Not a Day Without My Mother-in-Law: How Another Woman Turned My Life into a Living Nightmare
When Oliver and I got married, our first—and what I thought was wise—decision was to live apart from our parents. He worked as an engineer at a reputable private firm, and I put my share from selling my grandmother’s flat into the mortgage. We began building our nest, dreaming of peace, cosiness, and our own little family. But who could have guessed his mother would move in with us—not physically, but in every other way?
She wasn’t under our roof, yet it felt like she was in every socket, every cupboard, every spoon. No decision, no purchase, no event escaped her relentless involvement—whether it was picking a kettle, curtains, or even a simple bathmat.
Mention replacing the drapes, and there she was, armed with folders, catalogues, and an endless stream of advice. For holidays, she drafted scripts as if we were in some amateur theatre competition. Once, we planned to ring in the New Year at a countryside cottage with friends—everything was booked, groceries bought, and transport arranged. But she staged such a performance that even Stanislavski would’ve given a standing ovation. Tears, guilt-trips, wails of *”Abandoning your mother on a night like this!”* In the end, we stayed home, lost the money, and she spent the evening criticising TV performers from her armchair, looking every bit the queen.
When I finally got pregnant, Oliver and I decided to turn the guest room into a nursery. We barely mentioned it in passing, yet the next morning, she was at our door with two builders and rolls of wallpaper in tow. I didn’t even get a word in—the renovation began. *Her* plan. *Her* colours. *Her* vision. And there I stood, a stranger in my own home.
I’ve told Oliver a hundred times how suffocated I feel—how I don’t feel like the mistress of my own house, how I want to choose everything from wallpaper to dish sponges myself. But his answer never changes: *”Mum just wants to help. She’s got good taste. She does it all out of love.”* What about *my* love? *My* desires? *My* taste? Do they not matter just because I didn’t give birth to *”such a wonderful son”*?
Then came the finale. She marched in and announced, *”Oliver and I are going on holiday. To Spain. I need a break—I carry this family on my back!”* There I stood, seven months pregnant, speechless. My husband mumbled something about not letting her go alone. I said it plainly: if he went with her, he could forget he had a wife.
The result? She stormed in screaming—that I was jealous, that she’d *”birthed and raised my husband”* while I was ungrateful, that I couldn’t go because I *”shovelled food into this belly”* and was now ruining her chance to escape *”this thankless life.”* And after all she’d done for us—
I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m exhausted living in a trio when this marriage is meant for two. I don’t want to fight, but I can’t accept this either. I feel myself disappearing—as a woman, a wife, a soon-to-be mother. I’m terrified that once the baby comes, she’ll pick not just the nappies but the name, the school, even who they’re allowed to befriend.
Ladies, any advice on surviving a *”golden”* mother-in-law like this? Or is it hopeless? Should I just accept that she’ll be with me till the end—a shadow, a backdrop, a voiceover drowning me out?
Tell me. I don’t know how to fight this madness anymore.
