Betrayal by a Plate of Spaghetti: How My Wife and Mother-in-Law Tore My Family Apart
My name is Oliver. I’m 35, and the life I painstakingly built crumbled beneath the cold indifference of those I called family. Six months ago, I hit rock bottom—lost my job and with it, any certainty about tomorrow. But what my wife, Eleanor, and her mother, Margaret, did crossed every line. While I scraped by, exhausted, they fed me nothing but plain spaghetti, reserving lavish meals for themselves. Their betrayal was the final straw. I walked away, leaving nothing but bitterness in my wake.
It began when I was laid off from the factory in a small town outside Manchester. Months of fruitless job hunting drained me. Eventually, I took work through a mate—odd jobs, fixing taps, assembling furniture for pennies. Better than nothing, but barely. I’d drag myself home, longing for a warm meal and my wife’s support. Instead, a plate of tasteless spaghetti waited. Every night, the same. I bit my tongue—until one evening, I snapped. “Must it always be spaghetti? Couldn’t we have chops or soup just once?”
Margaret stormed in, eyes blazing. “You’ve got some nerve, Oliver! Pennies in your pocket, and you demand chops? Be grateful we feed you at all! Men like you deserve no better!” She spat the words like venom. I froze, humiliation coiling in my gut. Eleanor stayed silent, eyes downcast. Not a word in my defence. In that moment, I realised I was a stranger in my own home.
Eleanor is eight months pregnant. Our child is due soon, and I’ve been scrambling for steady work to provide. I sent out CVs, attended interviews—no luck. After the layoff, we couldn’t afford rent, so we moved in with Margaret. My personal hell. She never missed a chance to twist the knife. “You’re no man, Oliver. Can’t even keep a roof overhead.” I started leaving at dawn, returning past midnight, just to avoid her bile.
But the truth, when I uncovered it, shattered me. While I choked down spaghetti, Eleanor and Margaret dined on roast chicken, mushroom potatoes, fresh salads—behind closed doors. I got the scraps. This wasn’t thrift. It was treachery. They didn’t just insult me—they showed me I was nothing. That night, I placed the keys on the table, packed a bag, and left.
I went back to my mum’s in a nearby village. A week later, luck turned—I landed a job with a construction firm. A month after that, I rented a small flat. Life inched forward, but the wound never healed. I won’t return to Eleanor. She never stood by me when I was drowning. Her silence as Margaret tore into me spoke louder than any words.
Recently, Margaret called my mum, screaming that I had to come back—that Eleanor was due any day, that I’d “abandoned my family.” I ignore their calls, their messages. My mum, voice trembling, pleads: “Oliver, think of the baby. At least take Eleanor in?” But I can’t. They made it clear I was just a wallet. When I was weak, they cast me aside. Now that I’m standing, they want me back. That isn’t family. That isn’t love.
I don’t know what to do about the child. The thought of them born into that cold house, that scorn—it guts me. But forgiving Eleanor and Margaret? Impossible. That plate of spaghetti became my symbol of betrayal. I won’t return to a place where I’m worth less than a meal. Don’t I deserve a family that loves me for who I am—not just what I earn?