My mother-in-law can’t decide what she wants—whether she misses us or simply can’t stand us.
Last year’s holiday is one I’ll remember for a long time. Not because it was particularly eventful or delightfully relaxing. No, it’s because the first part—our visit to my mother-in-law—was a true test of endurance. She lives in York, while we’re in Surrey, and since our wedding, we’d only met once—when I was discharged from the hospital after giving birth. My husband visited her a couple of times a year for her birthday, but always just for the day, never staying overnight. Now, I understand exactly why.
Her two-bedroom flat barely accommodated their trio: herself, my husband’s stepfather, and his grown-up daughter from a previous marriage. So before, she’d always claimed she’d happily host us—if only there were space. Yet in every phone call, she’d swear how much she missed her granddaughter, how she wished we lived closer. Once, my husband suggested a hotel—she was outraged, calling it an insult, insisting she’d never allow us to stay *God-knows-where*.
Two years later, the stepdaughter moved to London, freeing up a room, and suddenly, my mother-in-law was desperate for us to visit. *Now you can finally come! I long to see little Emma—I can’t wait!* We juggled our schedules for months, coordinating leave, and finally—we arrived, braced for warmth. And to her credit, the welcome *was* heartfelt. She rushed to Emma, showered her with kisses, fussed over dinner… but that bliss lasted exactly two hours. Then, she changed.
At lunch, the criticisms began—cutlery clinking too loud, Emma asking for seconds too eagerly, her knee brushing against the kitchenette upholstery. At first, I wondered if she was unwell—perhaps a migraine, or her blood pressure. But no. She was perfectly fine. She’d just switched into full scrutiny mode.
By evening, I’d endured a lecture—we used water like lottery winners, left lights burning for no reason, showered *far* too long, opened the fridge *constantly*, and above all—walking too heavily was strictly forbidden. I hadn’t realised we were such disruptive houseguests. Everything we did grated on her.
The next morning, I whispered to my husband—*Let’s escape.* Just a walk, maybe the park, some air. We tiptoed out like thieves. Bought groceries, stopped at a café. When we returned, we were told she’d *missed Emma terribly*, had longed to take her out… yet the first thing she demanded was we wipe our shoes—despite the baking heat outside. My husband, ever the peacemaker, obeyed, but his slight frown earned him a snap: *A home must have standards!*
Lunch passed in tomb silence. Even little Emma sat mute, sensing any word might spark another torrent of *helpful* corrections. I tried to lighten the mood—suggested she take Emma out later while we saw a film. Her reply was sharp: *So now I must rearrange my life for you? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do?*
I nearly choked. A glance at my husband—he already knew. That evening, we changed our tickets, agreed to leave early. *We’re in her way,* he muttered. We delayed two more days—politeness, nothing more. When she heard we were leaving, she wailed—*I’ve barely spent time with Emma!* I didn’t remind her the effort to visit had always been ours, never hers.
The final act came as we left. She stalked the flat like a tragedian, sighing as if we’d trashed the place. The reason? She’d have to wash our bedding. That was it. Calmly, I offered to pay for laundry or buy new sheets. She curled her lip. *Oh, I’ll manage.*
Our goodbye was stiff, formal. No tears, no embrace. But as our train pulled away, she called—*I miss you so much… When will you visit again?*
I took a deep breath. Said nothing. Because if we return, it won’t be soon. Maybe never.
