My mother-in-law seems utterly confused about what she wants—whether she misses us or simply can’t stand us.
Last year’s holiday is one I won’t soon forget, though not for the usual reasons. It wasn’t particularly eventful or blissful—instead, the first part of it, a visit to my mother-in-law, became a test of endurance. She lives in Bath, while we’re settled in Surrey. Since the wedding, we’d only met once—after I was discharged from the maternity ward. My husband visited her a couple of times a year, but only for her birthday, never staying the night. Now I understand why.
Her two-bedroom flat barely accommodated three people: herself, my husband’s stepfather, and his grown-up daughter from a previous marriage. For years, she claimed she’d happily host us if only there were space, yet in every phone call, she’d sigh about missing her granddaughter and wishing we lived closer. Once, my husband suggested staying in a hotel. She was outraged, calling it “humiliating” and insisting she’d never allow us to stay “in some unknown place.”
A few years later, the stepdaughter moved to London, freeing up a room, and suddenly, my mother-in-law couldn’t wait for us to visit. “Now you’ve no excuse—I long to see little Emily!” she’d say. After months of aligning schedules, we finally set off, expecting warmth. And credit where it’s due—the welcome *was* heartfelt. She fussed over Emily, showered her with questions, hugged her tight, and bustled about the kitchen… but the goodwill lasted exactly two hours. Then, she changed entirely.
By lunch, the remarks began—the clinking of cutlery was too loud, Emily asked for seconds too eagerly, her knee brushed against the upholstery. At first, I wondered if she was unwell—a headache, perhaps—but no, she was fine. She had simply shifted into full policing mode.
By evening, I’d been scolded for everything—using water like we were royalty, leaving lights on, lingering in the shower, “constantly” opening the fridge, and, apparently, walking too heavily. I’d never realised we were such disruptive guests. Everything we did grated on her.
The next morning, I whispered to my husband that we should escape—just a walk, a trip to the park, some air. We slipped out like church mice, grabbed lunch supplies, and stopped at a café. When we returned, she sighed dramatically: “I missed Emily so much—I *wanted* to take her out!” Yet her first demand was that we wipe our shoes, despite the dry heat outside. My husband, humouring her, obliged—but when he frowned slightly, she snapped, “A home must have standards!”
Lunch passed in tomb-like silence. Even Emily sat quietly, as if sensing that a single word might spark another lecture. Trying to lighten the mood, I suggested my mother-in-law take Emily out that evening while we saw a film. Her reply was sharp: “Must I rearrange my life for you? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do?”
I nearly choked. A glance at my husband confirmed he’d had enough. That evening, we changed our tickets and agreed to leave early—lingering just a day or two out of politeness. When she heard, she lamented, “I’ve barely spent time with Emily!” I didn’t remind her that *we* were the ones making all the effort.
On our last morning, she wandered the flat like a tragic heroine, sighing as if we’d wrecked the place. The reason? She’d have to wash our bedsheets. That was the last straw. I offered to pay for laundry service or buy new linens. She pursed her lips. “Oh, I’ll *manage*.”
Our farewells were stiff, devoid of warmth. But as our train pulled away, she called, voice trembling: “I miss you all so much… When will you visit again?”
I took a deep breath and said nothing. If we return, it won’t be soon. Perhaps never. Relationships, like tea, turn bitter when left to stew too long.
