“My mother-in-law was feeding my child food from the bin”: I left and gave my husband an ultimatum
When Simon and I first met, we were both in our thirties. At that age, no one really drags things out—and that’s exactly how it went for us. We met, hit it off straight away, dated for a couple of months, and then applied for a marriage certificate. We were both desperate to start a family. I’d always wanted children, and Simon had never been married before—he wanted to be a dad just as much. We tied the knot quickly, no big fuss, and moved into my late grandmother’s flat, which I’d inherited. We did it up, bought new furniture, and started making it our own little love nest.
Before the wedding, I’d only met his mum, Margaret, a handful of times—once in a café and then at the ceremony itself. She seemed fine back then—calm, polite, gave us her blessing, didn’t put up a fight about her son leaving home, and didn’t interfere. I even thought I’d hit the jackpot with a mother-in-law like that. Oh, how wrong I was.
We didn’t waste any time trying for a baby. I got pregnant almost straight away, and honestly, those nine months were like something out of a fairy tale. Simon treated me like royalty—literally and figuratively. He’d peel oranges for me at 3 a.m., make avocado toast in the mornings, rub my belly, whisper stories to our little one. And his mum? She seemed harmless enough. Occasionally sent over homemade jam and apples through Simon.
At the time, I didn’t pay much attention, but sometimes the jars were dusty, the jam was crystallised, and the apples had weird brown spots. I put it down to her being older, maybe not checking things properly at the shops. But then our little Alfie arrived—and everything fell apart.
Margaret suggested moving in with us for a while—said she’d help with the baby and could rent out her own place to give us some extra cash. Simon was having a rough time at work, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car, so it made sense. I agreed.
But Margaret didn’t just *visit*—she *moved in*. With a van full of stuff. Except “stuff” is too generous a word. It was junk—musty old clothes, chipped mugs, broken toys, random boxes, stacks of newspapers. Every day, her “collection” grew. I even noticed food wrappers in the bin from things we’d never bought.
Then one day, I saw her come back from the street with a big, grubby plastic bag from the supermarket. I peeked inside—and nearly lost it. It was full of out-of-date food—mouldy bread, yoghurts a week past their use-by, bananas so rotten they were basically liquid. She was bringing this into our home. Where our tiny baby lived!
All to feed *us*! Me—and now little Alfie! I blew up. Demanded Simon talk to her. But he… he *defended* her. Said she grew up starving, that her own mum used to scavenge scraps from neighbours and bins just to keep them alive.
“But we’re not at war!” I shouted. “We have money! We don’t need to eat rubbish! Do you realise how dangerous this is for the baby?”
He just went quiet. Then muttered, “She means well.”
*Means well?!* I’d had enough. Packed our things, took Alfie, and left for my parents’ place in Manchester. It’s peaceful there. Clean. No one’s feeding us bin food.
I gave Simon an ultimatum: Either he tells his mum to clear out her junk and leave our flat, or he can stay with her. But I’m not going back to a tip and a health hazard.
Now honestly, girls—did I go too far? Should I have handled it differently? Been more patient? Given them a chance? Or did I do the right thing putting my baby—and myself—first?
