“Just One Day—And We Were Shown the Door”: How My Mother-in-Law Invited Us Over, Then Couldn’t Handle Our Children
When my mother-in-law invited us to spend the weekend at her country cottage, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Our relationship had always been… well, let’s say chilly. We never argued outright, but there was no warmth between us either. She rarely called, only occasionally checking in on the grandchildren, and I was perfectly content with those brief exchanges. But after retiring, Margaret Whitmore suddenly decided she wanted to be “Grandmother of the Year” and see the children. “Come for a barbecue, get some fresh air, relax!” she insisted. Well, if my husband didn’t mind and the children would enjoy it, I agreed.
He even left work early. We arrived, settled in, the barbecue was sizzling, the children were playing, and the weather was lovely. They put us up on the second floor—plenty of space, very comfortable. The evening was pleasant; my father-in-law poured my husband a couple of whiskies, and they chatted. Meanwhile, I put our younger son to bed while the older one stayed outside with his grandparents—neighbours had dropped by. A few hours later, I returned to find Margaret with a pinched expression: “Take him. He’s drained all my energy! Running aboutneedless!”
The next morning, I rose early to make breakfast. The youngest was with me in the kitchen, and the eldest woke later and went out to play football in the garden. Then Margaret burst in, furious: “Your son is utterly unruly! He was thundering up and down the stairs, shouting, and our guests are still asleep!” Except no one was asleep—it was nearly nine. And my son hadn’t been running, just stepping carefully. But there was no reasoning with her—if her grandson made noise, I was a failing mother.
Later, when everyone was outside, the eldest did dash up the stairs again. “There! He’s at it again! No peace with them around!” she sighed theatrically, pressing a hand to her forehead. I held my tongue, but inside, I seethed: “Then why invite us if your own grandchildren are too much for you?!”
Then the younger one burst into tears—his teeth were coming in. The wailing began. Margaret recoiled as if struck: “Right, that’s it! I can’t take anymore! Leave today! One more day, and I’ll lose my mind!” she cried, playing the martyr. My husband tried to protest: “Mum, I’m still knackered from yesterday—I can’t drive!” She immediately fetched the breathalyser. Yes, you heard right—she’d been testing his blood alcohol every half-hour, just to know when she could boot us out.
By lunchtime, we were packing. Our goodbyes were frosty. My husband still speaks to his parents, but I won’t pick up the phone. Not then, not now. Recently, she called again—inviting us to ring in the New Year at her countryside “paradise.” My reply was firm: “No. Once was enough. Your hospitality is more than I can bear.”
