“He eats like you’ve been starving him!” — How my mother-in-law decided I wasn’t feeding my son and threatened to call social services
Sometimes I think divorce isn’t about leaving a husband—it’s signing up for a lifetime subscription to his mother. Six years have passed since Paul and I split, but his mum still thinks she has the right to meddle in my life, lecture me, and blame me for everything under the sun. Especially after she found out I remarried.
I’m from York. When Paul and I divorced, I was twenty-nine. Our son, Oliver, was five. The flat was mine, bought long before the wedding. The furniture, too. He left with a bag of gym clothes and his paperwork—straight back to his mum, who’d always hovered behind him like a shadow. Even after the breakup, I never stopped him from seeing Oliver. I wanted my son to have a relationship with his dad. But everything crashed against one obstacle: my ex-mother-in-law.
Margaret Smith was always a woman of principles—principles that applied to everyone but herself. She’d disliked me from the start—”too independent.” She’d whisper to Paul that I’d “trapped him,” “hooked him,” “married for money.” None of it was true, but I stopped arguing. We divorced. He paid child support but barely showed up in Oliver’s life.
One day, I called Paul to say Oliver needed a winter coat—not designer, just something warm. Margaret snapped right in:
“Still milking him for cash, are you? My son’s saving for a flat, you know!”
That’s when I realised her love for him had blinded her. She didn’t care that a child needed food, clothes, doctors. That bills, clubs, check-ups—all of it fell on me. And Paul? He just shrugged. Spineless. Convenient.
When she heard I was seeing someone, she ordered Paul to visit Oliver more often. “No stepfather’s going to replace him,” she declared. He started dropping by on weekends, eyeing my flat like he couldn’t believe I was still standing.
But after I remarried, Grandma suddenly remembered her grandson. Demanded visits. I didn’t stop her.
“Take Oliver for the weekend if you want,” I said.
Paul agreed, came early, and Oliver hadn’t eaten yet. I warned him: “Give him breakfast—he hasn’t had any.”
An hour later, Margaret called, shrieking loud enough for the neighbours to hear:
“You’re starving him! The way he’s wolfing it down—it’s criminal!”
“I told you he hadn’t eaten! Paul came early.”
“That’s not the point! Pasta one day, pasta the next, and digestives for snacks? My son pays child support, and you live off it! I’ll report you!”
I hung up. Oliver could’ve told her what he ate. He’s healthy, happy, plays football, goes to nursery. I’m a working mum, not her personal chef.
After that, I made sure Oliver ate before visits. Once, Paul arrived, and I wouldn’t let Oliver leave till he’d finished. Paul hovered by the door, staring at his shoes. Silent.
But one moment stuck with me. I doubled over with pain, called an ambulance—suspected appendicitis. Paul was due to pick Oliver up. I asked him to stay with his son. He promised he would.
Days later, when I collected Oliver after being discharged, Margaret cornered me, whispering:
“Take him to a doctor. He devoured a whole plate of sausages! Has he got worms?”
I laughed in her face. Really laughed. Because it was ridiculous—so much rage from someone who saw him once a month but acted like Grandma of the Year. And after that? Not a peep about child support. Guess she finally realised what raising a child actually costs.
Me? I just keep living. Loving my son. Working. Building a life with my new husband. And keeping out anyone who judges but never gives—not even an ounce of kindness.