Strangers in Our Home: Thanks to Mother-in-Law for the Unwanted Guests
I sat at the kitchen table in our tiny flat in Manchester, clutching a mug of cold tea, fighting back tears of frustration. Four years of marriage to Andrew, endless sacrifices to secure our own home, and now it had become a free-for-all because of his mother. The final straw was her friend, whom she’d foisted upon us without a second thought.
Andrew and I came from humble beginnings. Years of drifting between rented flats, where cockroaches were our unwelcome roommates, taught us the value of every penny. We scrimped on everything to get a mortgage. Our parents offered little—my mum gave us a blender as a wedding gift, while his mother, Maureen, handed us a toaster that broke within a month.
Finally, after years of struggle, we bought a one-bedroom flat. We did the renovations ourselves—no money for builders. Andrew stayed up late wallpapering while I painted until my arms gave out. Family never lifted a finger; we only saw them at holidays. But the moment we’d made the place livable, Maureen declared, “You’ll have to put up my friend Lydia. I pulled strings to get her a spa break—she owes me. Show her around!”
She didn’t ask if we wanted to, if it was convenient. She just dropped it on us. The gall—Maureen cared about her own comfort, while we were expected to play host to a stranger, draining our time and energy? Anger simmered in my chest, but Andrew, as usual, stayed silent.
We met Lydia at the station. She was shamelessly entitled, treating us like her personal tour guides. We dragged her around Manchester’s sights while she demanded coffee, lunches, endless photos. It felt like unpaid servitude. I seethed but kept quiet—for Andrew’s sake.
This wasn’t the first time Maureen had dumped her relatives on us. A year ago, her younger brother Victor stayed for a month. He mooched off us, drank himself senseless, shouted into the night, and once swiped Andrew’s jacket, claiming he needed it more. Then he demanded I find him a “city wife” so he wouldn’t have to go back to his village. I was livid, but Maureen just shrugged. “He’s young, let him have his fun,” she’d said.
Lydia left glowing with satisfaction, but bitterness lingered inside me. I knew this wasn’t over. Andrew could never say no to his mother. He’d forgotten how she kicked him out at seventeen with just a rucksack, screaming that he needed to make his own way. Now she played the doting saint, and he hung on her every word.
I tried reasoning with him—we were building our own family, our baby was coming soon, we didn’t need strangers underfoot. But he just stared blankly, as if I were speaking another language. “Chloe, Mum means well,” he’d say, like a broken record.
Meant well? Maureen used us as she pleased! She had a two-bed on mortgage—why not house her own guests there? Not a penny went into our flat, yet she exploited our kindness without shame. Rage burned in my chest every time I saw her fake smile. To Andrew, she was the perfect mother; behind his back, she bulldozed every boundary we had.
Then I snapped. The minute Lydia left, Maureen called to “thank” us—before hinting her cousin would visit soon. I exploded. “Enough! This is our home, not a B&B! If you want to help your friends, take them in yourself!”
She scoffed down the line. “Ungrateful! After all I’ve done!”
Andrew paled when he heard me shouting. “Chloe, why shout at Mum? She’s just trying to help.”
I looked at him, heart aching. He couldn’t see how she manipulated him, how she dismantled our life together. I wanted to protect our home, our unborn child—but how, when my husband took her side?
Now I stood at a crossroads: swallow it all or lay down the law. I longed for Maureen to vanish, for Andrew to finally see her for what she was. But if I waged war, I feared I’d lose everything. How do I put her in her place without destroying my marriage?
