**Diary Entry**
Every visit from my mother-in-law feels like a storm leaving chaos in its wake, and it takes me days to recover. I’m not exaggerating. She’s a woman utterly convinced that her way is the only right way, and every time she steps through our door, our home turns into a battleground. The worst part? She expects gratitude for it.
My husband and I live in a flat inherited from my grandmother. It was old, needed work, but we poured our hearts into it—new windows, fresh wallpaper, modern furniture. Just as it was finally feeling like ours, in she marched.
We tried politely deferring her visit—explaining the mess, the dust, the inconvenience. No use. She boarded the train anyway. On her first day, she surprised us by buying hideous floral wallpaper—straight out of the nineties—and slapped it up in the living room without asking. We hadn’t planned to touch that wall yet; we were focusing on the bathroom. But no, her way or no way.
When we came home from work and saw it, my legs nearly gave out. My husband spent the evening calming me down. The next morning, she acted offended, scolding me for being ungrateful. “After all my effort,” she sniffed. She left in a huff. My husband later stripped the wallpaper and even managed to return it to the shop.
You’d think she’d learn. Not a chance. Once we finished the renovations, she was back. This time, our wardrobe organisation offended her. She dumped everything onto the floor to rearrange it “properly.” When she started lecturing me about my lace underwear—”Cotton only, none of this vulgar nonsense!”—I nearly snapped. I bit my tongue, redid everything after she left, and begged my husband to talk to her. It did no good.
Every visit since has been the same. Towels folded wrong, nappies declared “toxic,” disposable ones binned because “chemicals have no place near my grandchild!” Once, she actually tossed them. Thankfully, my husband intervened before I lost my temper.
Don’t get me wrong—she’s lovely from a distance. Helpful, thoughtful, always calling to check in. But the moment she crosses our threshold, my patience evaporates. I feel like a guest in my own home.
No amount of talking gets through. Even her own son’s words bounce off her. To her, I’m a hopeless housewife—wrong dishwashing technique, mismatched towels. I’m exhausted. I don’t want conflict, but I can’t tolerate this anymore.
How do I make her understand? This is our family, our home, our rules. She doesn’t get to bulldoze in, however well-meaning. How do I set boundaries without burning bridges? I’m at my wit’s end.
**Lesson:** Respect should never come at the cost of your peace. Sometimes, the kindest thing is to hold your ground—firmly, but without malice.
