You always hear about the abusers who raise their fists.
The ones who leave bruises or scream in your face.
But no one warns you about the ones who smile.
The ones who speak softly — and still gut your soul.
My ex-husband’s mother wasn’t just controlling.
She was the control.
She never raised her voice.
She didn’t have to.
Every decision made in our home traced back to her shadow — her word was law.
She told me how to feed my baby — then took the medication the hospital gave us for her withdrawal.
She told my husband not to add his name to our lease — and I lost our housing.
She told me mental health care was attention-seeking — so I lost my therapist.
She said God wouldn’t bless us unless we were married — so she forced her son to marry me.
Not suggested. Not encouraged.
Forced.
She orchestrated a wedding I never asked for.
At the Justice of the Peace.
No ring. No vows. No joy. Just silence.
We didn’t even consummate it that night.
He was angry.
And I was hopeful — thinking maybe he’d finally chosen me.
But instead, I got cold silence.
It wasn’t until years later I learned the truth — he married me because she made him.
And in that moment, everything I thought I knew fell apart.
Because I didn’t just marry a man.
I married a kingdom. A structure. A system of control.
And she was its queen.
When I lost everything, she “saved” us.
Moved us into a rotted-out trailer on tribal land.
Black mold. No insulation.
No school. No doctors. No warmth. No escape.
She called it a blessing.
She said it was God’s will.
I called it hell.
We had no transportation.
I lost all access to counseling and mental health support.
She said it was all “for attention.”
That my only job was to serve my husband and raise the children.
And that was the beginning of my erasure.
There were winters where we went without wood for heat.
She’d refuse to bring us more because I’d refused to come down the mountain to visit her.
I was 7 months pregnant — high risk — and left alone with four kids and no car.
So I took a maul
and started chopping up the porch
just to keep my babies warm.
She believed doctors were evil and denied them care.
Refused to allow school or real education.
She believed in “homeschooling,” but nothing was ever taught.
Then CPS got involved after I reported sexual abuse by the grandfather.
Forensic interviews were scheduled — but no one disclosed.
And when the state closed the case?
She moved us again.
This time, to her house.
To her mountain.
To her rules.
And that’s when the real isolation began.
We weren’t allowed upstairs.
We had to stay in the basement.
I wasn’t allowed to cook for my children.
Or do laundry.
Or bathe them unless she approved it.
She told me how often I could feed them.
She controlled the food stamp card.
I had to ask for permission to mother my own children.
Eventually, she started locking the door when she left the house —
and we were stuck outside.
There was a dead RV on the property from the 80s — it didn’t run, but it was all we had.
So I started hiding snacks, diapers, baby clothes, and bedding in plastic totes inside it.
Just in case she locked us out again.
Just in case my kids needed to eat or sleep while we waited to be “allowed” back inside.
I was the mother.
But not allowed to mother.
I was a wife.
But not allowed to be a woman.
I was human.
But treated like a stray.
And still…
She convinced everyone she was a savior.
She wore the mask of faith.
She played the part.
But behind the curtain — was control, manipulation, and generational evil
that would shape every chapter that followed.
If my words spoke to your heart, you can help support our journey:
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Letters From the Edge 