**Diary Entry**
Sometimes, life has a way of making an enemy out of someone who should be family—like a mother-in-law with a sweet smile and a suspicious Tupperware. My name is Eleanor, married for two years now, and as the saying goes, everything was fine between my husband and me… until his mum decided to “warm our hearth” a little too often. She came around so much, even the postman started knocking less than she did.
I was in the kitchen, sorting through the cupboard, when the doorbell rang. I opened it. Of course—who else? Margaret Wilson, my mother-in-law.
“Eleanor, darling, hello! I’ve made some fishcakes for you! Fresh cod!” she beamed, thrusting a plastic container at me.
I sighed. Neither my husband nor I could stand fish. I grew up force-fed cod liver oil as a child, and his dad used to bring home mackerel by the bucketload—he swore he’d grown gills from the stuff. We’d mentioned this. Repeatedly. Yet Margaret acted like she’d forgotten.
“Margaret, we don’t eat fish… You know that.”
“Well, can’t let good food go to waste! Maybe you’ll have guests over!” she’d reason.
But it wasn’t just the wretched fishcakes. She started dropping by more often. Unannounced. No knock, no warning. She’d barge in like she owned the place, conducting her little “inspections”:
“Oh, what’s this cheese? Never tried it—mind if I take a slice? And a bit of ham while I’m at it, you’ll just get more at the shop. Oh, and I did bring some fish—sharing is caring!”
With every visit, her audacity grew. Then one day, she arrived—not alone, but with a friend. No call. No asking.
“We were at the GP’s—thought we’d pop in for a cuppa!”
Before I could even process it, Margaret was rummaging through the fridge, pulling out jam, biscuits, and my good Stilton, while her mate made herself at home at the table.
I felt like a stranger in my own house. My husband just shrugged—”Mum means well.” Meant well? I watched her tuck our last box of chocolates into her handbag. This wasn’t kindness—it was a full-blown invasion.
So, I hatched a plan. Subtle, but effective. The next day, I grabbed my friend Beatrice, bought the spiciest curry we could find, and showed up unannounced at Margaret’s.
“Hello! We were just passing and thought we’d drop by! Brought you a lovely curry—try some!” I grinned, pressing the takeaway into her hands.
Margaret went pale. She hated spicy food. Once, she’d tried a vindaloo and swore it was “fire and brimstone in a tub.”
“Make yourselves at home—I’ll just see what you’ve got for us!” I chirped, heading straight for her pantry.
I pulled out her shepherd’s pie, trifle, and a fresh loaf—laid it all out while Beatrice stifled a laugh.
“Oh, Margaret, you don’t mind, do you? Since I brought the curry, it’s only fair we swap!” I added, all innocence.
Margaret sat there, stunned. Lost for words. I could see it click—the realisation of what it felt like when someone made themselves a little too at home in *your* space.
I left with a cheerful “Ta for having us!” and promised to visit more often.
After that, things changed. Margaret calls ahead now. Her visits are rare, polite. She even brings things we *actually* like—no fish in sight. Sometimes, you don’t need an argument. You just need to hold up a mirror.
**Lesson learned: A taste of one’s own medicine works better than a lecture.**
