**Diary Entry: The Mother-in-Law Who Can’t Sit Still**
When my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, announced she was moving to her mum’s place—Granny Edith’s cottage in the countryside—and handing her house over to me and Andrew, I nearly jumped for joy. Our own home! Spacious, with a garden, a patio where we could raise our children and host weekend barbecues—it was a dream come true. We already imagined decorating the rooms, painting the walls, and inviting friends over for a housewarming. But as it turned out, Margaret Elizabeth had no intention of staying put, not in the village nor anywhere else. She keeps popping back, turning our lives upside down, and I’m at my wits’ end. She’s energetic, I’ll give her that, but her habits and endless visits have turned our dream into a never-ending circus.
It all began six months ago. Margaret—who, mind you, is in her 60s—suddenly decided she wanted to be closer to Granny Edith, who’s 85. “I ought to look after Mum,” she declared. “And you young ones could use the house.” Andrew and I were thrilled. The place was solid, with a proper garden and even an old apple tree. We started planning renovations straight away, dreaming of a nursery for our son and a study for Andrew. Margaret packed her things, left us half the furniture, and moved to the village, three hours away. I thought, “Now we can finally live our lives!” How wrong I was.
Two weeks later, she was back on our doorstep. “Missed the city!” she announced, dragging a massive suitcase behind her. Foolishly, I assumed it was just for the weekend. But no—Margaret stayed a month. In that time, she rearranged the entire sitting room (“better for the energy flow”), repotted my plants (“you’re overwatering them”), and took over the kitchen, cooking meals so pungent with garlic that Andrew started eating out. When I gently hinted we had our own ways, she waved me off. “Emily, you’re still learning how to keep a proper home!”
I finally snapped. “Margaret,” I said, “we’re grateful for the house, but it’s ours now. Let us live our way.” She tutted. “Oh, Emily, don’t fuss—I’m only trying to help!” And off she went back to the village. I sighed, thinking that was the end of it. Not a chance.
Since then, she’s been back more times than I can count—unannounced, sometimes for days, sometimes weeks. Each visit is a whirlwind. One week, she decides our garden is “neglected” and digs up my roses (“useless things”). The next, she “tidies” the house, binning my vintage magazines. Once, she hauled in an ancient dresser from the village—”a family heirloom”—and plonked it right in the middle of the sitting room. Andrew just laughed. “Mum, you’re worse than a telly decorator!” I wasn’t amused.
The irony? Granny Edith is perfectly capable—tending her veg patch, gossiping with neighbours, even keeping bees. But Margaret claims she’s “bored” and “needs to check on us.” Check on us! Don’t get me started on her parenting advice. “Emily, you’re too soft—that boy should be doing chores!” she says, then spoils him with sweets and lets him stay up watching cartoons. I’ve no idea how to make her see this is our home, not hers.
Last week, I cracked and spoke to Andrew. “Your mum’s driving me mad. Can we ask her to visit less?” He sighed. “Em, she means well. Give her time to adjust to village life.” Adjust? I’m the one barely coping! Now she’s talking about staying all summer to “help with the garden.” Three months of her “help”? I nearly fainted. Then yesterday, she rang to say she’d found us “the perfect dog”—some shaggy stray from the village. “You need a companion!” Andrew’s delighted. I’m horrified. We’ve enough “companionship” from her.
I’m scrambling for solutions. Maybe enrol her in a pottery class? Book her a seaside holiday? At this rate, I’ll be the one fleeing abroad. Joking—mostly. Andrew promises to talk to her, but he’s too soft on her. Meanwhile, I’m mourning our quiet family life.
Do all mothers-in-law do this? How does anyone cope? I ought to write a manual: “Surviving the Relentless Mother-in-Law.” For now, I keep reminding myself: this is our home, and Margaret’s just a guest. But if that dog turns up, I might lock myself in the shed till autumn.
