She’s waiting for me to die: my daughter-in-law has turned my life into torture.
From the very first glance at this girl, I knew—she wasn’t right for my son. Too brazen, too full of herself. Ever since they started seeing each other, a quiet dread settled in my gut, like a whisper of intuition warning, “He’ll suffer with her.” But my son was blinded. Love, passion, youth—it all fogged his vision.
At first, we managed. I even stepped back, giving them space, spending a month with a friend in York. My friend was pleased—said it was nicer with company. But the month passed, and I returned home. Only to find my flat unrecognisable. Everything had been upended: furniture rearranged, curtains replaced, even my photos gone from the shelves. And worst of all—not a word from my son. No explanation, no apology.
I held my tongue. Didn’t make a scene. Thought—fine, they’re young, let them arrange things as they like. But each day grew worse. My daughter-in-law, Harriet, made it painfully clear: *you’re nothing here*. She did nothing at all. Dishes piled in the sink until evening, when my son Oliver finally washed them. Sometimes I helped, when the mess became unbearable.
The floors? The dust? The rubbish? None of it concerned her. I cleaned in silence until I cracked. One evening, over tea, I told her plainly—I’m exhausted, I can’t keep up, I need help. I thought she’d understand. Feel ashamed. I was wrong.
Later, Oliver came home from work, and it began. She whispered to him, and soon they both faced me. My son—eyes cold as a stranger’s—accused me of harassing Harriet, making her life miserable. He gave me an ultimatum: apologise, or they’d leave. Said they’d get their own place if I couldn’t respect his choice.
My heart clenched. I didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. Just said I’d meant no harm, but I was tired. I’m not twenty. I shouldn’t be their maid. Everyone should share the chores—that’s only fair. But silence was my answer. And from that day, everything fell on me.
Oliver stopped helping. Harriet remained idle. I carried heavy bags, scrubbed, washed, ironed. Ached so badly at night I could barely breathe. But what was the use in complaining?
Then came the moment I never expected. Two days ago, passing their room, I heard Harriet on the phone with a friend. And what she said stabbed through me like a knife:
*“Don’t worry, the old bat will croak soon, and the flat’s ours. Just hang in there.”*
I walked in without a word. That evening, she played the victim again—claimed I was making it up, accusing her unfairly. Oliver took her side once more. We fought, viciously. I couldn’t take it anymore. I demanded they leave. This is *my* flat. *My* home. And I won’t let them write me off while I’m still breathing.
Now I’m alone. Empty. Quiet. But at least there’s no poison whispered behind my back. I believe good daughters-in-law exist—mine was just rotten luck. But the worst pain isn’t even from her. It’s from my son. His indifference. Letting her poison what we had. I don’t know how to make him see he’s blind. That he’ll suffer with her. But perhaps he must learn that himself.
As for me—I just need to live out my days. In peace. Without filth. Without lies. Without betrayal under my own roof.