“Why can your mother stay with us, but mine can’t?!”
I come home after a long day to find my mother-in-law, Margaret Hughes, unpacking her suitcase in the living room. I freeze, unable to believe my eyes. If this were a sitcom, I might laugh, but this is my life, and there’s nothing funny about it. Apparently, she’s decided to “stay for a couple of weeks” to “help” with the baby and the housework. Because, in her opinion, I’m clearly failing on my own.
Margaret is a woman with strong opinions, but I’ve learned to ignore her quirks. What really pushes me over the edge is my husband, Edward. He looks at me with that infuriatingly serious face and says, “Why is it fine when your mum stays for weeks, but mine can’t?” I nearly choke on my own outrage. My mother lives in another city, hundreds of miles from Manchester, and visits maybe twice a year. His mum? A ten-minute drive away, popping in whenever she pleases!
Margaret never had a career. She has a degree, but her husband, Charles, believed a woman’s place was in the home, cooking and raising children. She never argued. Her world revolved around her family—or rather, around Edward, their only son. She’d dreamed of a big family, but after a difficult birth, she couldn’t have more children. Every drop of her love went into Edward. How he didn’t drown in her smothering attention is a mystery. Even now, with grey in his hair, she still fusses over him like he’s a toddler.
Her meddling causes endless rows between us. She thinks I run the house “all wrong,” that my job gets in the way of family, that I don’t pay enough attention to our son or Edward. I refuse to tolerate her constant advice and her habit of redoing everything her way. At least we have our own flat—thanks to my parents, who helped with the deposit. We furnished it how we liked, decorated it ourselves, no mortgage hanging over us. But fate had a cruel laugh—our place is just around the corner from Margaret. Coincidence? More like a curse.
At first, she came every single day. Edward got just as fed up as I did, and even Charles grumbled about coming home to no dinner. So she cut back to weekends. But after our son, Oliver, was born, it all started again. From dawn till dusk, she was there—washing nappies, boiling porridge, lecturing me on the “proper” way to swaddle. I was at my limit. Once, I didn’t answer the door. She threw a fit, threatened to call the police! Edward tried talking to her, but it only lasted a week before she was back, armed with her “expert” opinions.
My mum, Evelyn Carter, lives all the way in Bristol and still works. She visits twice a year, and of course, she stays with us—she’s not going to a hotel! Those visits drive Margaret wild with jealousy. “You treat your mother like a friend, but you barely tolerate mine!” Edward snaps, swayed by his mum’s complaints. I try to explain, “I see my mum twice a year. Yours is practically part of the furniture! And my mum doesn’t interfere like yours does!” But he just sulks.
Margaret’s latest stunt was the last straw. I walk in, and there she is, calmly hanging her dresses in my wardrobe. Turns out, Charles is off fishing, so she’s “taking the opportunity” to “save” our home from my “chaos.” I nearly explode. In the kitchen, barely keeping my voice down, I tear into Edward: “Are you serious? What is this? Some kind of ambush?”
He shrugs. “Mum just wants to help. What’s the harm?”
“I don’t want her help! She rearranges everything, criticises how I live!” I hiss, fists clenched.
“Your mum stays here, and I don’t say a word! Why can’t mine?” he snaps back.
I’ve had enough. “If your mother is still here in the morning, I’m taking Oliver and going to Bristol. Then I’ll file for divorce. I’m done with this circus. Choose—her or me.”
Edward stares at me like I’ve betrayed him. But I mean it. I won’t live under his mother’s thumb any longer, suffocating under her “care.” If he won’t put his foot down, I’ll leave. This isn’t a threat—it’s a plea.
