Oh, this is a right mess, isn’t it? My daughter-in-law, Emily, has gone and declared war on me. She’s given me an ultimatum—either I apologise to her, or I’ll never see my grandson again. But what on earth do I have to apologise for? She’s the one who’s been rude and downright nasty to me and my family for years! Her behaviour’s shocking, and now she’s trying to blackmail me? I’m not one to stay quiet. She’s the one who ought to be grovelling with an apology because I won’t back down!
The first time I met Emily in our little town of Whitby, I was gobsmacked. She walked into my house and immediately started wiping her boots on me, metaphorically speaking. Right away, I could tell—this girl wasn’t just “straight-talking” like she claims, she was plain rude. There’s a difference between honesty and downright rudeness, but Emily doesn’t seem to know where that line is.
She started criticising my house the minute she stepped through the door. “This décor is *so* outdated,” she sneered. “Like something from the last century, not like my parents’ place at all.” Then she plonked herself on a chair and pulled a face—”Is this even going to hold me? Feels like it’s about to collapse. Some of us actually want to live, you know!”
I nearly bit my tongue off stopping myself from saying, “Maybe if you ate a bit less, the furniture *would* last longer.” But I held back. My son, James, was looking at her like she hung the moon, so for his sake, I kept my mouth shut. Inside, though, I was fuming.
“Oh wow, you put mayo in *everything*, don’t you?” she went on, smirking. “Guess it’s no surprise—this whole house is a shrine to greasy food!”
I took one look at her and thought, “*You’re* lecturing *me* about diets?” But again, I said nothing. Yeah, I’m not as slim as I used to be—I’ve had three kids, and time marches on—but who does she think she is, talking like that? James was smitten, and all I could feel was this righteous anger bubbling up inside me.
From that day on, Emily never missed a chance to big up her own family and drag me and James down. The snide comments never stopped—my clothes were “grannyish,” our house was “dingy.” I tried to avoid her, but every meeting was like walking on eggshells. I’m not saying my house is grand—it’s small but cosy. I wear comfy clothes because, well, comfort matters at my age. But who gave her the right to dictate what I wore to *their* wedding?
“You’d better not stand out too much in front of the guests,” she snipped, eyeing my outfit.
The wedding was a nightmare. Emily didn’t just take digs at me—she was nasty to her own parents, too. They just sat there, smiling weakly, and I thought, “If my daughter spoke to me like that, I’d have put her in her place long ago!” But I kept my mouth shut—for James’s sake.
When Emily was pregnant, I was busy helping my other daughter-in-law, Charlotte, who had no family and was raising her little one mostly alone. I stayed with them for six months, looking after my other grandson. By the time I got back, Emily had already given birth. I went over to meet the baby, over the moon about my new grandson. Everything was fine until we sat down for tea. I showed James photos of the gifts from my daughter, Sophie, who was also expecting and couldn’t make it.
“Blimey, she’s *huge*!” Emily snorted, staring at the photo. “How does her husband even put up with that?”
I was speechless. Sophie had put on weight because of her hormones—she’d been on bed rest for months, fighting to keep her baby. Her health was hanging by a thread, and *Emily* dares to judge? Have you *seen* her since she had the baby? She’s not exactly a twig herself! Her pregnancy was smooth sailing, but she’s still carrying enough extra weight to sink a small boat. I didn’t want to stoop to her level, but she crossed every line.
I lost it. Told her exactly what I thought—about her poisonous tongue, her horrible attitude, about the state of *her* figure despite all her nasty remarks. Then I turned on my heel and left. And you know what? I’m not sorry. Not one bit.
A few days later, James came round. Said Emily’s demanding an apology, or I’ll never see my grandson again. I told him to pass on a message—*she’s* the one who should be apologising for all the rubbish she’s spewed! Trying to blackmail me? She can choke on her ultimatum! I’ve got other grandchildren, and I won’t grovel to someone like her. I’ve had enough of her little games. She’d better know—I don’t bend that easily.