If I’d known how this decision would turn out, I’d never have agreed. But five years ago, when my husband Thomas and I were looking for a flat, he insisted: “Let’s buy here, close to Mum. She’ll always be on hand to help or keep an eye on things if needed. She’s an absolute gem.” We bought the place. She lives on the sixth floor; we’re on the third. Foolishly, I thought having her nearby would be a blessing. Instead, it’s been a curse.
At first, it was quiet. My mother-in-law would drop by occasionally—to babysit or bring over some scones. I didn’t mind. In fact, I made an effort to be polite, grateful, even friendly. But soon, things spiralled out of control, especially when we started going away on weekends—to our cottage or the countryside. We gave her a key “to water the plants.” Now, I realise that was my biggest mistake.
The moment we step out the door, she’s in. She doesn’t just water the plants—she conducts a full-blown inspection. She barges into our private life without a second thought. I come home and barely recognise my own flat. Bedding is stuffed in a drawer with socks. Half my belongings are dumped on the floor with a note: “Bin these.” The rest are already in the wash—even though I never leave dirty clothes lying about!
The kitchen’s no better. The crockery’s been rearranged. Where the mugs used to be, now there are saucepans. The salt’s where the sugar was. I spend a week searching, muttering under my breath. But the worst is my son’s toys. She deems it necessary to “tidy” them, too—dumping everything out, throwing half away: “Old, dusty, broken.” Never mind that my boy played with that stuffed rabbit every night. Her word is final.
My plants, the very ones she’s meant to care for, are drowning. The tropical ones are half-dead, stripped bare. “Removing sick leaves,” she declares. Yet somehow, every leaf ends up in the bin.
Then there’s my makeup. She doesn’t just touch it—she uses it! Perfume, moisturiser, nail polish, even my nail file vanished into her handbag. As if it’s communal property. “It’s all in the family,” she might as well say. I’ve started buying everything in doubles because otherwise, I’m left with nothing.
I’ve tried talking to her. Asked nicely: “Please don’t move things. Just water the plants, that’s all.” But I’m met with silence or some variation of: “I only want what’s best.” Every single time. As if I’m the guest in my own home.
I’ve spoken to my husband. Cried, begged, explained. But Thomas takes her side. “Mum’s got a weak heart. She can’t handle stress. Just bear with her—she means well.” No one seems to care about my patience running thin. He thinks I’m nitpicking, that his mother just wants to help.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m boiling inside. I can’t bring myself to shout—it’s not in my nature. And I won’t stoop to rudeness. But keeping it all bottled up? I can’t take much more. I’m terrified one day I’ll snap. And then the fallout—for our family, for our marriage—will be far worse.
I’m exhausted. Shaking with it. This isn’t a “gem” of a mother-in-law. She’s controlling, intrusive, and utterly shameless—and I can’t even tell her to leave, because my husband won’t understand. Because she’s nearby. Because it’s “easier.”
Except it’s not easier. I dread going home now. Every time, I don’t know what I’ll find—or what I’ll lose.
What do I do? Keep enduring it? Or, despite my husband’s protests, finally say: “Enough!” and take back my right to privacy?..
