My son married a wonderful woman—or so I thought. Months later, visiting them, I flipped through her family album on the coffee table. Every photo with me was altered: cropped out or patched with generic backgrounds.
Hurt but composed, I texted my son. He dismissed it: “She wanted a cleaner look.” That stung. The next day, he urged me to speak with her.
She admitted the album was for her family, who said I “wasn’t really family.” I replied that marrying my son meant accepting his family too. She countered: watch myself if I wanted access to my grandchild. That’s how she revealed her pregnancy—by threatening to cut me off.
Furious, I left. That night, I emailed my son: I’d added them to my will, but since she denies I’m family, I’ve rewritten it. Their share now skips to a trust for the grandchildren.
Minutes later, she called, apologizing profusely, claiming misunderstanding. My son invited me to dinner to “talk.”
Bright Side, I won’t back down, but I’m wary. How do I hold my ground without her painting me as the villain in front of my son?
