How I “Politely” Sent My Mother-in-Law Home Without Saying a Word
When I first married Emily, I thought myself the luckiest man alive when it came to my mother-in-law. She never meddled in our affairs, never lectured us on life, and never doled out endless advice as so many wives’ mothers do. What’s more, she cooked like an angel, was always polite, and even had a quaintly old-fashioned charm about her. By all accounts—the perfect mother-in-law. But as the saying goes, every rose has its thorn…
At first, all was well. We lived separately, visited her on weekends for tea and scones, and listened to her tales of days gone by. Everything ran smoothly—until our son, William, was born. That’s when things changed. At first, Granny came once a week. Then every other day. And before long, she’d moved in entirely.
Out of politeness, we said nothing. After all, help around the house was no small thing, especially with a newborn. Emily returned to work, and there her mother was—roast in the oven, floors gleaming, laundry folded, the baby content. It sounded idyllic. Yet that dream soon became a suffocating nightmare. Without a word, she extended her stay—first a week, then two. Then she “just popped home to fetch a few things”—only to return and settle in once more.
She ruled our home like a matriarch: rearranged the furniture, hid my favourite mug, baked fruitcake when all I wanted was toast. We no longer felt like it was our own house. I gently suggested to Emily that perhaps her mother might enjoy some time in her own cottage, but she’d brush me off: “Oh, don’t be like that. She’s lonely. Can’t you be patient?”
So I was. Until fate handed me the most brilliant solution.
William was two at the time. One evening at bedtime, he confessed in a whisper, “Papa, I’m scared of the dark. There’s a Bogeyman in it.” I did my best to comfort him. “Son, if you’re afraid… just laugh. Laughter frightens all Bogeymen away. Laugh, and they’ll run!” I said, not thinking much of it. William nodded and went to sleep.
Then, a few nights later, at three in the morning, I heard my son padding down the hallway—cackling. Loudly. Horrifyingly. Perfectly sincerely. The sound echoed through the house. I nearly fell out of bed before realizing—he was off to the loo, “scaring off” the Bogeyman. The next night, the same. And the next. To us adults, it was vaguely amusing. But not to Granny.
After a fortnight of this, she cornered me, frazzled, and declared, “I cannot spend another night under this roof! There’s something unnatural here—something in the dark! The boy laughs in the night like something’s speaking through him! It’s unsettling. I’m going back to my cottage. And if I visit, it’ll only be by daylight. Only once you’ve had the place properly seen to.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the implication was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily shrugged—”Mum will be mum.” And I, fighting a furtive grin, went to brew my coffee. Alone. In my own kitchen. With my favourite mug.
Nearly two years have passed since then. Granny visits strictly by day—bearing mince pies, doting on William, gossiping with Emily. But by evening, she’s gone. Punctually. Without a hint of lingering. She does complain now and then of loneliness. But then I remember the Bogeyman—and all falls back into place.
The moral? Even the kindest souls can overstep. The trick is setting boundaries—without a single cross word. A little imagination, it seems, goes a long way.
