**Diary Entry – The Mother-in-Law Who Never Stays Put**
When my mother-in-law, Margaret Edwards, announced she was moving in with her elderly mother, Grandma Ethel, in the countryside and leaving her house to me and Andrew, I nearly jumped for joy. Our own home! Spacious, with a garden, a patio for summer barbecues—it was everything we’d dreamed of. We pictured painting the walls, setting up a nursery for our son, and hosting friends for housewarmings. But as it turned out, Margaret had no intention of sitting still, whether in the village or anywhere else. She keeps swooping back in, turning our lives upside down, and I’m at my wits’ end. She’s a whirlwind of energy, but her constant visits and meddling have turned our dream home into a circus.
It all started six months ago. Margaret, who’s in her sixties, suddenly decided she needed to be closer to Grandma Ethel, who’s a sprightly eighty-five. “I ought to look after Mum,” she declared. “And you young ones could use the house.” Andrew and I were over the moon. The place was solid, with a proper garden and even an old apple tree. We immediately began planning renovations—a study for Andrew, a playroom for our boy. Margaret packed her things, left half the furniture, and moved to a village three hours away. I remember thinking, *Now we can finally breathe.* How wrong I was.
Two weeks later, she was on our doorstep. “Missed the city!” she announced, hauling in a suitcase. Foolishly, I assumed it was just a weekend visit. But no—Margaret stayed a whole month. In that time, she rearranged the living room (“better feng shui”), repotted my plants (“you’re overwatering them”), and took over the kitchen, cooking meals so heavy on onions that Andrew started eating at the pub. When I tried to hint that we had our own ways, she just waved me off. “Emily, love, you’ll learn proper housekeeping yet!”
I finally snapped. “Margaret, we’re grateful for the house, but it’s *ours* now—let us live how we like.” She just tutted. “Don’t be dramatic, dear—I’m only helping!” Then off she went back to the village. I thought that was the end of it. Wishful thinking.
Since then, she’s been back more times than I can count—sometimes for days, sometimes weeks. Every visit’s a disaster. She decides the garden’s “neglected” and digs up my roses (“useless things”). She “tidies” by binning my vintage magazines. Once, she dragged in an ancient dresser from the village—”a family heirloom”—and plonked it right in the middle of the lounge. Andrew just laughs. “Mum, you’re like one of those telly interior designers!” I’m not laughing. I’m fraying at the edges.
The ironic part? Grandma Ethel’s doing fine—tending her veg patch, gossiping with the neighbours. But Margaret claims the village is “dull” and she “needs to check on us.” *Check on us!* Don’t get me started on her parenting advice. “Emily, you’re too soft—he ought to do chores!” she scolds, then spoils our son with sweets and lets him stay up late. I’ve no idea how to make her understand this is *our* home.
Last week, I confronted Andrew. “Your mum’s driving me mad. Can’t we ask her to visit less?” He just sighed. “She means well, Em. Give her time to settle.” Time? I’m at my limit. Now she’s talking about staying all summer to “help with the garden.” I nearly choked. Then yesterday, she rang to say she’d found us the “perfect dog”—some scruffy mongrel she rescued. “Every family needs a pet!” Andrew’s thrilled. I’m horrified. We’ve got enough “pets” as it is.
I’m desperate for a solution. Maybe enrol her in a pottery class? Book her a holiday? At this rate, *I’ll* be the one fleeing the country. Andrew says he’ll talk to her, but he’s too soft on her. Meanwhile, I’m clinging to the fact that this house is *ours*, and Margaret’s just a guest. But if that dog turns up, I swear I’ll lock myself in the shed till autumn.
**Lesson learned:** No good deed—or free house—comes without strings. Sometimes, the price is your sanity.
