Oh, you won’t believe what I’m dealing with. Every time my mother-in-law visits, it’s like a hurricane’s hit the house. Chaos everywhere, and I’m left picking up the pieces for days. I’m not even exaggerating. She’s got this unshakable belief that her way is the only right way, and her visits? Absolute battlegrounds. The worst part? She expects me to thank her for it.
So, here’s the thing—my husband and I live in a flat I inherited from my nan. It was a bit run-down, needed work, but we put our hearts into it. New windows, fresh paint, proper furniture—the lot. Just as it was starting to feel like *our* space, she rocks up unannounced.
We tried to politely put her off—told her the place was a mess, dust everywhere, not the best time. Nope. She hops on a train and turns up anyway. Day one, she pulls a stunt. Goes out, buys this hideous wallpaper—massive roses like something straight out of the 90s—and just slaps it up in the living room. Without even asking! We hadn’t even planned to do that wall yet—we were sorting the bathroom first. But no, she bulldozes right in.
I nearly cried when I saw it. My husband spent the whole evening calming me down. And the next morning? She acts all offended, like *I’m* the ungrateful one. “After all I’ve done for you,” she says. Then off she goes in a huff. My poor husband had to strip the lot and exchange the wallpaper himself.
You’d think she’d take the hint, right? Not a chance. The minute we finish the renovations, she’s back. This time, it’s our *wardrobe arrangement* that’s wrong. She dumps all our clothes on the floor and starts “sorting them properly.” I was speechless. Then she gets to my *lingerie drawer* and starts lecturing me—”Lace is tacky, cotton only, no arguments!” I swear, I nearly snapped, “Why don’t you just buy me granny knickers while you’re at it?” But I bit my tongue. Once she left, I redid the whole thing.
And the visits since? Same story. Towels folded “wrong,” baby blankets “unhealthy,” nappies in the bin because “you shouldn’t poison my grandson with chemicals!” One time, she actually binned them. Thank God my husband stepped in before I lost it.
Don’t get me wrong—from a distance, she’s lovely. Helpful, calls to check in, gives decent advice. But the second she walks through our door? I’m on edge. I feel like a guest in my own home.
Talking doesn’t help. Even her own son can’t get through to her. She tunes us out, acts like I’m some rubbish housewife because I don’t wash dishes *her* way or fold towels by colour. I’m exhausted. I don’t want a feud, but I can’t take this overstepping anymore.
How do I make her see this is *our* home, *our* rules? How do I set boundaries without burning bridges? Honestly, I’m at a loss.
