My mother-in-law decided she would set the rules in *my* home. I reminded her exactly who was in charge here.
It just so happened that I had to let her move into my flat—not because I wanted to. But my husband, wonderful as he is, begged me. His mother was in a tight spot, he said. Reluctantly, I agreed, gritting my teeth, determined to keep the peace. But his mother, it seemed, forgot that arrangement rather quickly.
She started dictating how things would run in *my* house, as if she owned the place. I had made it clear from the start—this flat was mine, and I wouldn’t tolerate her meddling. We’d never gotten along. She resented that I didn’t dance to her tune, and I despised her pushy, know-it-all ways.
Naturally, she ran to my husband with complaints. Thankfully, he had sense enough to ignore her dramatics. His mother had never come to terms with the fact that the flat belonged to me. It infuriated her that she couldn’t boss me around like she was used to.
She had a younger daughter, Lucy, four years my junior. A year ago, Lucy married while pregnant. The newlyweds moved in with her in-laws, but it didn’t last. Half a year later, after the baby arrived, Lucy fled back to her mother. My mother-in-law wailed:
“They’ve tortured my poor girl! What kind of monster-in-law did she wind up with? A viper, not a woman! Always biting, degrading, humiliating! How can anyone treat a daughter-in-law like that?”
I nearly laughed. Because this “horrible” mother-in-law was *exactly* like her. A perfect reflection. Well, as they say—what goes around comes around.
Lucy never divorced—her husband still sent money. After a month, he moved back in with her, squeezing into her mother’s tiny flat. Needless to say, space was tight. My mother-in-law slept on the kitchen sofa. She clashed constantly with her son-in-law, and Lucy, irony of ironies, took her husband’s side:
“Mum, don’t you *dare* ruin my marriage!”
I cut straight to the point:
“Maybe tell them to move out and rent their own place?”
“With what money? Lucy’s on maternity leave, and her husband barely earns pennies. What sort of place could they afford?”
“That’s their problem. And it has *nothing* to do with us.”
But she started dropping by more often. First, it was complaints about fate. Then, about her aching back from the kitchen sofa. Then the endless rows with her son-in-law. And finally—
“I can’t live with them anymore! Can I stay with you? Just for a little while?”
I wanted to say no. But my husband pleaded:
“Mum’s only staying two months. I’ve talked to Lucy—they’ll rent a place soon.”
I caved. But I laid down the rules. She nodded sweetly: “Of course, love, I understand.” For two weeks, she was quiet as a mouse. Then it started.
She began rearranging *everything*. Her doilies littered every surface. She moved paintings. Suggested new curtains. At first, I bit my tongue. Then I complained to my husband. He tried talking to her—useless. Months dragged on, and “temporary” turned into half a year. Just as I suspected, Lucy wasn’t moving out anytime soon.
The nitpicking escalated. “You waste too much water!” “You cook all wrong!” “You don’t clean properly!” One day, she threw out all my cleaning supplies, replacing them with foul-smelling grey soap that stank up the whole place. “Chemicals are poison,” she declared. “We’ll do things the old-fashioned way!”
Worse—she kept tossing perfectly good food from the fridge, even meals I’d just made. Claimed they had “bad energy” or “weren’t right for my son.” That was it. I snapped. No running to my husband this time—I said exactly what I’d held back for months:
“You are living in *my* flat. I allowed you to stay—*temporarily*. Well, your time’s up. Pack your things and go back to Lucy. I don’t need a second mother. I’m a grown woman, and I won’t let *anyone* dictate how I live in *my* home!”
She sulked. The moment my husband walked in, she launched into complaints. But he just shrugged.
“Sort it out yourselves. I’m not getting involved.”
So she went all in—insisting she was “older and wiser,” that I “owed her gratitude.” That’s when I ended it:
“Gratitude? For *what*? For turning my home into hell? I never asked for your lessons on life. And I *certainly* won’t let you turn my flat into an extension of the loony bin!”
I gave her one month to leave. Let them sort their own mess. Why should I be trapped in their chaos? She couldn’t handle her own daughter, and now she wanted to ruin *my* life?
No. *Enough*. In *my* house—*my* rules.
