**A Mother-in-Law’s Wedding: How She Tried to Ruin My Life**
I met Oliver through mutual friends. I was twenty-eight, divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter, Emily. My first marriage left me with a two-bedroom flat—my ex took the car and moved to another town. I’d tried dating, but decent men were scarce. So I gave Ollie a chance—no flat, no steady job, but charming and quick-witted.
At first, we kept it between us, but eventually, I introduced him to Emily. To my surprise, they got on well. Soon, he moved in, and a month later, he proposed. I didn’t hesitate—maybe this was my shot at happiness. With no money for a grand wedding, we settled on a registry office and a modest café reception.
But then his mother, Margaret, insisted on a “bridal ransom.” I bit my tongue, waiting in my simple evening dress. When I stepped out, she smirked:
“Where’s the bride? I don’t see a white gown.”
“Enough of this pantomime—we’ve got a registry to get to,” I snapped.
At the ceremony, Margaret made another scene:
“I should be the one crying! You’re stealing my son!” she wailed loudly, turning our wedding into a funeral.
Then, at the café, when the host called for the first dance, she barged in:
“The groom’s first dance is with his mother!”
She dragged Ollie onto the floor, making a ridiculous spectacle. Guests snickered; I kept my composure.
Later, she summoned the photographer: “Let’s take a family portrait.”
When I approached, she snapped, “Where do you think you’re going? This is for family. Stay out of it.”
I looked at Oliver—he glanced away. I left without a word. The next day, I rang the photographer and had every picture of Margaret deleted. Petty revenge, but satisfying.
A week later, she visited while Ollie was bartending. The moment she sat down, she announced:
“At least Emily’s old enough to babysit when you have another.”
“She’s eight. Seriously?”
“She’ll be nine—plenty capable. You won’t be staying home; Ollie can’t support you alone. Emily can homeschool or take her exams early.”
“Thanks for the tip. Now I’m *definitely* not having another child,” I scoffed.
An argument was inevitable. Margaret took my refusal as a personal insult. From then on, she poisoned Oliver against me.
In the end, he decided I wasn’t worth the effort. He left—not over the fights, but because he couldn’t be bothered to work. I didn’t stop him. There was nothing to split.
But Margaret disagreed. She called, demanding:
“We’re dividing the flat. I’ll bring the papers tomorrow.”
“Lost your mind, Margaret? It’s *my* flat. Compensation? For what? Housing your son?”
“He took you *and* your baggage! He’s emotionally drained! The courts will side with him!”
I kept calm, wished her well, and blocked her number. Never saw Oliver or his mum again. Good riddance.
**Lesson learnt:** Some battles aren’t worth fighting—just shut the door and move on.
