Mum saw right through my mother-in-law and put a stop to her schemes.
Being in debt is a heavy burden, but it’s a hundred times worse when the lender keeps shoving their “generosity” in your face, demanding eternal gratitude. My name’s Emily, and my husband, William, always tried to live within our means, avoiding loans. But his mother, Margaret, would force her help on us just so she could endlessly remind us how she “saved” us. The reminders only stopped if she “loyalty loaned” us more money. Even when William borrowed from her and repaid on time, she found a way to praise herself: “See? You didn’t have to deal with those greedy banks and their ridiculous interest rates—Mum came through!” We live in a small town near Bristol, and this game of “benefactor” was poisoning our lives.
When it came to buying a flat, I flat-out refused Margaret’s help. An opportunity arose after my nan passed away. She left my mum a flat, which Mum sold and split the money between me and my sister. It was nearly half of what we needed. But Margaret jumped in, offering to cover the rest—on condition the flat be put in her name. I was stunned. “Why yours?” I asked. “Well, who else? I’m the one paying!” she snapped. I couldn’t hold back: “My mum’s chipping in too. Maybe you two should co-own it?” She turned crimson: “Are you taking the mickey?” “No,” I said. “We’ll buy it and put it in our names. We don’t need your money. A mortgage isn’t half as terrifying as being your lifelong debtors.”
By then, I’d learned to push back instead of staying quiet. It drove her mad, and she’d moan to relatives about her “cheeky daughter-in-law.” Still, she shoved the money at William, ignoring our protests. He came home looking shattered: “Sorry, I took it. She wouldn’t let up about your ‘stubbornness’ and all that mortgage nonsense.” I sighed. “Fine. We’ll bow and scrape.” But I had no idea how bad things would get.
After paying for part of the flat, Margaret acted like she owned the place. She dictated the wallpaper, the furniture, even where the sofa should go. “Bin that shower cubicle—I’ll bring a proper tub. Much better for when you have kids!” she barked. We fussed against her “advice,” but it was like wrestling fog. Once the flat was done, she demanded keys “just in case.” Fury bubbled in my chest, but I gave in to keep the peace. Big mistake.
The first Sunday, a clatter from the kitchen woke me. Still groggy, I shuffled in—only to freeze. Margaret was rearranging the cupboards. “What are you doing?” I choked out. She shrieked instead of answering: “Have you no shame? Put a dressing gown on!” My patience snapped. “Why? It’s my home! I could walk around starkers if I fancied! And what are you doing in my kitchen?” “Yours?” she spat. “Who paid for it?” I shot back: “Not you! My mum covered the kitchen. Your money went to the loo and bath—go play landlord in there!” William, woken by the shouting, grabbed his head and fled to the bedroom, leaving us to it.
Realising I couldn’t fight alone, I called in reinforcements—my mum, Susan. Locked in the bathroom, I whispered the mess to her. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Margaret answered, all innocence: “Susan! Bags and all—what a surprise!” Mum didn’t miss a beat: “Got lonely, thought I’d stay with the kids a fortnight. I paid for this flat too, so I’ve every right. And you are…?” Margaret floundered: “I—just popped by for a look.” “At what?” Mum pressed. “The shower you want to rip out? I like it, actually. And that tub of yours is probably ancient. Tell you what—you keep the tub, I’ll take the fancy shower with the speakers!”
Mum didn’t let her get a word in, and Margaret knew she’d met her match. She backpedalled fast: “No need for squabbling! Let’s nip to the café round the corner for a cuppa.” Off they went, and William and I, thanking our lucky stars, finally started our day. I’ve no idea what Mum said to her, but since then, Margaret’s stopped her invasions. No more surprise visits, no more “helpful” orders—just polite chats, now she knows my mum’s got my back.
My heart cheers this small win, but worry lingers. Margaret’s nursing this grudge, biding her time to remind us of her “good deeds.” But I’ve learned one thing: my mum’s my shield. One talk was all it took to put my mother-in-law in her place, defending our home and our right to live as we please. I’m grateful—but deep down, I dread Margaret’s next move. Still, I’m ready. With Mum behind me, I won’t back down.
