She’s waiting for me to die: my daughter-in-law has turned my life into hell.
From the moment I first laid eyes on that girl, I knew she wasn’t right for my son. Too brash, too arrogant. Ever since they started seeing each other, a nagging feeling settled in my gut, like my instincts were screaming, *He’ll regret this.* But my son was blind—love, passion, youth, all of it clouded his judgment.
At first, we managed. I even stepped back, gave them space, went to stay with a friend in Brighton for a month. She was glad for the company, said it’d be nice to have me around. But when I returned, I barely recognized my own flat. Everything had been turned upside down—furniture rearranged, curtains replaced, even my photos had vanished from the shelves. And worst of all? Not a word from my son. No explanation, no apology.
I bit my tongue. Didn’t make a scene. Told myself, *Fine, they’re young, let them settle in their own way.* But things only got worse. My daughter-in-law, Emily, seemed determined to prove I meant nothing in my own home. She did absolutely nothing. Dishes piled up in the sink until my son, Thomas, came home and washed them himself. Sometimes I stepped in, too, when the mess became unbearable.
Floors? Dust? Rubbish? Not her problem. I cleaned in silence until I couldn’t take it anymore. One evening, over tea, exhausted and fed up, I told her plainly: *I’m struggling. I need help.* I thought she’d understand. Feel ashamed. I was wrong.
Later, Thomas came home, and the storm broke. She whispered in his ear, and soon they both stood before me—my son with cold, unfamiliar eyes. He accused me of harassing Emily, making her miserable, ruining their happiness. Then came the ultimatum: *Apologize, or we leave. We’ll get our own place if you can’t respect my choices.*
My heart clenched. I didn’t shout, didn’t cry. Just said I hadn’t meant to offend anyone. But I was tired. I’m not twenty anymore. I shouldn’t be their maid. Everyone in a home should pull their weight—that’s only fair. But instead of understanding, silence. And from that day on, everything fell to me.
Thomas stopped helping. Emily carried on as before. I hauled heavy shopping bags, scrubbed, washed, ironed. Exhausted myself so badly my back ached at night, my breath came thin. But I never complained. What was the point?
Then came the moment I never expected. Two days ago, passing their room, I overheard Emily on the phone with a friend. What I heard cut through me like a knife: *”Don’t worry, the old bat will croak soon, and the flat’ll be ours. Just hang in there.”*
I walked in without a word. That evening, she played the victim—claiming I’d made it up, that I was picking fights, causing trouble. Thomas took her side again. We argued. Badly. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told them to leave. This is my flat. My home. And I won’t let them write me off while I’m still breathing.
Now I’m alone. Empty. Quiet. But at least I don’t hear poison whispered behind my back. I believe good daughters-in-law exist—just not mine. But the real pain isn’t from her. It’s from my son. His indifference. Letting her poison what we had. I don’t know how to make him see he’s blind. That he’ll regret this. But I suppose he has to learn for himself.
As for me? I just have to keep living. In peace. Without the filth. Without the lies. Without betrayal under my own roof.