We had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from taking over our flat.
My husband and I have been married for a year now, and in all that time, his mother still hasn’t accepted that her son didn’t follow her script. She’d dreamed of him marrying some millionaire’s daughter so he—and, by extension, her—could wallow in luxury. Where these grand ambitions came from, I’ll never know. In reality, we live modestly—a little tight at first, but we managed, took out a mortgage, and now split our time between my one-bedroom flat and renting out our new place. Next on our list? A car. Just like any other young couple, really. Nothing extravagant, but we’re comfortable.
Yet she refuses to accept reality. Instead, she’s bent on sabotaging us. Her methods would put a spy to shame—lipstick marks on my husband’s shirts, traces of perfume on his clothes, and mysteriously appearing condoms in my handbag. Each stunt sparked fights, suspicion, and exhausting explanations. Thankfully, we always worked it out—but the tension lingered.
A few weeks ago, my husband was offered temporary work in another city—helping launch a new branch. It was a big career opportunity, so we agreed he’d go. He left, and I carried on as usual.
Then things got weird. Drawers weren’t quite closed, clothes were rummaged through. At first, I thought he’d swung by for something—the drive wasn’t far. But when I called, he swore he hadn’t been back. An hour later, he called again, sounding grim. He admitted it was likely his mother—ages ago, before a trip, he’d given her a spare key “just in case”… and never asked for it back.
The next day, I left work early and had a locksmith change the locks. I warned my husband that if he ever handed out keys again, he’d be sleeping on the landing. By evening, everything in the flat was back in place—proof she’d been snooping. I checked the wardrobe and found… a tiny hidden camera tucked on the top shelf.
I called my husband. At first, he was silent—then burst out laughing, probably from shock. I tore the flat apart searching for more, but thankfully, found nothing. This time, I didn’t argue—he promised to handle it when he got back.
The next day, she called. Obviously, her key no longer worked. “Fancy a cuppa?” she chirped. I said I was out, but maybe another time. Within half an hour, my husband called—she’d already complained to him that I was “gallivanting about,” leaving the place empty.
By then, it was almost funny. We joked about what excuse she’d try next. And she did—daily. A “misdelivered parcel,” her “forgotten glasses,” homemade scones she “just had to drop off.”
When my husband returned, she announced she’d come for a visit. We let her in. She handed over a bag of scones, then made a beeline—not for the loo, but our bedroom. We followed, catching her elbow-deep in our drawers. My husband pulled the camera from his pocket and held it up.
Well. The theatrics began. She screeched about my “endless affairs,” how I was ruining her poor, naïve son, how he couldn’t see the truth. Even clutched her chest like a telenovela widow. Finally, she stormed out—dignity somehow intact.
Honestly, I nearly applauded. An award-worthy performance with zero rehearsals. But this was just a skirmish—the war wasn’t over. Still, I was proud we’d stood firm. Our marriage wasn’t her stage, and we wouldn’t play our parts.
Some battles aren’t about winning—just refusing to surrender.
