The Truth Behind My Mother-in-Law’s Disdain
During a visit to her mother-in-law, Eleanor withstands constant jabs at her cooking, her looks, and even how she treats her husband. When she finally speaks up, she’s painted as the villain—until a discovery in her father’s old house unravels the real reason behind the bitterness.
The sun hung low over the quiet country lanes as Edward guided their car along the winding road. One hand rested on the wheel while the other flicked through his playlist, his cheerful expression unwavering even as his eyes darted between the screen and the asphalt ahead. Golden light spilled through the windows, painting his face in warm hues.
Beside him sat his wife, Eleanor. Arms folded, jaw tight, she stared resolutely out the window, refusing to meet his gaze. The air between them was thick with tension, charged with unspoken frustration.
After a long pause, Edward settled on a song. The opening chords of *Dancing in the Moonlight* filled the car, and his grin widened as he hummed along. “*Everybody’s dancin’ in the moonlight…*” he sang, nudging Eleanor playfully, hoping she’d join in.
But Eleanor didn’t move. Her fingers tightened around her sleeves, knuckles paling.
Undeterred, Edward turned up the volume—just a little—letting the music swell around them.
“Turn it down,” Eleanor muttered, barely audible over the melody.
He only sang louder, his voice full of warmth. “*Dancin’ in the moonlight…*”
With a sharp movement, Eleanor stabbed the power button. The car plunged into silence.
“What’s wrong, love?” Edward asked, his voice gentle.
She exhaled sharply. “You know why.”
“Mum again, is it? It’s just for the weekend.”
“She despises me,” Eleanor shot back, her voice cracking. “Nothing I do is right—not how I cook, clean, speak, or even breathe. I’m sick of it.”
Edward sighed, reaching for her hand. “I’ll talk to her—”
“No. The last thing I need is her thinking I’m whinging behind her back.” She yanked her hand away, staring out at the passing hedgerows. “I just want to know *why*.”
Edward hesitated, then offered softly, “We can’t change the wind, love.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. “But we can adjust the sails,” she finished, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips.
A moment passed before she reached over and restarted the song.
Edward belted out the lyrics with gusto while Eleanor joined in quietly, the weight on her shoulders easing just a fraction.
* * *
When they pulled up to Margaret’s cottage, the overgrown garden told its own story. Weeds choked the path, and the hedges had long since surrendered to wildness.
“I’ve offered to hire a gardener a dozen times,” Eleanor muttered.
“You know Mum—won’t accept help from anyone,” Edward replied, though his smile faltered as the front door swung open.
Margaret stood there, wiping her hands on an apron. “Edward! The roast’s nearly ruined. Hurry in!”
“Hello, Mum.” Edward beamed.
Eleanor forced a neutral tone. “Lovely to see you, Margaret.”
Margaret’s eyes skimmed over her before she hummed, “And you bothered to come. How… *nice*.”
* * *
The dining table was set with Margaret’s best china, the rich scent of beef and ale pie curling through the room. Oak beams stretched overhead, and family photos lined the walls.
“Dig in,” Margaret urged, her smile strained.
Edward took a hearty bite. “Brilliant, Mum—just like when I was a lad.”
Margaret’s face softened. “Course it is. Doubt you get proper meals at home.”
Eleanor’s fork stilled.
“Mum,” Edward chided gently. “Eleanor’s a fantastic cook.”
Margaret tutted, brushing a speck from Edward’s jumper. “And yet here you are, stains and all.”
Eleanor’s grip tightened, but she forced herself to stand. “Excuse me.” She fled to the kitchen, scrubbing dishes with furious strokes.
In the dining room, Edward turned to Margaret. “Why must you *do* that? She’s my *wife*.”
“And I’m your *mother*,” Margaret snapped. “If she can’t take honesty—”
Before she could finish, Eleanor marched back in, eyes blazing. “Honesty? Fine. Let’s *all* be honest.”
Edward stood. “Eleanor—”
“No! If she can nitpick my life, I’ll say my piece.” She turned to Margaret, voice steady. “Your house is a *shambles*. I’ve offered to help—*repeatedly*—but you’d rather wallow in pride than admit you need it. You’re bitter. Lonely. And you take it out on me because *God forbid* Edward be happy with someone *else*.”
Margaret’s face crumpled. “You *dare*—?”
“STOP!” Edward roared, stepping between them.
Margaret dissolved into quiet sobs. Edward turned to Eleanor, misery in his eyes. “Was that *really* necessary?”
Eleanor snatched her coat. “I’m done.”
She slammed the door behind her.
* * *
The taxi dropped her at her late father’s empty house. Dust clung to every surface as she wandered through rooms frozen in time. In his bedroom, a framed photo sat on the nightstand—her father’s kind smile staring back.
She missed him. Missed *both* of them.
Her phone buzzed—Edward.
“Where *are* you?”
“Dad’s house.”
“Come back. Please.” His voice was thick.
“Give me time.”
*Click*.
Alone again, she climbed to the attic. Boxes loomed in the dim light, shrouded in decades of neglect. Beneath cricket bats and old tools, she found a bundle of letters—all addressed to her father.
From *Margaret*.
Her hands shook as she read. Dozens of unsent replies. Desperate confessions.
*“Why did you leave me?”* the last one pleaded.
Eleanor sat back, the truth crashing over her.
Margaret hadn’t hated *her*.
She’d hated the ghost of the man who’d broken her heart—the man whose daughter now stood in her home.
* * *
When Eleanor returned, Edward and Margaret were waiting.
“I’m sorry—” Edward began.
Margaret’s voice cracked. “I never meant—”
Eleanor crossed the room and pulled Margaret into her arms.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “And forgive *him*.”
For the first time, Margaret clung back tightly—two women bound by a pain neither had caused.
And just like that, the war was over.