My mother-in-law, Charlene, has never been my biggest fan. Since I married her son, Holden, she’s made snide remarks about my worthiness. “Holden was so much happier with Sarah,” she would say, reminiscing about his high school girlfriend, her words dripping with disdain.
One lazy Saturday, I stumbled upon an episode of a daytime talk show. To my shock, Charlene was on screen, glammed up and ready to air her grievances. My heart raced as I listened.
“I just want a true wife for my son,” she declared, “someone who can give him the life he deserves.” I couldn’t believe my ears.
Then she dropped the bombshell: “My son is a widower.”
What? I was alive and well, and this woman was publicly claiming I was dead. She continued, trashing my name and suggesting Holden needed a replacement. My heart raced with anger.
I recorded the segment. Later, when Holden came home, I wasted no time. I showed him the video, and his expression shifted from confusion to fury.
Elderly woman on a talk show | Source: Midjourney
“We’re going to teach her a lesson,” I said, feeling a sense of justice brewing inside me.
The next morning, Holden called his mother. Using his best “devastated son” voice, he delivered the false news. “Mom, something awful happened to my wife. She… she’s gone.”
Charlene’s reaction was immediate panic. “What do you mean?” she cried. Holden played along, letting her spirals unfold until she was begging to come over.
An hour later, she stormed into our living room, mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Where is she?” she shrieked, eyes darting around.
“Right here,” I said, sipping my tea nonchalantly.
Her face went pale. “But… you—”
Holden stepped in, cold and firm. “You thought you could just erase my wife? You’ve crossed a line, Mom.”
Charlene tried to defend herself, but it was too late. “You wanted to control me. But here’s the thing — I get to decide my life, not you.”
She stood there, realization dawning. Without another word, she stumbled out, sobbing.
I looked at Holden, both of us shaken but relieved. “Well, that was something,” I said.
He chuckled, rubbing his temples. “Next time, we might need to stage a real funeral… for her delusions.”
We shared a laugh, feeling a weight lift. Sometimes, you have to stand up for yourself, and this time, we had.
