My mother-in-law and I have never had a good relationship. From the moment I met her, she’s been rude, competitive, and resentful. You might think she’s just overprotective of her son, my husband Rick, but the truth is, she doesn’t like the fact that I’m a good wife to him—better than she ever was as a mother.
Rick had a rough childhood. His mother was an alcoholic who would often forget to feed him, and his father was no better. After his parents’ toxic marriage ended and his father left, his mother started using drugs, and Rick, still a child, had to take care of her. He moved out for college to escape, but she would guilt-trip him into sending her money from his part-time jobs.
When Rick and I met at work, I was his senior. He confessed his crush on me eight months later, and we started dating. I encouraged him to set healthy boundaries with his mother, whose constant gaslighting and manipulation had taken a toll on him. As he grew stronger and more independent, he would often tell his mother how much happier he was with me. This, I believe, is where her resentment began. She hated hearing that he was thriving, as it contradicted her narrative of being a victim who had sacrificed everything for him.
Her bitterness was a constant presence in our lives. When her second marriage fell apart after she cheated on her husband, she showed up at our doorstep, expecting Rick to take care of her. She was a nightmare to live with, leaving messes everywhere and demanding I cook her favorite meals, all while insulting me. After a week, we asked her to leave. She erupted in anger, screaming at Rick and telling me to keep my mouth shut. Rick, to his credit, stood up for me. “You will never speak to my wife this way again,” he told her. “She’s my equal partner, and she has taken better care of me this week than you ever did in my entire life.” His words stung, and she left the next day, our relationship even more fractured. She didn’t even attend our wedding.
Fast forward to the present. I am three months pregnant. After a previous miscarriage, Rick and I were cautious, waiting until we were out of the danger zone to share the news. We decided to host an intimate gathering to surprise our loved ones. Rick insisted his mother be there; despite everything, he wanted our child to be loved by everyone.
When she arrived, she was arm-in-arm with a man none of us had ever seen before. “This is my fiancé,” she announced to the room. “We’re getting married in a few months.”
I was shocked by her audacity, but we politely congratulated her. As I shook her new fiancé’s hand, she spotted my belly. Her smile faltered. “Are you pregnant?” she asked loudly.
I nodded, and the room erupted in happy exclamations. I glanced at my mother-in-law; her face was red with anger. “Why didn’t you inform me?” she demanded of Rick.
He just joked, “Well, you didn’t inform us about your fiancé.”
I calmly explained that we had been careful due to the previous miscarriage. But she wasn’t satisfied. “I’m getting married in six months,” she said, her voice tight. “That’s when you’ll be giving birth. I’m too young to be a grandmother! Now I’ll have to speed up my wedding so no one calls me a granny on my big day.”
Her reasoning was so absurd I could only roll my eyes. Rick and I decided to let it go and focused on our guests.
When it was time for lunch, my mother-in-law, likely trying to impress her new fiancé, insisted on helping. “I’ll bring a plate for the mother-to-be,” she announced, “so she doesn’t have to lift a finger.”
This was completely uncharacteristic. She had never been nice to me. She returned from the kitchen and handed me a plate, announcing loudly that she had chosen more vegetables so her “future grandbaby would be strong and healthy.” I looked at the food suspiciously, but it appeared normal. As she went back to the kitchen, an uneasy feeling prompted me to surreptitiously exchange my plate with hers, which she had left on the table. No one seemed to notice, except her fiancé, who gave me a curious look but said nothing.
I started eating quickly. When she sat down, she asked if I was enjoying the food. I nodded, and she urged me to try the salad. Then, she took a bite of her own food—the food from the plate she had intended for me. She chewed slowly, her eyes widened, and she immediately spit it out, coughing violently before excusing herself to the bathroom.
I immediately knew something was wrong. I whispered to Rick, telling him I had swapped the plates because I suspected she’d done something to my food. He looked at me incredulously, then at his mother’s fiancé, who confirmed with a grim nod that he had seen me switch them. Rick was furious. He stormed into the house to confront her.
“Did you do something to my wife’s food?” he demanded as she returned from the bathroom.
The table fell silent. She stammered, denying any wrongdoing, but Rick wasn’t buying it. He threatened to call the police. Finally, with everyone staring at her, she confessed. She had mixed a large amount of salt into my salad as a “harmless prank.”
“Salt isn’t going to kill her!” she insisted. “As a new mother, she should get used to puking, so this was not a big deal.”
Before I could react, my own mother marched up to her. “How dare you play with my daughter’s health?” she yelled. “How dare you jeopardize the well-being of your own grandchild? You’ve gone too far, and I never want to see you near my daughter again.”
Rick chimed in, his voice shaking with rage. “What you did was crazy and unacceptable.” He told her and her fiancé to leave immediately. The celebration was ruined, but our loved ones rallied around us, their support a comfort in the midst of the chaos.
Since that day, Rick and I decided we cannot allow our baby anywhere near his mother. Cutting off a parent is never easy, no matter how toxic they are, but this was about the health of our child. Rick met with her one last time to communicate our decision. As expected, it ended in a huge fight.
After that, she started showing up at our place unannounced, usually on weekdays when Rick was at work. Luckily, we have security cameras, and I never opened the door. She would leave flowers or chocolates, but I was too paranoid to touch them, and Rick would throw them straight in the bin. The constant anxiety took a toll on me. My mother started staying with me whenever she could.
A few weeks ago, after repeated failed attempts to contact us, she left a letter in the mailbox. I opened it hesitantly, expecting another manipulative plea. To my surprise, it was a formal apology. She expressed regret for her actions, acknowledged the harm she had caused, and promised to respect our decision and give us the space we needed. I was shocked. It turns out she got married, much faster than expected, and perhaps she wanted to turn over a new leaf.
While I appreciate the gesture, and part of me wants to believe in her sincerity, we will continue to maintain our distance for now. Rick and I are focused on preparing for the arrival of our child, hoping for the peaceful and stress-free environment our baby deserves.