My mother-in-law wants to visit again, but I’ve said no. And this time, I won’t change my mind.
Not long ago, my husband started pestering me with the same old request—his mother, apparently, misses us terribly and is desperate to come for a visit. That’s when something snapped in me. I said a firm *no*. One single visit in the six years we’ve been married was more than enough to swear me off the idea forever. Last time, she showed up unannounced—like a bolt from the blue—and brought her sister along for good measure. Back then, I bit my tongue. This time? Not a chance.
*”If you want to see your mum, fine—take our daughter and go visit her. If you want to book her a hotel, I won’t say a word. But she is not stepping foot in this house again.”*
Turns out, though, she won’t even entertain the idea of a hotel, let alone hosting her herself. Oh no, she *has* to stay in *our* flat. I had to ask myself—why is she so desperate to barge into a home where she’s clearly not welcome?
My husband’s from Yorkshire originally. We met at uni in London. Before we married, he rented a place with mates, then moved in with me afterwards. The flat was bought by my parents a decade ago and is in my name. It’s *my* home. *My* responsibility.
His mother isn’t exactly strapped for cash. She could’ve easily helped him buy his own place, but instead, she’d always say, *”What if you divorce, and the clever wife takes everything? Better he lives in her place—safer that way.”* Meanwhile, she happily helped his sister, Emily. Even encouraged her to fake a divorce so she could “qualify” for a mortgage loan. Now Emily’s in Edinburgh, on maternity leave, while her *”ex”* pays the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s happy—supposedly.
She once suggested we do the same—a fake split. My response? Ice-cold. *”If we divorce, it’ll be real. And immediate. Pack your bags and live however you like—alone.”* That shut that conversation down quick. I’ve never visited *her* house—never had the slightest desire. But three years ago, she finally came to us. Said, *”I want to see my granddaughter at least once. Photos don’t tell me who she takes after.”*
I agreed—but nobody warned me she’d drag her sister along *again*. Clearly, they wanted to conduct a full forensic analysis of my daughter’s features. Joke’s on them—she’s her father’s double. Even they had to admit it.
I prepped the guest room, they settled in, played with my daughter, accepted gifts. Then we sat down to eat. I’d gone all out—roast chicken, homemade burgers, three salads, a cheeseboard, cold cuts, cake, fruit… But before we could even take a bite—
*”Where are the sausage rolls?”* she demanded.
*”Still hungry?”* I asked, baffled.
*”No, just asking…”*
After dinner, round two:
*”My son knows exactly what I like. Suppose he never told you?”*
Then I remembered—he’d mentioned their family’s *obsession* with offal: liver, kidneys, black pudding. I, on the other hand, can’t stand the smell of raw liver. Cooking it? Out of the question.
The next day, while they were out, I decided to *”please”* them—baked puff pastry twists with cheese, ham, and leeks. Placed them on the table.
*”Where’s the black pudding?”* More disapproval. *”You knew I loved it!”*
I explained—again—about the smell. She rolled her eyes. Then, at lunch, another scene:
*”What, no haggis in the soup?! Just… *meat*?”* She looked revolted.
That was it. I grabbed my daughter and left for my mum’s. Came back that evening. First proper row my husband and I ever had.
A week later, on a video call, I overheard her: *”Emily’s such a gem. Always welcomes me, always cooks what I like. But this one… no warmth, no hospitality.”*
That’s when I told my husband: *”She’s never setting foot here again. If she does, you’re out with her.”* And now, three years later, she’s pushing to visit. But no. *Never.* My home is my castle. And those who don’t respect boundaries can stay on the other side of the door.
