Earlier, to my mother-in-law, I was a snake and a lazybones. But now I’ve become a saintly person—she calls me almost every day begging for forgiveness. Still, I don’t believe a single word she says. I’ve only got one thing to say: “Serves you right! Reap what you sow!”
So, in 2017, I married Sarah. We studied together, met in our first year at university, and tied the knot right after finishing our bachelor’s degrees. I wasn’t from London—I moved there from a tiny village.
Since we were still students with no money, we decided to live with Sarah’s mother, Margaret. She owned a three-bedroom flat in the city centre, beautifully renovated. At first, I agreed to this crazy plan—thought we’d save up for our own place faster without paying rent.
But Margaret never accepted me. She didn’t hesitate to say she wanted a better woman for her only son:
“You’re just a village yokel. City life’s different, dear. Thought you’d marry into a flat? Not a chance!”
By then, I’d found a job as an assistant at a translation agency. Even after work, I tried to clean and cook at home. But I could never please Margaret.
“What’s this slop?”
“It’s soup—fresh, just made.”
“You probably cooked that soup for the pigs back home!”
Sarah never tried to talk to her mother—she was terrified of her. She worried we’d be kicked out of the flat.
Illustrative photo. Not a documentary account of the situation.
But our troubles didn’t end there. After a year, we’d saved a decent sum, but every penny went into Margaret’s renovations. We bought a new fridge, microwave, sink, extractor fan, and cabinets. Margaret didn’t throw out the old fridge—she moved it into our bedroom. That’s where we kept all our food. Once I took a pat of her butter, and she made such a fuss you’d think I’d robbed her.
I lived in that madhouse for three more years. When the pandemic hit, everything went haywire. Sarah was laid off and stuck at home all day. I worked remotely with a company laptop.
Margaret started complaining again:
“Is that work? Get up and wash the dishes!”
“In a minute—just finishing these forms.”
“What about cooking? Look at Sarah—she’s wasting away! You’re a terrible husband!”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed my bags and went back to my parents’ village. Sarah only called me once after that—asked me to make peace with her mother.
Well, we got divorced. Thank God, I worked hard and managed to buy a flat in London. Recently, I even bought a car. Now I live in London, run my own translation agency, and have great employees.
Then, a month ago, Margaret called me out of the blue:
“Tommy, you’re so clever. I hear you’ve got a wonderful job. I always said you’d go far.”
I was speechless, remembering how she used to “praise” me.
“Well, thanks…”
“Are you still single?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Sarah’s been pining away without you—she’s fading. Maybe you two could meet?”
Turns out, after the divorce, Sarah never found anyone—no partner, no steady job. She’s been living off her mother all these years, scraping by with odd jobs.
I reckon Margaret heard about my business and my flat, so she decided to “reconcile.” Now she calls me almost daily. I got fed up and finally put an end to this foolishness.
“Look, you’ve probably forgotten how you called me a village yokel, how you criticised my cooking, how you even scorned my work!”
“That was ages ago—water under the bridge.”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. God punished you for it! Go ahead and coddle your precious daughter, and find her a worthy woman. Because I’m just the village yokel!”
I’m not ashamed one bit for telling off my ex-mother-in-law. She wrecked our family herself, and now she wants to patch things up? No thanks. As they say, you can’t step into the same river twice.
