My heart aches with sorrow and bewilderment. I have two sons, and with one daughter-in-law, I found harmony, but with the other—it’s as though an impenetrable wall has risen between us. Emily, the wife of my younger son, is convinced I scheme to end her marriage to my James. Yet, watching her behaviour, I can’t help but think she’s the one steering their union toward ruin, while I struggle to keep the family from collapse.
My eldest, William, lived with his wife, Charlotte, in our home in Manchester after their wedding. They saved for a mortgage, but after my mother’s passing, they moved into her flat in the city centre. In a year of sharing a roof with Charlotte, we never quarrelled. Now, living apart, our bond has grown even warmer—we’re more like friends than in-laws.
With James, it’s different. He married a year ago, and his choice, Emily, at first seemed sweet and kind. But soon her mask slipped, revealing a temperament brimming with resentment and demands. Emily perpetually plays the victim, believing she’s deprived of attention, care—everything under the sun! Worse, she’s certain I dream of nothing but dismantling her marriage to James. Truthfully, I’ve grown weary of her suspicions. How long they last matters little to me, but with such bitterness, their happiness won’t endure.
After the wedding, I offered the newlyweds a place with me so they could save for a deposit. William, my eldest, even promised financial help, his own housing settled. The family agreed it was sensible, but Emily treated my offer as a trap. She moved in yet acted from day one as though I were her personal maid.
I work late, yet return home to rush to the stove and feed the household. Emily? She leaves towers of dirty dishes in the sink, scatters her belongings everywhere, and scoffs at chores. Once, I gently hinted I wasn’t her housekeeper. What followed? A tantrum—locked in her room, sobbing until James arrived, wailing that I bullied and expelled her.
“She hates me! You know she never wanted us to marry!” Emily shrieked, tears streaming. I stood stunned, unable to fathom how a mild remark spawned such stormy theatrics. I wondered if pregnancy explained her hysterics—but no, just her nature.
When William and Charlotte visited, Charlotte brought a homemade pie. Naturally, I praised her baking—no slight intended. Yet Emily took it as an assault. Eyes burning with hurt, she fled to her room, leaving us in thick silence. My patience thinned like ice beneath a scorching sun.
The final straw? Her antics with my grandchildren. William and Charlotte’s children, well-mannered and quiet, visit rarely from their home across Birmingham. Yet Emily turns each visit into chaos, complaining they “splinter her skull” with noise—though the children are meek as mice. Her dramatics became unbearable. Enough.
I gave them a month to leave. Emily, predictably, accused me of scheming to divorce them by ejection. Her words seared like hot coals, but I refused to endure her delusions of my “wicked plots” any longer.
Later, I called James, asking to meet alone to discuss housing. I knew Emily’s presence would derail the talk into soliloquies. But James told her everything. Soon, my phone blazed with her calls:
“You threw us out, now you’re poisoning James against me? Can’t you leave us be?”
Gritting my teeth, I arranged the meeting. There, I learned James hadn’t saved a penny in a year. William and I covered everything—food, bills—yet they couldn’t even buy bread! Our savings might cover a deposit, but how would they manage repayments? The question loomed like storm clouds.
Days later, Emily called again, spewing venom. She raged that I “forced” them toward a mortgage to “enslave” her, claiming James opposed it. My patience snapped. I hung up, blocked her. No more. No more tantrums, no guilt-trips, no poison. I’m done.
William dissuaded James from the mortgage—their marriage is crumbling. My savings gather dust in the bank. What next? God knows. I only know I’m tired of being Emily’s villain. I tried to help my son. Instead, I got pain.