—I’m only trying to help, and you don’t appreciate it!—my mother-in-law declares, while my eye twitches like a faulty neon sign at the mere thought of her *assistance*.
Sometimes, I catch myself dreaming of just… leaving. Anywhere—another city, the ends of the earth, even a tiny village in Cornwall. The farther from my husband’s mother, the better. Otherwise, I might actually lose the plot. My eyelid develops a life of its own every time I hear her cheerful trill: *I’ve brought you something useful! You’ll be thrilled!*
When Tom and I first got married, friends gushed with envy. *You’ve lucked out with the mother-in-law,* they said. *No nagging, no meddling—doesn’t even force-feed you unwanted Victoria sponges.* And for a while, it was true—she played the doting, supportive role flawlessly. But I suspect she was bottling up an ungodly amount of energy that was *bound* to explode eventually. And when it did? It levelled every boundary we’d ever set.
First, she tried to organise a wedding fit for royalty—suffocating guest list, three-course banquets, obligatory *kiss the bride* chants—but we dodged that bullet. We narrowly escaped by blaming her youngest daughter’s GCSE results celebration, which conveniently absorbed her hyperactive zeal. But she wasn’t done.
Back then, we rented a flat. Perfectly nice—bright, tidy, *ours.* Until she started delivering *essential donations*—cracked dinner plates, forks with suspicious bends, and, of course… the curtains. Those blasted curtains still haunt my nightmares—burgundy velvet, moth-eaten, with the charm of a haunted parlour.
*Just stitch up the holes, love—good as new!* she’d say, beaming.
Meanwhile, my brain screamed: *If they’re so marvellous, why aren’t they hanging in YOUR lounge?*
When we finally scraped together enough for our own place (thanks to my parents and Tom’s godparents), I naively thought: *Freedom.* But no. His mother, wounded by her lack of financial contribution, pivoted to *helping* in other ways—each more creatively horrifying than the last.
First, the wallpaper. Older than the Royal Mint, damp as a Scottish summer, smelling unmistakably of forgotten attic. Then she insisted we hire *Uncle Barry*—a *handy chap*—to tile the bathroom. Barry’s *expertise* left us with crooked tiles, grout stains, and a bill from actual professionals to fix his *generosity.*
Next, the fridge. She practically wrestled it through the door single-handedly. It roared like a jet engine, and the *smell*—like something had perished inside centuries ago. We chucked it that same day. Cue the theatrics:
*It just needed a scrub! Would’ve lasted another decade! Ungrateful, the lot of you!*
Then came the sofa from Cousin Emily’s summer home. The *vintage* (read: crumbling) sideboard. The rug that reeked of damp and despair. We refused it all—each rejection met with tears, guilt-trips, and martyrdom of Shakespearian proportions.
Now, I’m pregnant. We kept it quiet, but once the bump became undeniable, the news broke. And *suddenly*—she’s amassing a *secondhand empire*: a pram *barely* held together by hope, a cot that’s housed half the toddlers in Greater Manchester, clothes worn thin by four generations of children…
And I *don’t* want it. I don’t want my baby napping in a cot that’s seen more drama than a soap opera. I don’t want a pram with brakes that *might* work (or might send us careening downhill). I *certainly* don’t want tiny jumpers that’ve been washed into transparency. I’m not heartless—I just want *new.* A fresh start. But my opinion? Irrelevant, apparently.
Her *campaign* continues. I stay silent—pregnancy isn’t the time for WWIII. Tom mans the defences, batting away her *gifts* with weary diplomacy. But I see him wilting. Her energy? Bottomless, like a Duracell bunny fuelled by pure stubbornness.
Some days, I dream of selling up, vanishing—no forwarding address, no goodbyes. I’m not wicked. I just want *quiet.* Freedom. A life without velvet relics, possessed appliances, and rugs that belong in a museum. I want to breathe. To live. To raise our child in a home that’s *ours*—clean, calm, uncluttered by *good intentions* that make me want to scream into a pillow.
