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The Day I Delivered My Mother-in-Law Back to My Cheating Husband and His Mistress—With Words That Left Them Speechless
The Day I Returned My Mother-in-Law to My Cheating Husband and His LoverWith Words That Left Them Speechless
James and I had been married for seven years. From the very day we said I do, Id accepted living with his mother, Mrs. Margareta woman whod suffered a stroke, was partially paralysed, and needed round-the-clock care for every meal, every nap. At first, I thought it would be simple: she was my mother-in-law, I was her daughter-in-law, and looking after her was just part of the deal.
But I never imagined the weight of that responsibility would drag on so long and the hardest part? It came from the one person who shouldve shared it with me: my husband, James.
James worked all day and spent his evenings glued to his phone. Hed often say, Youre better at looking after Mum than I am. If I try, shell just suffer more. I never held it against him.
I thought that was just life: the wife keeps the home, the husband brings home the bacon. Then I discovered James wasnt just at work he had someone else.
One day, I stumbled across a text: Coming over tonight. Being with you is a thousand times better than being at home. I didnt scream. I didnt cry. I didnt make a scene.
I just whispered, And what about your motherthe one youve neglected all these years? James said nothing. The next day, he left. I knew exactly where hed gone.
I looked at Mrs. Margaretthe woman whod once criticised every bite I ate, every nap I took, who said I wasnt worthy of being her daughter-in-lawand a lump formed in my throat. I wanted to walk away. But then I reminded myself: dignity is something you never let slip.
A week later, I called James. Are you free? Im bringing your mother over for you to look after.
I packed her medication, medical notes, and an old care log into a tote bag. That evening, I helped her into her wheelchair and said gently, Mum, Im taking you to stay with James for a few days. Its boring being in the same place all the time. She nodded, her eyes shining like a childs.
At the tiny flat, I rang the bell. James opened the door, and behind him stood the other woman, in a silk nightgown and lipstick red enough to stop traffic. I wheeled Mrs. Margaret into the living room, arranged her blankets and pillows, and set the medication bag on the table.
The flat reeked of perfume but felt cold and silent. James stammered, What what are you doing?
I smiled sweetly. Remember? Mum is yours. Im just the daughter-in-law. Seven years of care thats enough. The woman behind him turned pale, a spoonful of yoghurt hovering halfway to her mouth.
I stepped back calmly, as if finishing a long-planned task. Heres her medical history, prescriptions, nappies, pads, and cream for her bedsores. Ive noted all the dosages in the logbook.
I set the book down and turned to leave. Jamess voice rose. Youre just abandoning my mother? Thats cruel!
I stopped, not turning back, and replied with steady calm. You neglected her for seven years whats that, if not cruelty? I cared for her like my own familynot for you, but because shes a mother. Now Im leaving, not for revenge, but because Ive done my part as a decent human being.
I looked at the other woman and met her eyes, smiling faintly. If you love him, love all of him. This comes with the package.
Then I placed the house deeds on the table. The house is in my name only. Im taking nothing. He only took his clothes. But if you ever need money to care for Mum, Ill still contribute.
I bent down and stroked my mother-in-laws hair one last time. Mum, behave yourself here. If you get sad, Ill come visit.
Mrs. Margaret smiled, her voice trembling. Yes come see me when youre back home.
I walked out, closing the door behind me. The room fell silent, thick with perfume and massage oil. That night, I slept peacefully, dreamless. The next morning, I woke early, took my son out for breakfast, and embraced a fresh startno tears, no bitterness.
Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
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