Oh my god, you won’t believe what I’ve been dealing with every time my mother-in-law visits. Why is it that her every arrival feels like a tornado tearing through my house? I’m not even joking. She’s got this unshakable belief that her way is the *only* way, and every single visit turns our home into a battleground. And the worst part? She acts like I should be *thanking* her for the chaos.
It all started when my husband and I moved into my grandma’s old flat in London. It needed a lot of work—new windows, fresh paint, proper furniture—but we put our hearts into it. Just as we were finally making it cosy, just as everything was coming together *our* way—guess who showed up unannounced?
We tried politely telling her, *”Now’s not the best time, the place is a mess!”* But no, she hopped on a train from Manchester anyway. And on day one? She waltzed into B&Q, bought the most *hideous* floral wallpaper—like something straight out of the ‘80s—and *redecorated an entire wall* in the living room. Without asking. We hadn’t even *planned* to redo that room yet!
When we got home from work and saw it, I swear my knees nearly gave out. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying, and my poor husband spent the whole evening calming me down. The next morning, she had the nerve to act like *I* was ungrateful—her exact words were, *”I put in all this effort, and you have the cheek to turn your nose up?”* She saw herself out in a huff, and bless my husband, he fixed everything, even managed to return the wallpaper.
You’d think she’d take the hint. Oh no. As soon as we finished the renovations, she was back. This time? My *wardrobe* wasn’t up to her standards. She dumped *all* our clothes onto the floor to rearrange them *”properly.”* When she got to my *lingerie drawer* and started lecturing me—*”Lace is vulgar, cotton only!”*—I nearly lost it. I *so* wanted to snap, *”Shall I just let you pick my knickers for me next? Maybe ones big enough to sail in?”* But I held my tongue. The second she left, I redid everything—then begged my husband to talk to her. He tried. But did it help? Nope.
Every visit since has been the same. Towels hung *”wrong,”* baby blankets *”toxic,”* nappies *literally* in the bin—*”No chemicals for my grandchild!”* (Yes, she once binned a whole pack of Pampers.) Thank God my husband stepped in before I exploded.
Don’t get me wrong—from a distance, she’s lovely. Helpful, thoughtful, always calling to check in. But the *moment* she walks through our door? I’m a guest in my own home. Nothing we say gets through to her—not even her own son. To her, I’m *”hopeless”* because I don’t wash dishes *her* way or fold towels by colour. I’m *exhausted.* I don’t want a fight, I don’t want a falling-out. But I *can’t* keep letting her bulldoze over us.
Tell me—how do I make her see that this is *our* family, *our* home, *our* rules? How do I set boundaries *without* burning bridges? Because honestly? I’m out of ideas.
