“Mum, what are you doing?”
The morning started when I felt the blanket slowly sliding off me. My eyes were still closed, but I already knew I was completely uncovered. A chill ran down my skin, and then I heard that familiar giggle. I cracked one eye open and saw my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, snickering as she darted out of our bedroom. “Mum, what are you doing?!” I called after her, but she was already gone, leaving only the echo of her laughter behind. My husband, James, mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and tugged the blanket back over himself, completely oblivious. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to react to yet another one of her “jokes.”
James and I have only been married a year, and we’re still living with his parents—just until we save up for our own place, though honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll last that long. Margaret is kind, full of energy, and, as she puts it, “a proper joker.” But her sense of humour often leaves me cringing. This morning’s blanket incident? Just one of many that make me feel awkward in my own skin.
It all started even before the wedding. When James first introduced me to his parents, Margaret hugged me straight away, called me “love,” and declared me part of the family. I was touched, sure—but then I quickly realised she doesn’t really do boundaries. She’d waltz into our room without knocking for “a quick chat” or rearrange my things because “it looks tidier this way.” Once, I caught her rifling through my wardrobe, commenting on which dresses suited me and which didn’t. I tried to brush it off—she’s older, it’s her house, she means well—but the blanket stunt was the last straw.
I got up, pulled on my dressing gown, and headed to the kitchen, where Margaret was already making breakfast, humming away like she hadn’t a care. “Morning, love!” she chirped. “Finally up, are we? You two were dead to the world!” That little chuckle told me she was referring to her prank. I forced a smile. “Morning, Margaret. Just, you know… maybe next time, let’s wake up without surprises?” She waved me off. “Oh, don’t be so serious! Got to keep you young ones on your toes!”
I sat at the table, trying to stay calm. Deep down, I knew she didn’t mean harm—to her, this is just affection. But it doesn’t feel like that to me. I grew up in a house where privacy mattered. My mum, Eleanor, always knocked before coming into my room and taught me to respect others’ space. Here, though, it’s like my bedroom’s a public thoroughfare. And the worst part? James doesn’t see the problem. When I told him, he just laughed. “Mum’s harmless, don’t overthink it.” But I’m not laughing. I want to feel at home—even if it’s temporary.
I decided to talk to Margaret properly. After breakfast, once James left for work, I asked her to join me for coffee. She happily agreed, and we settled in the living room. I started gently, thanking her for everything, then took a breath and said, “Margaret, I really appreciate how welcoming you’ve been. But sometimes—like with the blanket this morning—I feel a bit… caught off guard. I’m not used to it.” My hands were shaky, but I kept my voice soft.
To my surprise, she didn’t take offence. She looked thoughtful, then sighed. “Oh, love, I didn’t realise it bothered you. In our family, we’ve always been like this—no airs and graces. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll try to ease up.” She smiled, and some of the tension melted. Maybe she *didn’t* mean it the way it felt. We chatted a bit more, I shared stories about my family, and I think she understood.
Now, I’m hopeful things will get better. I know Margaret won’t change overnight—she’s set in her ways. But we can meet halfway. And I’ll talk to James, too, because we’re a team. One day, we’ll have our own place, and morning pranks won’t be an issue. Until then? I’m working on patience—and finding humour where I can. Though I’ll admit… laughing about stolen blankets is still a stretch.
