When Faith Is All You Have: My Struggle to Keep My Family Together

“You’re not good enough for my son. I don’t know what he sees in you.”

The words hit me like a slap, sharp and cold. Linda, my mother-in-law, stood in my kitchen—the kitchen I’d spent hours cleaning before she arrived—her lips pursed, eyes daring me to cry. I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself, swallowing hard. My husband, Eric, was upstairs, probably oblivious to the tension brewing below.

I wanted to scream, to tell her she had no right, that Eric chose me and that was enough. But instead, I heard myself say, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Linda.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the room felt cavernous, every word echoing off the walls. Linda just snorted and moved past me, her perfume lingering long after her footsteps faded.

That night, after the dishes were done and Eric’s parents were gone, I sat on the edge of our bed, my hands trembling. Eric came in, phone still in his hand, and looked at me with concern. “You okay?”

I wanted to tell him everything, but the words stuck in my throat. I was afraid of coming between him and his family, afraid of being the reason for any rift. So I just nodded and forced a smile.

But the pain didn’t go away. If anything, it grew worse with every Sunday dinner, every holiday, every passive-aggressive remark Linda made in front of Eric, always careful to couch her disapproval in jokes or backhanded compliments. Sometimes his father, Bill, would join in, laughing a little too loudly at Linda’s barbs. I felt myself shrinking, fading into the background of my own marriage.

The breaking point came on Christmas Eve. We were at Linda and Bill’s house, the air thick with the smell of roast beef and tension. Linda handed me a gift—a set of cheap dish towels, the kind you find in the clearance bin at Walmart. “For your little kitchen,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Maybe you can finally keep up.”

Eric saw my face and, for the first time, seemed to understand. He looked from me to his mother, realization dawning in his eyes. When we got home, I finally broke down, sobbing in his arms. “I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered. “I feel like I’m drowning, Eric.”

He was quiet for a long time, stroking my hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it would get better. I thought if I ignored it, she’d stop.”

But she didn’t. And so I found myself one night, sitting alone in the dark, clutching the Bible my grandmother had given me at my baptism. I hadn’t prayed in years—not really. But I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face, and whispered, “God, I don’t know what to do. I’m lost. Please help me.”

It wasn’t an instant fix. The next morning, Linda was still Linda, and the problems didn’t magically disappear. But something inside me shifted. I started waking up before dawn, sneaking downstairs to pray before the world woke up. Sometimes I’d just sit in silence, letting the pain wash over me, breathing in and out, trusting that God was listening.

One morning, as I knelt by the couch, I found myself praying not just for strength, but for Linda. “God, help me see her the way You do. Help me forgive.” It was the hardest prayer I’d ever prayed, but the more I said it, the lighter my heart felt.

I started journaling my prayers, scribbling down every hurt, every fear, every small victory. I wrote about the time Eric stood up for me at dinner, gently but firmly telling his mother to stop. I wrote about the night I found Linda crying in the backyard, and how I almost turned away but instead offered her a tissue. She looked at me, surprised, and for a moment, I saw something soft and sad in her eyes.

Slowly, things began to change. Linda’s comments grew less sharp, her presence less suffocating. I realized she was scared—scared of losing her son, scared of not mattering anymore. I started inviting her to join me in the kitchen, asking for her recipes, letting her teach me the way she liked things done. Some days it felt like pretending, but other days it felt real.

Eric and I talked more openly, setting boundaries for his parents and for our marriage. We started praying together, even if it was just a quiet, “God, help us get through today.” Faith became our anchor, something we could cling to when the waves of family drama threatened to pull us under.

It’s been three years since that first desperate prayer. Things aren’t perfect—maybe they never will be—but I’m stronger now. My marriage is stronger. And Linda? She’s softer, kinder, sometimes even grateful. Last Thanksgiving, she hugged me as we cleaned up the kitchen, whispering, “Thank you for not giving up on us.”

Sometimes I think about how close I came to walking away, about the nights I begged God for a way out. But now, I see how every tear, every prayer, was shaping me into someone braver, someone capable of loving even when it hurts.

So I ask you—when everything in you wants to run, what do you hold on to? What gets you through the storm?