My mother-in-law wants to visit again, but I said no—and I won’t change my mind.
Not long ago, my husband started pestering me with the same old request—his mum, apparently, misses us terribly and is desperate to come over. That’s when something in me snapped. I gave a firm “no” right away. One single visit in all six years of our marriage was more than enough to swear off any repeats. Last time, she showed up unannounced—like a bolt from the blue—and brought her sister along. I held my tongue then. This time? Not a chance.
“Want to see your mum? Fine, take our daughter and go visit her. Want to book her a hotel? I won’t say a word. But she’s not stepping foot in this house again.”
Turns out, though, she won’t hear of a hotel—let alone hosting us at hers. No, she’s dead set on coming to *our* flat. I had to ask myself—why is she so desperate to force her way into a home where she’s not wanted?
My husband’s from Yorkshire. We met at uni in London. Before we married, he shared a flat with mates; after, he moved in with me. This place was bought by my parents a decade ago and is in my name. It’s my home, my responsibility.
His mother’s far from hard up. She could’ve easily helped him buy his own place, but instead, she’d always say, “What if you divorce and that crafty wife takes everything? Best he lives with her—safer that way.” Yet his sister, Emma? She got all the help. On her mum’s advice, she even faked a divorce to get mortgage assistance. Now Emma’s in Manchester, on maternity leave, while her “ex” pays the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s happy.
Once, my mother-in-law suggested the same arrangement for us—a fake split. I gave her a cold reply:
“If we divorce, it’ll be real. And instant. Pack your things and live however you like—alone.”
That shut it down. I’ve never visited her—never had the desire. But three years ago, she finally came. Said,
“I want to see my granddaughter at least once. Photos don’t tell me who she takes after.”
I agreed. No one warned me she’d bring her sister again. Clearly, they wanted a full-scale inspection. Their plan backfired—our daughter’s her father’s double. Even they had to admit it.
I prepped the guest room, they settled in, played with our girl, got their gifts. Then we sat down to eat. I’d gone all out: roast chicken, homemade pies, three salads, cheese and charcuterie, cake, fruit… But before we’d even taken a bite—
“Where’s the steak and kidney pie?” she demanded.
“Were you still hungry?” I asked, baffled.
“No, just asking…”
After dinner, part two:
“My son knows exactly what I like. Suppose he didn’t tell you?”
I remembered him mentioning their family’s obsession with offal—liver, kidney, black pudding. I’ve loathed the smell of raw liver since childhood. Cooking it? Out of the question.
Next day, they went out, and I tried to “please” her—baked cheese and ham pasties. Served them up.
“Where’s the black pudding?” she frowned. “You knew I loved it!”
I explained I couldn’t stand the smell. She rolled her eyes. Later, at lunch—another scene:
“What, no haggis in the soup? Just *meat*?” she said, disgusted.
That was it. I grabbed our daughter and left for my mum’s. Came back that evening. First proper row we’d ever had.
A week later, on a video call, I heard her:
“Emma’s such a gem—always welcomes me, cooks just right. But this one? No warmth, no hospitality.”
That’s when I told my husband, “She’s not setting foot here again. If she does, you’re both out.” And now, three years later, she’s pushing to visit. But not this time. My home’s my castle. And those who can’t respect boundaries? They stay outside.
