I had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from treating our flat like her own.
My husband and I have been married for a year, and the entire time, his mother has refused to accept that her son didn’t follow her script. She’d dreamed of marrying him off to a wealthy heiress, someone who’d drown him—and by extension, her—in luxury. Where she got such delusions, I’ll never know. In reality, we live like any young couple: careful with money, paying off a mortgage, renting out our second flat while saving for a car. Comfortable, but nothing extravagant.
Yet she clings to her fantasy, determined to ruin our marriage. She’s tried every trick—lipstick stains on his shirts, women’s perfume on his clothes, even planting condoms in my handbag. Each time, it caused rows, suspicion, chaos. We always figured it out, but the damage lingered.
Then my husband got sent to Manchester for two months to launch a new branch. A chance to climb the ladder, so we considered it a win. After he left, I settled back into routine—until things started moving. Drawers slightly open, clothes out of place. At first, I thought he’d popped back. But when I rang, he was baffled. An hour later, he called back, voice tight. His mother, he admitted, still had a spare key—one he’d given her years ago and never retrieved.
The next morning, I took the day off and had the locks changed. I warned him if he ever handed out keys again, he’d be sleeping on the landing. That evening, everything was undisturbed. So I searched—and found a tiny camera tucked on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
When I rang my husband, he went silent, then laughed in disbelief. I tore the flat apart but found nothing else. No scene, no showdown—I agreed to wait until he got back to confront her.
The next day, she called. Asking if I was home, saying she’d “pop round for tea.” I lied, said I was out. Within minutes, my husband phoned—she’d already complained that I was never home.
By then, it was almost funny. We joked about what excuse she’d try next. And she didn’t disappoint—daily calls about misplaced glasses, phantom parcels, even homemade scones she just *had* to deliver.
When my husband returned, she announced a visit. We let her in. She handed over a bag of scones, then marched off—not to the loo, but the bedroom. We followed just in time. There she was, rifling through the wardrobe. My husband pulled the camera from his pocket.
Then came the meltdown. Screaming about my supposed affairs, calling him blind, clutching her chest like some wronged Victorian matron. Finally, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
For a second, I almost applauded. A performance like that—no rehearsal, pure instinct. But it’s just the first act. I know this isn’t over. Still, for now, we stood our ground. And that’s enough. Our marriage isn’t her stage.
