My mother-in-law wants to visit again, but I told her no—and I won’t change my mind.
Not long ago, my husband started pestering me with the same old request—his mother, supposedly, misses us terribly and is desperate to come stay. That’s when something snapped in me. My answer was immediate and absolute: *No.* One visit in all six years of our marriage was more than enough. I swore to myself—*never again.* The last time, she showed up unannounced, like a bolt from the blue, dragging her sister along with her. Back then, I bit my tongue. This time? Not a chance.
*”If you want to see your mother—fine. Take our daughter, go visit her. Book her a hotel if you like—I won’t say a word. But she is not setting foot in my home again.”*
But, of course, she wouldn’t hear of a hotel, let alone hosting us at her place. No, she insists it *has* to be *our* flat. I asked myself—why is she so hellbent on forcing her way into a home where she isn’t welcome?
My husband’s from Yorkshire. We met as students in London. Before the wedding, he shared a flat with mates, but afterward, he moved in with me. The flat had been bought by my parents a decade ago, in my name. *This is my home. My responsibility.*
His mother isn’t exactly strapped for cash. She could’ve helped him buy his own place, but instead, she’d rather harp on: *”What if they divorce, and his clever wife takes everything? Best he lives under her roof—safer that way.”* Meanwhile, she’s been more than happy to bankroll his sister, Emily. Following her advice, Emily even faked a divorce from her husband to secure help with the mortgage. Now she’s living in Manchester, on maternity leave, while her “ex” pays the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s happy.
Once, my mother-in-law even suggested we fake a divorce—*just for show.* My reply was ice-cold:
*”If we divorce, it’ll be real. And immediate. Pack your things and live however you want—alone.”*
That was the end of *that* conversation. I’ve never set foot in her house—never had the inclination. But three years ago, she came to us.
*”I want to see my granddaughter at least once,”* she said. *”Photos don’t tell me who she takes after.”*
I agreed. But no one warned me she’d bring her sister along. Clearly, they wanted to stage a full-scale inquisition on our daughter’s looks. Their plan backfired—she’s the spitting image of her father. Even *they* had to admit it.
I set up the guest room, they settled in, played with our daughter, accepted their gifts. Then, we sat down to eat. I’d pulled out all the stops—roast chicken, homemade burgers, three salads, a charcuterie board, cake, fresh fruit… But before we could take a bite, it started.
*”Where are the pasties?”* she demanded, sharp as a knife.
*”Are you still hungry?”* I asked, baffled.
*”No, just asking…”*
After dinner, round two:
*”My son knows exactly what I like. Has he never told you?”*
Then I remembered—he’d mentioned their family’s obsession with offal: liver, kidney, black pudding. I’ve loathed the smell of raw liver since I was a child. Cooking it? Impossible.
The next day, they went out, and I tried to “please” her—baked cheese and ham pasties with a side of coleslaw. Placed them on the table.
*”Where’s the black pudding?”* Another scowl. *”You knew I loved it!”*
I explained—the smell makes me sick. She rolled her eyes. Later, at lunch, another scene:
*”What, no haggis in the soup? Just—*meat*?”* She looked revolted.
That was my breaking point. I grabbed our daughter and left for my mum’s. When I returned that evening, my husband and I had our first proper row.
A week later, during a video call, I heard her: *”Emily’s such a good girl. Always welcomes me, always cooks what I like. But this one? No warmth. No hospitality.”*
After that, I told my husband: *”She dreams of coming back? Let her. But if she crosses that threshold, you’re both out.”*
Now, three years later, she’s pushing to visit again.
But this time? *Never.*
My home is my castle. And those who refuse to respect boundaries—*stay outside the gates.*
