I want my son to get a divorce. Why should he stay with such a thoughtless wife?
There’s a stereotype that mothers-in-law are nasty witches who torment their poor, miserable daughters-in-law for no reason. Go through some online forums, and you’ll find plenty of such stories. Well, I’m that so-called “wicked mother-in-law” who isn’t just picky about her daughter-in-law; I’m determined to break up my son’s marriage. You know what? I’m not ashamed. I’m convinced I’m right, and I’ll explain why I feel this way, even as fury and pain boil inside me for my boy.
My son, Andrew, met this girl, Clara, about five years ago. But he only introduced her to me much later, after he’d proposed and planned to marry her. I disliked her from the first glance, and my intuition didn’t fail me—she turned out to be a real nightmare.
I invited them over to our snug little place outside of London. Clara hadn’t even taken her shoes off when her phone rang. Instead of apologizing and saying she’d call back, she started chatting with a friend right in the hallway. Fifteen minutes! I stood there, gritting my teeth, while she giggled and discussed some nonsense. I felt it then: something was off with her.
At the table, I didn’t bombard her with questions—I just observed. But when the conversation touched on her life and plans, everything became clear. She barely finished school and is in her final year of college, but higher education isn’t on her radar. Why bother? According to her, a woman should be a wife and mother—end of story. She has no plans to work. Her parents support her now, and after marriage, it seems my son will have to take on that burden. She still lives with her mum and dad but plans to move into our house after the wedding. The cherry on top: she’s pregnant. It’s early days, so they have to get married quickly before her belly gives her “secret” away. She acted like the world owed her something and her looks were a passport to an easy life.
But the worst was yet to come. When Andrew stepped out to have a smoke on the balcony, Clara immediately pulled out a pack of slim cigarettes and joined him. Pregnant, and she smokes! I could barely contain my outrage. What about the baby? She didn’t seem to care.
Not long after, they got married, and we all started living together in my flat. I left for work early and came back in the evening, while Clara slept till noon and then lazed about, doing nothing but occasionally going to the balcony for a cigarette. She got a doctor’s note for her pregnancy and took academic leave from college. Every evening I returned to chaos: a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, clothes scattered everywhere, and an empty fridge. No cooking, no cleaning—just endless phone chats, either with her mum or friends.
When I asked her to help around the house, she’d brush me off: either she had morning sickness or was tired. But that didn’t stop her from hanging out in cafés with friends or partying with Andrew at nightclubs until dawn. I gritted my teeth and held my tongue—for my son’s sake. Then my grandson was born. And guess what? Clara didn’t change a bit. Andrew got up during the night, took the baby out in the pram, and went to doctor’s appointments. I helped in the evenings and on weekends, exhausting myself after work. And Clara? She lay on the couch, scrolling through her phone and smoking like nothing was wrong. I was seething with anger.
I tried talking to her—calmly at first, then more firmly. She let my words pass right through, smirking smugly at me. But the worst part was Andrew always defended her. Whenever I pointed out her laziness and uselessness, he’d stand up for her: “Mum, she’s trying; it’s just hard for her.” And we’d argue. He shouted at me, but never said a word to her. My son, my only child, was blinded by love for this hollow girl.
The tension in the house was unbearable. One day, I snapped and blurted out in a fit of rage: “Take your wife and child and get out! Let’s see how you manage on your own!” They left. Andrew was upset and stopped talking to me. I tried to explain, to show him the truth, but he shut me out. Now, he rarely calls, hardly visits. I’m sure Clara’s behind it, driving a wedge between us. I love my son more than life itself, and I adore my grandson with all my heart.
I’ve decided: such a wife is not what Andrew needs. He deserves better—a smart, caring woman rather than this lazy, irresponsible girl. He might not see it now, but I’ll do everything to ensure their marriage falls apart. I won’t stop until I’ve freed my son from these shackles. I’m certain that, sooner or later, he’ll see I was right, embrace me, and say, “Thanks, Mum.” We’ll raise my grandson ourselves—without her useless shadow, her indifference, or her cigarette smoke. I won’t back down because this is my battle for my boy’s happiness.
