Some people really have the audacity—especially when it comes to ex-mothers-in-law. Three whole years without a word, not a call, not so much as a birthday card for my son. And now, out of the blue, she’s decided I should “forgive” her precious boy and take him back, all for the sake of “a child needing his father.” Cue the reconciliation melodrama. Lovely. Where was she when I was sitting on the floor with a screaming baby, drowning in the debts her golden child so carelessly left behind?
I was twenty when I married Tom. Handsome, charming, full of grand promises—I was young and foolish enough to believe every word. He had a way with speeches: big dreams of businesses, success, a house with a white picket fence. The reality? He worked in fits and starts, mostly lounging at home, convinced his “big break” was just around the corner. Years passed, the money never materialised, and the problems piled up.
To keep us afloat, I took odd jobs, borrowed money, swallowed my pride and asked my parents for help. We rented a tiny flat, and every month was a scramble to make rent. He refused a mortgage—”why chain myself to debt when my business is about to take off?” Spoiler: the business stayed firmly in his imagination.
His mother, of course, thought the sun shone out of him. “Such a visionary,” she’d coo, as if that paid the bills. “You’re lucky to have a man with ideas,” she’d say, as if grand schemes put food on the table. And when I dared suggest he get a proper job? “You’re stifling him. You don’t believe in him.”
Eventually, he packed his bags and left. No warning, no discussion—just me, our son, a mountain of debt, and an empty bank account. I didn’t chase him. I just needed to survive. I moved back in with my parents, tightened my belt, and started over.
The first six months were brutal. I was ashamed—ashamed of being pitied, ashamed of failing. But Mum and Dad had my back. We scraped by, penny by penny, until the debts were gone. Then I got a mortgage on a little flat—nothing fancy, but ours.
Now my son’s six. He’s happy—loves his toys, his friends, his cosy bed, and his doting grandparents. I work, pay the bills, and we live simply but peacefully. We made it.
Then—out of nowhere—a phone call. Unfamiliar number, painfully familiar voice. His mother.
“I’ve missed you both,” she trilled, as if three years of silence hadn’t happened. “Can I come round? I’ve baked little Charlie a cake.”
I said yes, out of politeness. She arrived with a bag of apples and that cake. Spent ten minutes with Charlie before launching into her script. Charlie needed his father. Tom was “struggling” (with what, his ego?). I should “reach out first.”
I nearly laughed. I remember him walking out. I remember the texts I sent, unanswered. He never paid child support, never even asked how his own son was doing. And now I’m supposed to welcome him back?
A little digging revealed the truth: Tom was back living with her. His latest girlfriend had dumped him, so he’d retreated to his childhood bedroom—jobless, aimless, drowning in self-pity. And his mum? She just wanted to offload him onto me again, repackaged as a “redeemed father.”
I looked her in the eye and said, “Charlie’s happy. He’s loved. He’s safe. And I’m not the naive girl you remember. That chapter’s closed.”
She left in a huff. But the texts keep coming—pleading, guilt-tripping. “You have to forgive.” Oh, I forgive. But I don’t forget. And I certainly don’t let people who walked away once stroll back in like nothing happened.
