Alright, so here’s the thing—my mother-in-law hasn’t spoken to us in three months, all because we went on holiday instead of giving her money for her so-called “urgent” home makeover.
My name’s Emily. My husband, James, and I live in a little town just outside Manchester, raising our two kids, and we’ve only just managed to shake off the weight of our mortgage. But instead of finally breathing easy, we’re stuck in the middle of a proper family row. My mum-in-law, Margaret, hasn’t said a word to us in months, blaming us for spending our savings on a holiday instead of her supposedly “essential” renovations. Her grudge is like a dark cloud looming over us, and my husband’s family keeps laying into us with accusations. I don’t know how to fix this mess, but it feels like our side of the story is drowning under all their unfair blame.
Life’s never been a walk in the park for us. James and I work hard, raising our daughter Sophie, who’s in Year Six, and our son Oliver, in Year Three. For years, the mortgage hung over us like a storm—no proper holidays, just the occasional weekend trip to my parents’ place in the next town over. They’ve got this cosy house with a garden, and the kids love it there—fishing with Grandad, eating Nana’s homemade scones, picking berries. Those little getaways were the only bright spots for Sophie and Oliver while we slogged away to pay off the house. Dreaming of a proper holiday? Out of the question.
This year, for the first time in forever, we decided to break free. The mortgage was finally gone, and we’d put a bit by. I suggested a trip down to Cornwall to visit my cousin, and James was all for it. “Em, we’ve earned this,” he said. So we packed our bags, took the kids, and just went—never imagining that this one little break would turn into a full-blown family war. We were so tired of saying no to ourselves that we just wanted to feel alive again, to hear the kids laughing on the beach, to breathe in that sea air.
Mum-in-law, Margaret, made it clear from the start she wasn’t about to lift a finger with the grandkids. “I raised three of my own—now it’s my turn to live for me,” she announced when Sophie was born. James has a brother and sister, and Margaret reckons her job was done after raising them. Fine by us—we never asked for help. She’d see the kids maybe once every few months, pop in for an hour with a bag of sweets, then vanish. I never held it against her—two kids are exhausting enough, let alone three. But it still stung a bit.
Four years ago, Margaret retired. “Finally, time to enjoy myself!” she declared. Her days filled up with swims at the leisure centre, trips to see her mates, theatre visits, spa weekends—living her best life. Trouble is, her pension wasn’t enough to keep up with it all. Her kids chipped in when they could, though everyone had their own struggles. James’s sister flat-out refused, saying she had enough on her plate. His brother sent bits here and there. While we were still paying the mortgage, we helped out in other ways—groceries, fixing the sink, running errands. She never asked us for cash, knowing we were skint ourselves.
But the second that mortgage was done? Suddenly, it was all about her makeover. “This place needs freshening up! Time for new wallpaper, floors, the lot,” she announced. Now, her flat was perfectly fine, but Margaret swore a full refurb was a must every five years. Meanwhile, our place—which hadn’t been touched since we bought it—was far more in need. But Margaret wouldn’t hear it. Her wants came first, and she expected us to foot the bill.
We didn’t tell her about the trip. Why would we? No pets to watch, no plants to water, the kids were with us. We’re not the sort to report our every move. But while we were away, she rang James out of the blue, demanding help with some errand. “Mum, we’re at the seaside—can’t right now,” he told her. She was gobsmacked—used to us only ever visiting my parents. “When are you back?” she asked. When he said a couple weeks, she tried to get him to swing by that weekend. “We’re not at my in-laws’, Mum—we’re on holiday!” he laughed. She went ice-cold. “Right,” she snapped, then hung up.
The second we got home, all hell broke loose. She stormed over that same day: “How could you? Not even a word about going away!” James was baffled. “Mum, since when do we run our plans by you? You don’t tell us every time you jet off somewhere.” That set her off. “Where’d you get the money for a holiday if you can’t help with my flat?” James lost his temper. “Mum, I don’t grill you about your spa trips. Why can’t we have one break?” She scoffed. “Ungrateful!” Then out she marched, slamming the door.
Since then? Total silence. No calls, won’t answer the door, didn’t even wish Oliver a happy birthday. Now James’s brother and sister are tearing strips off us, especially his sister-in-law—who never lifts a finger for Margaret but reckons we’re selfish for not funding her every whim. “How could you hurt Mum like this?” she shrieked down the phone. I’m livid. Since when do we owe Margaret our last penny while she pampers herself? My parents are on our side: “You did right going away. It’s your life.”
James and I don’t feel guilty. We’re not throwing our money at her whims when we’ve got our own kids and dreams. But her sulking and the family’s nagging are poisoning everything. How do you make someone see they’ve got no right to demand that kind of sacrifice? Has anyone else dealt with this? How do you mend things without giving in? I’m terrified this feud will wreck us, but I won’t cave. Don’t we deserve our own happiness too?
