“Mum, what are you doing?”
The morning began with the slow, deliberate tug of the duvet sliding off me. My eyes were still closed, but I already knew I’d been left completely uncovered. A shiver ran down my spine, and then I heard that familiar giggle. I cracked one eye open just in time to see my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, quickly slipping out of our bedroom, still chuckling. “Mum, what are you doing?!” I called after her, but she’d already disappeared behind the door, leaving only the echo of her laughter. My husband, James, mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and yanked the duvet back over himself, completely oblivious. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how to react to yet another one of Margaret’s “playful” stunts.
James and I have only been married a year, and we’re still living with his parents—temporarily, until we save enough for our own flat. Honestly, though, I’m starting to doubt I can last that long under the same roof. Margaret is kind, spirited, and, as she puts it, “full of mischief.” But her sense of humour often leaves me mortified. This morning’s blanket prank was just one in a long line of stunts that make me blush and squirm.
It all started before the wedding. When James first brought me home to meet his parents, Margaret hugged me immediately, called me “love,” and declared me part of the family. I was touched by her warmth, but I soon realized she had no concept of personal boundaries. She’d walk into our room without knocking to “just have a natter,” or rearrange my things because “it makes more sense that way.” Once, I caught her rummaging through my wardrobe, critiquing which dresses suited me. I tried to brush it off—she’s older, she has her ways, and it *is* her house. But the blanket incident was the final straw.
I got up, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and headed to the kitchen, where Margaret was already busy making breakfast. She hummed cheerfully to herself, looking terribly pleased. “Morning, Emily dear!” she said brightly. “Sleeping in again, were you? Honestly, you and James!” She giggled again, and I knew she was referring to her little prank. I forced a smile. “Morning, Margaret. Though I’d prefer to wake up without surprises, if you don’t mind.” She waved a hand. “Oh, don’t be so serious! Just a bit of fun to get you moving!”
I sat at the table, trying to steady myself. Deep down, I knew Margaret didn’t mean any harm. To her, these pranks were just affection—her way of keeping things lively. But it left me uneasy. I grew up in a household where privacy was sacred. My own mum, Elizabeth, always knocked before entering my room and taught me to respect boundaries. Here, though, I felt like my bedroom was a public hallway. And the worst part? James couldn’t see the problem. When I told him what happened, he just laughed. “Mum’s just bored, don’t take it to heart,” he said. But I didn’t find it funny. I wanted our home—even if temporary—to feel like somewhere I could relax.
I decided to talk to Margaret honestly. After breakfast, once James had left for work, I asked her to join me for a cuppa. She agreed happily, and we settled in the sitting room. I started by thanking her for her kindness, then took a breath. “Margaret, I really appreciate how welcoming you’ve been. But sometimes, like this morning with the blanket, it catches me off guard. I’m just not used to it.” I kept my tone gentle, though my hands shook slightly.
To my surprise, she didn’t take offence. She looked at me thoughtfully, then sighed. “Emily, I had no idea it bothered you. In our family, we’ve always been a bit cheeky with each other. But if it upsets you, I’ll try to be more careful.” She smiled, and I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she hadn’t meant any harm after all. We chatted a bit longer, and I even shared a few stories about my own upbringing so she’d understand why this mattered.
Now, I’m hopeful things might improve. I know Margaret won’t change overnight—she’s too set in her ways. But I believe we can meet halfway. I also plan to talk to James, so he’ll back me up. We’re a family now, and we *all* deserve to feel comfortable. Maybe someday, we’ll have our own place, and these little “surprises” will be history. Until then, I’ll try to be patient—and maybe even find the humour in it. Though, I’ll admit, laughing about stolen blankets is still a stretch.
