My mother-in-law wants to visit again, but I’ve said no—and I won’t be changing my mind.
Just recently, my husband started pestering me with the same old request—his mother, apparently, misses us terribly and is desperate to come over. That’s when I snapped. I gave a firm “no” straight away. One single visit in all six years of our marriage was more than enough to swear me off the idea for good. Last time, she showed up unannounced, like a bolt from the blue—and she wasn’t alone, she brought her sister along. Back then, I held 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’s not setting foot in this house again.”
Turns out, though, she won’t hear of a hotel, let alone hosting her at hers. No, she’s dead set on staying in *our* flat. I ask myself—why is she so desperate to force her way into a home where she isn’t wanted?
My husband’s from Yorkshire. We met at university 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 it’s in my name. It’s my home, my responsibility.
His mother isn’t short of money. She could’ve easily helped him buy a place, but instead, she keeps insisting: “What if they divorce and that sly wife takes everything? Better he lives with her—safer that way.” Yet she’s bent over backwards to help his sister, Emily. Following her advice, Emily even had a sham divorce to get her mum’s help with a mortgage. Now, Emily’s in Manchester, on maternity leave, while her “ex” covers the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s happy.
Once, my mother-in-law suggested my husband and I do the same—divorce, just for show. My reply was ice-cold:
“If we divorce, it’ll be for real. And straight away. Pack your things and live as you please, alone.”
That shut it down. I’ve never once visited her—no desire to. But three years ago, she turned up uninvited. 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 bring her sister again. Clearly, they wanted a full-blown interrogation on her looks. Their plan backfired—our daughter’s the spitting image of her dad. Even they had to admit it.
I set up the guest room, they settled in, played with our daughter, took their gifts. Then we sat down to eat. I’d gone all out—roast chicken, homemade burgers, three salads, a cheese and meat platter, cake, fruit… But before we’d even started, the comments began.
“Where’s the pie?” she demanded.
“Are you still hungry?” I asked, puzzled.
“No, I’m just asking…”
After dinner, more of the same:
“My son knows exactly what I like. He’s never mentioned it to you, has he?”
I remembered him saying they’d grown up on offal—liver, pâté, meat pies. I’ve loathed the smell of raw liver since childhood, so cooking it’s out of the question.
The next day, they went out, and I decided to “please” them—baked puff pastries with cheese, ham, and cabbage. Served them up.
“Where’s the steak and kidney?” More disapproval. “You knew I loved that!”
I explained I couldn’t stand the smell. She rolled her eyes. Later, at lunch, another scene:
“What, soup without tripe? Just *meat*?” She said it like it was poison.
That was it. I took our 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 heard her say:
“Now Emily’s a gem—always ready for me, always cooks my favourites. But *this one*… no warmth, no hospitality.”
After that, I told my husband: “She’s not setting foot here again. If she crosses that threshold, you’re both out.” And now, three years later, she’s pushing for another visit. But not this time. My home is my castle—and those who don’t respect boundaries can stay outside.
