My name is Emily, and lately, I’ve felt more like an outsider in my own marriage. At first glance, my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, seems like a woman to admire—only 47, youthful, always impeccably dressed, her hair styled, makeup flawless. Since her divorce, she’s devoted herself entirely to her only son—my husband, William.
On paper, she lives in her own flat in Manchester’s outskirts, but in reality, she’s with us. Her voice fills our home more than mine does. She calls William five or six times a day—good morning, good night, reminders to bundle up, questions about what we ate, where we went, even how I behave. And he tells her. Everything. Unfiltered. As if she’s his wife, and I’m just the lodger.
On weekends, he visits her—not out of necessity, but so “Mum won’t be lonely.” If she needs groceries, he rushes over. A shelf needs hanging? He drops everything. Even her salon appointments—he sits with her, helps pick hairstyles, praises her look. As if she’s royalty, and he’s her devoted attendant.
And then there’s the money she expertly extracts from him. A sudden spa retreat, complaints about her “dull wardrobe,” an unfinished home repair, a broken fridge. William and I only just married, still renting, saving for our own place—but he never says no. He just opens his wallet. And then we scrape by until payday.
I’ve tried talking to him—gently, then in tears. Every time, I hit a wall. “Mum’s sacred to me,” he insists. “She gave up everything for me. Raised me alone. I owe her. You wouldn’t understand.” And so it goes. Every conversation ends in silence or shouting.
Margaret’s certain only she knows what’s best for William. Everything I do is suspect—my cooking, cleaning, even how I dress. At first, it was just irritation. Now I see it: she views me as competition. She’s convinced him he owes her a debt, and now he pays it—with time, attention, money, his very soul. And I’m left with the scraps.
Yes, she birthed him. Yes, she raised him. But isn’t that what mothers do? Does it grant her the right to keep him on a leash? To manipulate with guilt, invade our lives, dismantle his marriage?
An overbearing mother doesn’t want her child to grow up. Because adults choose who to love, how to live, where to spend their time and wages. A grown son might say “no.” And she can’t bear that. She craves total control.
I keep recalling a truth: a child is a guest in your home. You feed them, teach them—then let them go. But too often, we cling. We smother, strangle with love, convinced we’re protecting. In reality, we’re crippling them.
A healthy parent-child bond needs trust. A child must be seen as their own person, not an extension of your will. If you heap your fears and regrets onto your son, you’ll only hurt him. And his wife.
Letting go isn’t abandonment. A son remains a son even if you don’t call him ten times a day. He’ll love you more if he can breathe. Better to stand beside him as a guide than loom as a jailer.
Yet here I sit, by the window, waiting for William to return from his mother’s. Again, he’ll ferry her groceries, discuss her new haircut, hand over cash for “bits and bobs.” And I’ll be left in this hollow flat, our purse empty, silence echoing where love should be.
