How I Cleverly Got Rid of My Mother-in-Law and Regained My Peace
Five months ago, our family was blessed with the arrival of our son, Oliver. For me and my husband, James, it was one of the happiest days of our lives. We had prepared for his birth—reading books, watching tutorials—and when Ollie arrived, though it wasn’t easy, we managed as best we could. James helped with everything: night feeds, sterilising bottles, soothing the baby. We worked together like a well-oiled team.
That lasted exactly until his mother barged into our lives. Two months ago, my mother-in-law, Margaret, turned up at our doorstep to “help.” No warning. No invitation. Just her, suitcases in hand, looking as if she’d swooped in to rescue us from certain disaster.
“I’m staying indefinitely!” she announced the moment she stepped inside.
At first, I thought, fine, maybe it really will make things easier. I was wrong. Life became an endless cycle of criticism, control, and downright rudeness. Not a moment’s peace. Every move I made came with commentary:
“Why have you dressed him like that? He’ll catch a chill!”
“Did you forget his gripe water again?”
“In my day, we didn’t raise children like this—no wonder the younger generation is so soft.”
I tried hinting gently that it might be time for her to go home—her husband, the garden, her own life—but Margaret was deaf to subtlety.
“Robert will manage! You need me far more!” she’d trill, pouring herself tea and doling out orders.
At first, I endured it. Then I seethed. Then I cried myself to sleep. And then I realised: she wasn’t leaving unless I made her. So, I hatched a plan.
The next morning, I approached her with my sweetest smile.
“Margaret, I’ve been thinking… I might go back to work. Just part-time. And since you’re here, you could look after Ollie while I’m at the office? Just six hours a day—hardly anything!”
Her smile vanished.
“All alone? With a baby?” she asked, horrified.
“Well, who else? You said you wanted to help—here’s your chance to really shine! You’ll be brilliant. And I’ll get a break, earn a little extra. James mentioned we need to save for the extension, after all.”
When James came home, just as I’d hoped, Margaret rushed to complain. But James—bless him—backed me up.
“Mum, it’s a brilliant idea! Emily could use the breather. You offered to help—now’s your moment. We know you’ll smash it!”
Margaret hesitated but didn’t argue.
The next day, I “left for work.” In truth, I went to my friend’s house. Sometimes the park. Sometimes shopping. But I always came home exhausted, with dark circles under my eyes, gushing gratitude:
“Thank you so much, Margaret—I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Meanwhile, I made sure she never got too comfortable. Dinner not made?
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m shattered, I’ll sort something… though maybe tomorrow you could try cooking? You’ve been home all day.”
Weekends? Cinema dates, cosy cafés, long walks—just James and me. And Margaret? On nappy duty, wrestling colic, sterilising bottles, and dodging rattles.
A week passed. Then another.
Then one evening, Margaret announced:
“Look, I hate to do this… but Robert can’t cope without me. The house is falling apart. I need to go home.”
“Oh no,” I sighed, feigning disappointment. “We were counting on you… But if you must.”
By the next day, she was packed and gone. And I? I exhaled.
The house filled with warmth and quiet again. I returned to my son, to our little routines. James was by my side, and we were a family—not hostages to unwanted “help.” And you know what? I don’t feel guilty for my scheme. Because sometimes a woman has to protect not just herself, but her peace too.
