The morning began with the slow, creeping sensation of my blanket being tugged away. My eyes were still shut, yet I knew I lay utterly exposed. A shiver ran down my spine just as familiar laughter echoed through the room. I cracked one eye open to see my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, giggling as she darted out of our bedroom. “Mum, what are you doing?!” I called after her, but she’d already vanished, leaving only the ghost of her laughter behind. My husband, James, muttered something incoherent in his sleep and yanked the covers back over himself, oblivious. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrestling with how to react to yet another one of Mum’s “jokes.”
James and I have been married only a year, and we’re still living with his parents—just until we save enough for our own flat. But honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if I can endure this arrangement much longer. Margaret is kind, lively, and, as she puts it, “a bit of a joker.” But her sense of humour often leaves me flushed and uneasy. This morning’s blanket stunt was just one in a string of incidents that make me feel like an outsider in my own home.
It started even before the wedding. When James first brought me to meet his parents, Margaret hugged me tight, called me “love,” and declared me part of the family. I was moved by her warmth—until I realised she had no concept of personal space. She’d waltz into our room without knocking, just “for a chat,” or rearrange my things because “it looks tidier this way.” Once, I caught her rifling through my wardrobe, critiquing which dresses suited me and which didn’t. I tried to brush it off—she’s older, set in her ways, and this *is* her house. But the blanket incident was the last straw.
I threw on my dressing gown and marched to the kitchen, where Margaret was already humming cheerfully over breakfast. “Morning, love!” she chirped. “Finally awake, are you? You and James were dead to the world!” Her smirk told me she was *still* pleased with herself. I forced a smile. “Good morning, Margaret. Though I’d rather wake up without surprises, if it’s all the same.” She waved me off. “Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud! Got to keep you two on your toes!”
I sat at the table, gripping my tea to steady myself. Deep down, I knew she meant no harm. To her, these antics were just affection, a way to feel close. But it unnerved me. I was raised in a home where privacy mattered. My mum, Eleanor Hartley, always knocked before entering my room and taught me to respect boundaries. Here, my bedroom might as well be a public corridor. The worst part? James didn’t see an issue. When I told him, he just chuckled. “Mum’s bored, that’s all. Don’t take it personally.” But it wasn’t funny. I needed our home—even a temporary one—to feel like a sanctuary.
I resolved to talk to Margaret directly. After breakfast, once James had left for work, I invited her for coffee. She agreed eagerly, and we settled in the sitting room. I started gently, thanking her for her kindness. Then, steeling myself, I said, “Margaret, I’m so grateful you’ve welcomed me into the family. But sometimes it’s… uncomfortable when you come into our room unannounced or play pranks like this morning. It catches me off guard.” My voice wavered, but I kept it soft, desperate not to offend.
To my surprise, she didn’t bristle. She studied me, then sighed. “Love, I had no idea it bothered you. In our family, we’ve always been… hands-on. But if it upsets you, I’ll try to mind myself.” Her smile was genuine, and relief washed over me. Maybe she *hadn’t* meant any harm. We talked a while longer, and I even shared stories about my own family, hoping she’d understand why this mattered.
I doubt Margaret will change overnight—she’s too set in her ways. But I believe we can find middle ground. And I’ll speak to James, too; we’re a team, after all. One day, we’ll have our own place, and these “jokes” will be memories. Until then, I’m learning patience—and trying, however faintly, to see the humour in it. Though I confess, laughing about stolen blankets? That’s a stretch.
