Not a Day Without Mother-in-Law: How Another Woman Turned My Life Upside Down
When Oliver and I got married, our first—and what I naively thought was wise—decision was to live apart from our parents. He worked as an engineer at a decent private firm, while I used my share from selling Gran’s flat to help with the mortgage. We were building our little nest, dreaming of peace, cosiness, and a family of our own. But who knew his mother would move in with us—metaphorically speaking, of course.
She didn’t actually live under our roof. But she might as well have been in every plug socket, every cupboard, every teaspoon. Not a single decision, purchase, or life event escaped her enthusiastic involvement—whether it was picking a kettle, curtains, or even a measly bath mat.
Mention needing new curtains, and there she was, armed with folders, catalogues, and enough unsolicited advice to drown in. For holidays, she orchestrated scripts like we were contestants on *Britain’s Got Talent*. Once, Oliver and I planned a quiet New Year’s getaway in a countryside cottage—booked, paid for, groceries bought, taxi arranged. But she put on such a performance that even the Royal Shakespeare Company would’ve taken notes. Tears, guilt-trips, dramatic sighs: *“Abandoning your own mother on such a special night!”* In the end, we stayed home, lost the money, and spent the evening listening to her critique every telly presenter while she lounged like the Queen on her throne.
When I finally got pregnant, Oliver and I decided to turn the spare room into a nursery. We barely mentioned it in passing… and the next morning, she was on our doorstep with two builders and rolls of wallpaper under her arms. I didn’t even get a word in—the renovations started immediately. *Her* plan. *Her* colour scheme. *Her* vision. And there I stood, in my own home, feeling like a trespasser.
I told Oliver a hundred times how suffocated I felt—that I wanted to be mistress of my own house, choosing everything from wallpaper to washing-up sponges. But his answer was always the same: *“Mum just wants to help. She’s got a good eye. She does it out of love.”* And what about *my* love? *My* wants? *My* taste? Or do those not matter because I didn’t raise *such a marvellous son*?
Then came the crowning glory. She waltzed in and announced, *“Oliver and I are off to Spain for a holiday. I deserve a break after carrying this family on my back.”* There I stood, seven months pregnant, utterly speechless. Oliver mumbled something about not letting her go alone. So I told him plainly: if he went with her, he might as well forget he had a wife.
The result? She stormed in shrieking that I was just jealous. That she’d *given birth to and raised* my husband, and this was my thanks. That I couldn’t go because *I’d eaten myself into this state* and was now ruining her well-earned *“escape from this thankless life.”* And after everything she’d done for us…
I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m exhausted living as a trio when marriage is meant for two. I don’t want a war, but I can’t just surrender either. I feel myself disappearing—as a woman, a wife, a soon-to-be mother. I’m terrified that once the baby’s here, she’ll pick not just the nappies but the name, the school, even their friends.
Ladies, any tips on surviving a *“treasured”* mother-in-law like this? Or is it hopeless? Should I just accept that she’ll haunt me forever—like a shadow, like background noise, like a voiceover that’s always louder than mine?
Do tell. I’m fresh out of ideas to fight this madness.
