Zara: “I really have a terrible daughter-in-law, and I think I'll never get rid of her”

Everyone always talks about difficult mothers-in-law

There's even a term for it: 'mother-in-law humor' or 'the plight that is the mother-in-law'. Or those jokes at birthdays: 'Oh, you know what mothers-in-law are like!' Well, let me tell you something. The stereotype may be that we – women of a certain age – are meddling hags who can't keep to ourselves... but you know what I am? I am a mother-in-law who constantly bites her tongue because her daughter-in-law is truly unbearable. And I don't say that lightly.

Let me start at the beginning

My son Ruben, my heart, met her at his work. She was a 'project manager' there, which I didn't even understand at the time. I thought: great, someone with a good job. But from the first moment I met her, I felt it: this is going to be complicated. She introduced herself with her first name and last name, as if we were at a job interview. “Hello, I am Michelle van Vliet.” As if I was going to think: oh, that Michelle! She wore a blazer – tight, white – with a designer logo on the chest as if she was advertising her own superiority. And her nails. Long, stark white nails that tapped on her phone as if she was sending Morse code to another world. Her gaze quickly moved past me, towards my vase on the table. “Nice, that retro style,” she said. Well, that wasn't retro style. That was just my taste. But alright. I kept my composure. You know how it goes: you want to do everything for your children. Even being nice to a walking ego.

The first few months went well

She joined us for dinner, talked about 'the business', about 'leads' and 'target groups'. Ruben watched lovingly. And I laughed and served soup. But soon the tone changed. It started during an Easter brunch at our house. “I received my quarterly bonus yesterday,” she said between bites of egg salad. “Almost six thousand euros. Not bad, right?” I nodded politely. What else could I do? “That's nice for you,” I said. “Oh,” she said, “It's not everything, of course. But it's nice when you work hard, that it's recognized. Not everyone is that lucky, right?” That last sentence hit home. Not everyone. Like me, who had worked in a nursing home until I was 64, in shifts, for a pittance. But that's not 'hard work' in Michelle's eyes. That's just... merely existing. From that moment on, it got worse. Every opportunity was a chance to show off how brilliant, successful, organized, and above all, amazing she was. And her children too.

When I asked on a Sunday afternoon how things were going at school with Thijmen, their eldest

She said: “Well, the teacher says he's really advanced. He reads at a 5th-grade level, and he's in 3rd grade. It's just in the genes, I guess.” I almost replied: “Whose genes exactly?” But I restrained myself. Her little daughter, Noa, could 'actually count to a hundred by the age of four'. And of course, she 'almost only eats vegetables, because we're really conscious about that at home'. And there I was, baking cookies and stocking up on craft supplies for when they came to grandma's. But they seldom came. When I asked if they would like to come over for a sleepover again, Michelle said: “Sleepover? Oh Zara, that's so sweet, but our weekends are just so full. And honestly, our kids just sleep best in their own beds. You know how it is, right?” No, Michelle. I know what it's like to miss your grandchildren while they live just three kilometers away. But I kept that to myself.

At birthdays, it really started to become embarrassing

When my husband turned 70, we rented a small hall. Nothing fancy, just cozy. Snacks, sparkling water, a slideshow of his youth on the projector. Michelle walked in, surveyed everything, and said out loud: 'SO nice that you guys still do that, huh. Really that old-fashioned celebration. Isn't it adorable?' And when someone asked how she was doing: 'Busy, busy, busy. But well, I'm also about to become a partner. So you know: it's just full throttle.' At a party. Amongst the potato salad. I barely managed to contain myself. And the worst part? When she did something that was supposedly kind, it felt like she was keeping a scorecard. Like that one time at Christmas when she brought us an expensive bottle of wine. Not just a thoughtful gesture, no: 'This wine is from a special estate in Burgundy. Not cheap, but well, for special people you want to give something special, right?' The following week I got a text: if I liked the wine, because then she would know for 'a next time'.

When my husband was in the hospital for a minor procedure, Michelle was nowhere to be found

Ruben came faithfully, but Michelle had 'important deadlines'. When he came home and I mentioned that it was all quite intense, I got the response: “Oh Zara, you guys are such strong people. You don't need anyone, you've always said that yourself, right?” I cried in the kitchen. Because I didn't know if it was a compliment or a rejection. And it was probably both. Last example then. And this might be the worst. For Noa's first communion, I had sewn a dress. Myself. By hand. Worked on it for weeks. Because I knew Michelle wasn't a fan of 'standard store clothing'. So I thought: this will be something unique. On the day itself, I gave the dress to Noa. She was overjoyed. Walked through the living room with it and twirled around. Michelle looked, nodded, and said: “How creative Zara. But I had already ordered a dress from Petit Jolie. She'll wear this one just for the photo, okay?” Just for the photo. Noa wore my dress for exactly four minutes. Then it was taken off, back in the box. I swallowed. Because that's what you do as a mother-in-law to a daughter-in-law with a plank before her head and a mirror instead of a heart.

And then there was that family weekend

We had booked a cottage with the whole family in the country side. Nothing extravagant – just a nice park, brought some bikes, games, cooking together. Everyone was looking forward to it. Except for Michelle, it seemed. She arrived an hour late, stomped in with designer luggage and immediately complained that the room was too small. “Is this really it? Ruben, I thought you had booked something more spacious. This feels like we're at camp.” During the communal dinner, she was on her phone, interrupting conversations with: “What did you say?” and then looked disinterested. My cousin told a funny story about her toddler. Michelle sighed: “Oh yes, every child is unique, right. But some just a bit more unique than others.” When we played a game on the second evening – old-fashioned charades – Michelle said: “I really don't like this. This is for people without schedules.” She dragged Ruben out of the room. The next day, the kids came storming in with muddy shoes. “MOM!” yelled Noa, “I fell down!” Michelle looked at her daughter, raised an eyebrow and said: “You know you have to be careful, right? Come on, get undressed. This outfit was expensive.” And then, to me: “You must have an old pair of sweatpants lying around, don't you, Zara?”

My sister looked at me

My hands were trembling. But I smiled. As always. On Sunday evening, Michelle left early. Without saying goodbye. Ruben gave me a quick hug. And the children? They said, 'See you soon, grandma!' But that moment – their little voices, their hands in the air – felt like something I had to cherish. Because I knew: as long as Michelle wields the scepter, true family togetherness will be a rarity. So yes, people complain about mothers-in-law. But believe me: I am Michelle's mother-in-law. And that, that's a different ball game.

ZARA