tolerate her. She insists our marriage won’t last, waits for the day he “wakes up” and leaves me. He hangs up or walks out when she starts.
Soon, Gran’s list will arrive again. Tom refuses to buy his mum’s gifts, but I talk him round—she’s his mother. How can we leave her with nothing? I don’t know if we’ll ever mend things, but I know one thing—none of this is my fault.