I don’t know what to do. My son always takes his wife’s side—even when she’s clearly in the wrong.
“I’m at my wits’ end…” says Margaret, a sixty-year-old woman, her voice trembling. “My son, James, always, without fail, defends his wife. No matter what happens. No matter what I say. He just waves me off and says, ‘Mum, don’t worry, Emma can handle it. She’s not stupid.’ He always has an excuse for her. Even when she’s blatantly wrong!”
Margaret’s daughter-in-law, Emma, is only 28. She and James are raising their eighteen-month-old son, living on their own—they bought a flat with a mortgage. Emma’s on maternity leave, while James is the sole breadwinner. They live within their means, carefully, no luxuries, but they’re not struggling either.
Yet, frankly, Margaret can’t stand Emma.
“When James first brought her home, I was horrified,” Margaret recalls. “Those long acrylic nails, a tattoo on her neck, a skirt so short it barely covered anything, and heels like she was heading to a catwalk. And those lips… you could tell they weren’t natural. I even thought he was joking. There’s no way my son could seriously be with someone so… frivolous, to put it mildly.”
A month later, they got married. And according to Margaret, even at the wedding, Emma looked outrageous—a leather skirt, a glittery blouse, makeup fit for a pop star. But James was happy, so Margaret decided to keep quiet and “not interfere.”
At first, she barely spoke to her daughter-in-law, only calling her son a couple of times a month to check in. But everything changed eighteen months ago when Emma and James had their son—little Oliver.
“I visited the day after they came home from the hospital, and what do I see?” she says. “Emma’s just had her nails done. I told her, ‘Emma, have you lost your mind? That’s dangerous for the baby!’ And she just says, ‘It’s fine, I’ve got it under control.’ I went to James—he just says, ‘Mum, stay out of it. It’s not your business.’ And that’s how it always is. No matter what I say, I hear, ‘Don’t interfere.’”
Margaret remembers trying to “guide” Emma—with advice, corrections, the occasional sharp remark. All she got back was indifference. Emma isn’t the type to explain herself.
“I go over, and the place is a mess. I say, ‘Emma, make James some soup. He’s working hard.’ And she says, ‘James doesn’t eat soup.’ What do you mean he doesn’t eat soup? He ate mine! She’s just lazy! If she cooked properly, he’d eat anything.”
Margaret tried talking to her son. But James, as always, stood by his wife.
“Mum, stop nitpicking. We’re doing fine. Emma’s a good mother.”
“A good mother?” Margaret exclaims. “She’s glued to her phone! I haven’t seen her without that gadget in ages! She’s always scrolling through Instagram, even when the baby’s right there.”
The final straw was an incident at the playground.
“I knocked on their door—no answer. Thought, ‘Fine, they must be outside.’ Went to the playground near their flat, and there they were. Oliver was digging in the sandbox, and Emma was on a bench, eyes locked on her phone. I got closer and saw Oliver toddling toward the fence. Suddenly, he runs toward me, smiling, calling for Granny. And Emma? Didn’t even look up. He dashed right into the road! Yes, it’s a quiet street, but anything could’ve happened!”
“Thank God,” she says, her voice shaking, “there were no cars. I grabbed Oliver, rushed over to her, and she was in some kind of trance. I snapped, ‘If you don’t put that phone away right now, I’ll smash it on the pavement! What kind of mother are you?’”
Emma jumped up, snatched Oliver, and stormed off. The little boy cried, reaching for me, but she slammed the door in my face and wouldn’t open it again.
“I called James,” Margaret continues, “told him exactly what happened. And he says, ‘Mum, you probably overreacted. Calm down. Emma’s got it handled.’ How can he say that? I saw it with my own eyes! He doesn’t believe me! Now neither of them will talk to me. They don’t answer calls, won’t open the door. It’s been a month! I don’t know what she’s told him. But I… I just want my grandson to be safe.”
Margaret wonders:
“Maybe he’s right? Maybe I should’ve kept quiet? But I can’t stay silent when a child’s safety is at stake! I’m a mother. A grandmother.”
But now—she’s just a lonely woman with an unanswered phone. And the son she raised isn’t by her side anymore. He’s with his wife. Always.
