Some women get welcomed into their husband’s family with warmth. I got polite insults wrapped in fake smiles and backhanded compliments. Still, nothing prepared me for the betrayal I found waiting after one routine business trip.
I’m Megan, 33, and I work in corporate marketing.
I split my time between strategy meetings, business trips, and managing a team that’s mostly younger than me but somehow still calls me “mom.” I actually like my job. It gives me independence, and honestly, I worked my butt off to get here.
I’ve been married to Greg for four years now. He’s 36, works in finance, and somehow still can’t find the laundry hamper.
But he’s sweet, has a laugh that makes people laugh back, and has been my best friend since we were twenty-somethings fumbling through downtown L.A. dive bars.
But before you get too comfortable, let me tell you about his mom. Lori.
She’s the kind of woman who smiles without warmth.
You know the type: a smile that stretches too wide and lingers just a bit too long, like it’s painted on for show. She wears pastel cardigans, pearls to casual brunches, and always smells like jasmine and judgment. From the very beginning, she made her stance clear — I wasn’t good enough for her “perfect Gregory.”
It started subtly.
“Greg likes his shirts folded a certain way,” she’d say, while slowly pulling each one from the laundry basket I’d just finished.
She’d smooth them out like I’d crumpled them on purpose.
Another time, she sniffed at the roasted chicken I’d made and offered kindly, “You don’t really cook, do you? I can teach you how to make something edible. Greg always loved my lemon chicken.”
Thanks, Lori.
I’ll just go scream into the oven now.
At first, I let it roll off. I had a job, a life, friends, and a routine that didn’t revolve around getting her approval. I told myself: she’ll come around, eventually.
That was laughably naïve.
Apparently, my independence, along with the audacity to leave town for work, only made her hate me more.
Two months ago, I left for a two-week conference in Chicago. Before flying out, I did all the ‘good wife’ things. I prepped meals, left a schedule for our dog sitter, and even gave Lori our spare key, just in case there was an emergency.
Spoiler alert: there wasn’t an emergency.
But when I got back, something was off.
Greg greeted me at the airport like someone trying to sell fake enthusiasm.
“How was the flight?” he asked, voice an octave too high.
“Tiring,” I said, watching his hands twitch in his pockets. “Are you okay?”
He smiled too hard. “Yeah!
Just… glad you’re home.”
Over the next couple of days, he acted like a man with a secret. He couldn’t hold eye contact.
He laughed weirdly at things that weren’t funny, and sweated through a T-shirt when the thermostat read 72 degrees.
On day three, I figured it out.
I was unpacking in the living room when I noticed a thick manila folder on the coffee table. It stood out as if it wanted to be found. What caught my eye first was the label, written in cursive on a gold sticker: “Greg’s Future.”
Curious, I opened it.
And then I nearly dropped it.
Inside were photos. Dozens of printed headshots, each one stapled neatly to a page. Every page had bullet points: name, age, occupation, personality traits.
And then came the kicker, a comparison titled, “Why she’s a better fit than Megan.”
I stared at the first one.
Lauren, 29: Pilates instructor. Toned, healthy lifestyle. Makes great first impressions, unlike Megan.
Next was Tiffany, 31.
A lawyer with a strong personality but polished. According to the notes, she would elevate Greg’s social status.
I kept flipping. One after another, these women were lined up like candidates for a job I didn’t realize I was being fired from.
Each page ended with Lori’s careful handwriting: “Referred by [name], her mother is a friend of mine.”
I sat there stunned as the bile rose in my throat.
That’s when Greg walked in.
He froze.
His face drained of color as his eyes locked on the open folder in my lap.
“Oh God,” he said quietly. “You weren’t supposed to—”
“Weren’t supposed to do what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Find the portfolio of women your mom handpicked to replace me?”
He opened his mouth, but only air came out.
Then finally he said, “It’s not like that. She… she thought it was a joke.”
I held up one of the pages.
“This one says she ‘wouldn’t travel as much.’ This one ‘doesn’t argue.’ This one, Greg, apparently ‘has more ambition than Megan.'” I looked him dead in the eye. “Does that sound like a joke to you?”
He sat down, visibly sweating. “She just…
gets dramatic. You know how she is.”
“You read them,” I said, more as a statement than a question.
He hesitated. The half-second of silence before he responded was all the answer I needed.
Something cold settled in my chest.
I stood up, walked over, and handed him the folder.
“Fine,” I said quietly. “If your mother wants a casting, I’ll give her one.”
He blinked. “Megan, come on.
Please don’t make this worse.”
“Oh,” I smiled, “I’m not making it worse. I’m just getting started.”
For the next few days, I pretended as if nothing had happened.
I cooked dinner, kissed him goodnight, and even watched some stupid sci-fi show he liked just to keep up the illusion. I could tell he was confused, but also relieved.
Maybe he thought I was too tired to fight. Maybe he thought I was just “processing.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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