We had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from treating our flat like her own.
My husband and I have been married for a year now, and all this time, his mother has acted as though she can’t accept that her son didn’t follow her grand life script. Apparently, she’d dreamed of him marrying some oil baron’s daughter so he could not only drown in luxury himself but drag her along for the ride. Where she got such grand ambitions is a mystery. In reality, we’re just your average couple—tightened our belts at first, took out a mortgage, and now live in my one-bed flat while renting out our new place. Next up? Saving for a car. Normal young married life, really. Nothing extravagant, but we’re not scraping by either.
Yet, my mother-in-law stubbornly refuses to face facts and clings to her delusions. She hasn’t given up on sabotaging our marriage, and her creativity is… impressive. Lipstick stains “mysteriously” appeared on my husband’s shirts, his clothes reeked of perfume, and once—I kid you not—a pack of condoms turned up in my handbag. Naturally, this caused rows, suspicion, and drama. Thankfully, we cleared things up each time, but the lingering resentment remained.
Not long ago, my husband was offered a two-month project in a nearby city—helping launch a new branch, which meant a potential career boost. We jumped at the chance. Off he went, leaving me to my usual routine.
A few days in, I noticed odd things: items misplaced, drawers rummaged through. At first, I thought my husband had popped back to grab something—it wasn’t a long trip. I rang him, and he swore he hadn’t been home. An hour later, he called back, sounding grim. His best guess? His mother. Turns out, ages ago, before a trip, he’d given her a spare key “just in case” and never asked for it back.
Next morning, I took leave from work and had the locks changed in record time. I informed 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 order—confirmation it *had* been her. Then I checked the wardrobe and found… a tiny hidden camera tucked on the top shelf.
I called my husband immediately. At first, he just went silent—then burst out laughing, probably out of sheer disbelief. I scoured the place for more surprises but, thankfully, found nothing. I resisted the urge to confront her—my husband asked me to wait till he got back to deal with it himself.
The next day, *she* called. Presumably, her key no longer worked, and she wanted to “pop round for tea.” I sweetly said I wasn’t home but we’d arrange it another time. Within the hour, my husband called to say she’d already complained to him—”Your wife’s never home! The place is empty!”
By then, we found it hilarious. We started joking about what excuse she’d try next to barge in. And oh, she delivered—daily calls about a “misdelivered parcel,” forgotten reading glasses, or, her classic, “just bringing some homemade scones.”
When my husband finally returned, she announced her “visit” almost instantly. We were ready. She arrived, handed over the scones, then headed off to “wash her hands”—straight to the bedroom, naturally. We followed and caught her elbow-deep in our wardrobe. Spotting us, she floundered, muttering nonsense. My husband silently pulled the camera from his pocket and held it up.
Cue the meltdown. She shrieked about my “endless affairs,” how I was deceiving her poor, naive son—even clutched her chest like a Victorian widow in distress. Finally, she stormed out, chin high, the very picture of wounded martyrdom.
Honestly? I nearly gave her a standing ovation. That performance deserved an award—zero rehearsals, full commitment. But this was just a battle. The war isn’t over. Still, I’m glad we held our ground this time. Our marriage isn’t her personal soap opera.
