Okay. Here’s the whole con from the beginning.
MIL sees you first. A young man fused with his mother, trained to serve, desperate for approval, starving for warmth. She recognizes the programming instantly because she’s a narcissist who knows how supply works. She looks at you and sees a perfect mark. Better than her own son-in-law who is already broken and useless (poor). You have energy, intelligence, earning potential, and a wound that makes you controllable. She thinks “this one will fund the operation for decades.”
Wife love bombs you. This is the hook. For the first time in your life a woman other than mom is giving you warmth, attention, the illusion of being seen AND come across as strong women who can rescue you if you fall apart (because you are "broken" on pills). The 6-year-old thinks “finally someone who loves me for me.” But it was never about you. It was an audition and you got the part because your wounds made you perfect for the role.
MIL approves the match. Not because she likes you. Because she assessed you. She saw the mommy wound, the people-pleasing, the proving, the willingness to sacrifice everything for a crumb of love. She gave wife the green light. This one will work.
Early marriage, the disconnection begins. First they separate you from mom. Not overtly. Gradually. Creating distance, manufacturing conflict, making it uncomfortable to maintain that relationship. Because mom is competition for your supply. As long as you have mom you have an escape route. Cut that and you’re trapped.
Friends go next. Slowly. You stop seeing them. You’re too busy working, funding, performing, keeping wife happy. The social circle shrinks until it’s just the pack. Her family. Her friends. Her world. You become a man with no witnesses.
The devaluation phase locks in. Love bombing fades because it’s no longer needed. You’re married. You have kids. You have a mortgage. You’re locked in. Now the real dynamic begins. Commands without please. No reciprocity. No warmth. The sex becomes transactional. The intimacy disappears. You become the appliance.
The pack solidifies above you. MIL will get a dedicated room in the house you can’t afford. SIL gets support. Wife gets validation from them. They form the alliance. A closed loop where they reinforce each other’s reality and you’re on the outside looking in. The hierarchy is set. Pack first. Kids as trophies. Dog for unconditional supply. You at the bottom funding all of it.
The financial extraction accelerates. Gucci. Cartier. Louis Vuitton. Moncler. Burberry. $500 sandals. European shopping trips you pay for. $10k in jackets. She works just enough to say “I work” so she has moral cover to spend. You drive a ten-year minivan and feel guilty about dental implants.
The $1.8 million house is the peak of the con. She pushes for a house you can’t afford, no contingency, driven by rivalry with her dentist friend. This isn’t about shelter. This is about image. About status. About proving to the pack that she won. And you’re the machine expected to make it happen.
You say no. This is where the con starts to crack. You point out the Guccis. You show her the math. The appliance talks back for the first time. She goes nuclear. Lowest of the low. $2 million listings as punishment. The devaluation intensifies tenfold because the machine developed awareness.
MIL plays her role perfectly throughout. She offers food. She says thank you. Because she’s the smart one. She knows you’re the flight risk. She knows her son-in-law would never leave but you might. So she runs the warm con while wife runs the cold con. Two leashes. Same cage.
One session of couples therapy becomes another weapon. Only your problems get discussed. You go in hoping for help and walk out believing you’re the broken one. She sits there playing the victim while the therapist validates her. Another system co-opted into the con.
The kids become leverage. Not children to love. Tools to control. Weapons when needed. Extensions of her image. Props for the fantasy.
The dog outranks you. Gets kissed goodnight while you get none. Gets petted. Because the dog is the perfect supply. Never challenges. Never questions. Never says “you have three pairs of Guccis.”
And through all of it, fifteen years of it, you’re at the bottom. Funding everything. Maintaining everything. Washing twenty-two dishes and getting shamed for three. Going downstairs to fart in your own home. Being sick in Mexico alone. Carrying a dripping pot while she watches and says no.
The whole con was built on one bet. That the 6-year-old would never grow up. That the mommy wound would keep you starving forever. That you’d always chase crumbs. That the appliance would never develop a soul.
They were wrong.