After my daughter-in-law humiliated me in front of everyone, I refuse to have her in my home ever again.
When my son first brought Emily Clarkson to meet us, she seemed reserved and well-mannered. On the surface—no complaints: polite, sweet, always smiling. But something inside me stirred with unease from the start. I had no real reason to be wary—just a feeling.
Emily talked far too much that evening—more than was fitting for a first visit. Her monologue covered everything: neighbours, friends, old colleagues, even schoolteachers. Not a single kind word. Everything had a sly, mocking edge. I put it down to nerves at the time, thinking she was flustered and rambling. I decided to wait and see how things unfolded.
Two months later, they married. The wedding was small, and only Emily’s mother and two friends attended from her side. No siblings, no other relatives—not even a phone call to congratulate her. Later, I learned Emily hadn’t spoken to her father in years—her mother never let him see her after the divorce. He paid child support, but Emily had been raised on bitterness and blame. Not my business, I thought then. As long as they were happy.
After the wedding, they moved in with us. Our house is spacious, so there was room enough. I was at work all day, staying out of their private lives. But soon, I noticed what began to grate: Emily had no sense of basic order. She didn’t clean, left dishes piled up, didn’t even tidy her own room. I’d return from a business trip to a kitchen full of dirty plates and crumbs everywhere. And guess who dealt with it? Me—exhausted but elbow-deep in suds.
Emily always had excuses: “Didn’t have time,” “Too busy,” before settling down with tea to gossip—who’d divorced, who was ill, who owed whom. No help, just chatter. At first, I bit my tongue. Then I snapped and spoke to my son: “If she won’t lift a finger and you won’t step in, then you clean up.” Something had to give.
Then came the final straw. A neighbour stopped me to recount how Emily had been badmouthing me all over the street—claiming I made her life hell, forced her to clean dawn till dusk, that she was treated like a maid while I played the wicked mother-in-law. Worse, she spoke of my son with such contempt it shamed me—calling him a spineless pushover.
I confronted them both in the kitchen. Emily denied it at first, then, when cornered, launched into hysterics: I’d hated her from day one, she sobbed, storming off to pack. My son… just sat there, silent, taking neither side.
Emily’s been at her mother’s ever since, and for the first time in ages, our home is peaceful. My son visits her, but I’ve made myself clear: if they reconcile, they live elsewhere—rented flat, her mum’s, anywhere but here. I’ve had enough. I work too hard to be an unpaid housekeeper for a girl who repaid me by dragging my name through the mud.
After the lies she spread, I’ve nothing left to say to her. And she won’t set foot in my house again—not even for a minute.
Now I understand why her brother cut ties, why even her own family keeps their distance. Maybe it’s not her parents’ fault—maybe it’s just who she is.