Once I was just an “uncouth peasant” to my mother-in-law. Now she calls me almost every day with praise. I know why she changed, and I don’t believe a single word she says!

I used to be a snake and a lazybones to my mother-in-law. Now I’m practically a saint—she calls me almost every day begging for forgiveness. But I don’t believe a single word she says. I only want to say one thing: “Serves you right! Reap what you sow!”

So, back in 2017, I married Peter. We studied together, met in our first year at university, and got married right after finishing our bachelor’s degrees. I wasn’t from the city—I came to London from a tiny village in the countryside.

Since we were still students and had no money, we decided to live with Peter’s mother. Margaret Thompson owned a lovely three-bedroom flat in the city centre, beautifully renovated. At first, I agreed to this adventure—we’d save up faster for our own nest without paying rent.

But Margaret never accepted me. She wasn’t shy about saying she’d wanted a better woman for her only son: “You’re an unwashed village girl. Different rules here in the city, dear. Thought you’d marry him to get the flat? Not a chance!”

By then I’d found a job as an assistant at a translation agency. I tried to clean the house and cook after work, but I could never please her.

“What’s that slop?”

“It’s borscht, fresh, just made.”

“You probably cooked borscht like that for the pigs back home!”

Peter didn’t even try to talk to his mother—he was too scared of her. He worried she’d kick us out.

Illustrative photo. The image is not documentary evidence of the situation described.

But our troubles didn’t end there. After a year, we’d saved a decent sum, but all that money went into Margaret’s renovations. We bought a new fridge, microwave, sink, extractor fan, and cabinets. She didn’t throw out the old fridge—she moved it into our bedroom. We kept all our food in there. Once I took a piece of butter from her, and she made such a fuss you’d think I’d robbed her!

I lived in that madhouse for another three years. Then the virus hit, and everything fell apart. Peter lost his job, stayed home all the time. I worked remotely, with a work laptop.

Margaret started nagging again: “Is that work? You’d better get up and wash the dishes!”

“In a minute. Just finishing these papers.”

“What about cooking? Look at Peter, he’s so thin! You’re a terrible housewife!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed my things and went back to my parents’ village. Peter called me only once then—asked me to make peace with his mother.

So we got divorced. Thank God, I worked hard, saved up, and managed to buy a flat in the city. Recently I even bought a car. Now I live in London, run my own translation agency, and have wonderful employees.

Then, just a month ago, my mother-in-law called out of the blue:

“Emily, you’re so clever. I heard you have a great job. I always said you’d achieve a lot in life.”

I was speechless, remembering how she used to “praise” me.

“Well, thank you…”

“Are you married yet?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, Peter’s wasting away without you. He’s pining. Maybe you two could meet?”

As it turned out, after our divorce Peter never found anyone—no wife, no steady job. All these years he’s been living off his mother, only picking up odd bits of work.

I suppose Margaret heard about my business and my flat, so she decided to “make peace.” Now she calls almost every day. It got so annoying I finally decided to put an end to this pointless conversation.

“You know, you seem to have forgotten how you called me an unwashed village girl, how you criticised my cooking, how you even scolded me for working!”

“That was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.”

“No, it doesn’t work that way. God punished you for it! You can babysit your precious son and find him a worthy woman. Because I’m just the unwashed village girl, remember?”

I’m not the least bit ashamed that I told her off like that. Or rather, my ex‑mother-in-law. She destroyed our family herself, and now she wants to make up? Thank you, but as they say, you can’t step into the same river twice.