Mum, what are you doing?
The morning started with the slow, creeping sensation of my duvet being pulled off me. I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet, but I already knew I was left completely uncovered. A chill ran down my skin, followed by the sound of familiar giggling. I peeked one eye open just in time to see my mother-in-law, Margaret Woodley, chuckling to herself as she darted out of our bedroom. “Mum, what are you doing?!” I called after her, but she’d already disappeared behind the door, leaving only the echo of her laughter behind. My husband, James, mumbled something drowsily and yanked the duvet back over himself, completely oblivious. Meanwhile, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to respond to yet another one of my mother-in-law’s “playful” little antics.
James and I have only been married a year, and for now, we’re still living with his parents. It’s temporary—just until we save up for our own flat—but honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I can handle it much longer. Margaret is a kind, lively woman with what she calls a “great sense of humour.” The trouble is, her idea of humour often leaves me feeling awkward. This morning’s blanket stunt was just one of many little moments that have made me cringe or feel completely out of place.
It started even before the wedding. When James first introduced me to his parents, Margaret hugged me straight away, called me “love,” and declared I was now part of the family. I was touched by her warmth, but I quickly realised she didn’t have much respect for personal space. She’d walk into our room without knocking, just to “have a little chat,” or start rearranging my things because “it makes more sense this way.” Once, I caught her going through my wardrobe, commenting on which dresses suited me and which didn’t. I tried to brush it off—she’s older, she’s set in her ways, and after all, it *is* her house. But the duvet thing was the last straw.
I got out of bed, threw on my dressing gown, and headed to the kitchen, where Margaret was already busy making breakfast. She was humming to herself, looking thoroughly pleased. “Morning, love!” she said when she saw me. “Finally awake, are we? You and James could sleep through a brass band!” She giggled again, and I knew she was referring to her little prank. I forced a smile and said, “Morning, Margaret. Just… maybe next time, let’s wake up the usual way, yeah?” She waved me off. “Oh, don’t be so serious! A bit of fun never hurt anyone!”
I sat at the table, trying to steady myself. Deep down, I knew she didn’t mean any harm—to her, this was just her way of showing affection. But it didn’t sit right with me. I grew up in a family where privacy mattered. My mum, Elizabeth Hart, always knocked before entering my room and taught me to respect boundaries. Here, it feels like my bedroom is a public hallway. The worst part? James doesn’t even see an issue. When I told him what happened, he just laughed and said, “Mum’s just bored, don’t take it to heart.” But I’m not laughing. I just want to feel comfortable in my own space—even if it *is* temporary.
So I decided to talk to Margaret properly. After breakfast, once James had left for work, I asked her if she fancied a cuppa. She happily agreed, and we sat in the living room. I started gently, thanking her for her kindness and hospitality. Then, gathering my nerve, I said, “Margaret, I really appreciate how welcoming you’ve been. But sometimes—like this morning with the duvet—it catches me off guard. I’m just… not used to that sort of thing.” I kept my tone soft, not wanting to upset her, but my hands were shaking in my lap.
To my surprise, she didn’t take offence. She just blinked, then sighed. “Oh, love, I never realised it bothered you. In our family, we’ve always been like this—no fuss, no airs. But if it’s not your cup of tea, I’ll try to mind myself better.” She smiled, and it felt like a weight lifted. Maybe she really *hadn’t* meant anything by it? We chatted a bit more, and I even shared some stories about my own family to help her understand why it mattered to me.
Now, I’m hopeful things might change—at least a little. I know Margaret won’t completely reinvent herself—this is just how she is. But I think we can meet halfway. I also need to talk to James, so he’s on my side when these things happen. We’re a family now, and we should *all* feel at home. Maybe one day, we’ll finally get our own place, and these “morning surprises” will be a thing of the past. Until then, I’m trying to be patient—and find the humour in these awkward little moments. Though, I’ll admit, laughing about stolen duvets is still a bit of a stretch.
