When I first married Emily, I thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. She never meddled in our affairs, didn’t lecture us on life, or bombard us with endless advice like so many wives’ mums do. On top of that, her cooking was divine, she was always polite, and even her old-fashioned outlook had a certain charm. By all accounts, the perfect mother-in-law. But as they say, every silver cloud has a dark lining.
At first, everything was lovely. We lived separately, visited her on weekends for tea and scones, and listened to her tales of the past. It all ran like clockwork—until Emily and I had our son, Oliver. That’s when it started. At first, Granny would visit once a week. Then every other day. Eventually, she just… stayed.
Out of politeness, we said nothing. After all, an extra pair of hands was welcome, especially with a newborn. Emily went back to work, and her mum was there—roast in the oven, floors gleaming, laundry folded, the baby full and happy. It sounded idyllic. Until it wasn’t. Because without asking, she’d linger for a week, then two. Then she’d pop home “just to grab a few things” and be right back.
She settled in like she owned the place—rearranging furniture, hiding my favourite mug, baking Victoria sponge when all I wanted was a fry-up. We stopped feeling at home in our own flat. I tried hinting to Emily—maybe her mum needed a break at her own house—but she’d brush it off. “How can you say that? She’s lonely. Can’t you just be patient?”
So I was. Until fate handed me the perfect solution.
Oliver was two then. One night before bed, he whispered, “Daddy, I’m scared of the dark. There’s a Bogeyman in my room.” I did my best to reassure him. “Listen, mate, if you’re scared—just laugh. Bogeymen hate laughter. You laugh, and they run off!” I said it offhand, not thinking much of it. Oliver nodded and went to sleep.
Then, a few nights later, at three in the morning, I heard my son shuffling down the hall… giggling, then full-on cackling. Loud. Unsettling. Wholeheartedly. I nearly fell out of bed before realising—he was off to the loo, “scaring off” the Bogeyman. The next night, same thing. And the next. We adults found it a bit funny. Granny didn’t.
After a few days, she cornered me, visibly rattled. “I can’t sleep in this house! There’s something unnatural here! That child laughs in the night like something’s speaking through him! It’s downright eerie! I’m going home. And if I do visit, it’ll only be in daylight. And only once you’ve cleansed this place.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the message was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily shrugged— “Mum’s being mum.” Meanwhile, I fought back a grin as I brewed my coffee. Alone. In my own kitchen. With my favourite mug.
That was nearly two years ago. Granny visits strictly in daylight—dropping off scones, fussing over Oliver, catching up with Emily. But come evening, she’s gone. No hints about staying. She still complains of loneliness now and then. Then I remember the “Bogeyman,” and everything falls right back into place.
The lesson? Even the sweetest people can overstep. The trick is knowing how to reclaim your space—without a single cross word. Sometimes, all it takes is a little… creativity.
