**Diary Entry**
When I agreed to let my mother-in-law have a key to our flat, it never crossed my mind it could become an issue. We had just married, full of optimism, starting our life together on a clean slate, believing everything would be good and proper—like family ought to be.
My husband said at the time,
*”Let Mum have a spare. Just in case. What if something happens? She could water the plants, take in a parcel…”*
I nodded. I wanted to show I trusted her, that I wasn’t one of those resentful daughters-in-law who builds walls straight away. I wanted to be open, easygoing, modern.
At first, it was exactly as he said. Mum turned up rarely, always called ahead, brought homemade jams, pies, fresh scones. Smiled, asked if we needed anything. I thought, *Fine, she wants to show she cares—I can put up with that.* I even smiled back—genuinely, wanting to be good.
But over the months, those visits grew less casual, more insistent. At some point, she stopped calling before coming. Just slid the key into the lock and walked in. A few times, I woke to the clatter of saucepans—she was already in the kitchen, frying something, rattling about. Once, I stumbled out in my dressing gown, unwashed, to find her sipping tea on my sofa.
*”Brought some Victoria sponge—fancy a slice?”* she said, as if nothing were odd.
I stayed quiet. Again. Because *she’s family*, because *she means well*, because *it’s just how she is*. I’d murmur to my husband,
*”Maybe we should talk to her…?”*
But he’d brush me off.
*”Don’t make a fuss. Some mums are like that. She’s only trying to help.”*
Yet inside, unease coiled tighter. With every visit, my space shrank. She rearranged tins in the cupboards, tossed out my old spices—*”These are past their best.”* Brought her own tea towels—*”Easier for me,”*—then her toiletries: hand cream, a hairbrush, a toothbrush. As if this were her home too.
I felt myself vanishing. The place meant to be *our* nest became *her* annex. Like I was the lodger in my own house. And my husband? Still with that mild smile—*”Can’t say no to Mum…”*
The breaking point came on a Saturday. I woke early, brewed coffee, sat by the window in my robe and thought, *This is peace. Just me.* I’d barely lifted my cup—*click*—the lock turned. There she was again.
*”Morning, love!”* she chirped, bustling past with a bag. *”Thought you’d like my treacle tart. I’ll warm you a bit!”*
But I didn’t want tart. Or visits. Or her voice, her scents. I wanted silence. Wanted—for the first time in ages—to decide who entered *my home*.
That evening, I found my nerve. Phoned her:
*”Margaret… please return the key. It’s important to me.”*
Silence. Then, a wounded whisper:
*”I thought you trusted me…”*
But I didn’t explain. For once, I’d acted for *me*, not to keep the peace.
Next day, she handed back the keys. Stared—hurt, baffled, icy. But meeting her gaze, I knew: the line was drawn. And I wouldn’t let it blur again.
Now, when I unlock the door after work, only quiet greets me. My things stay where I left them. My mug on the counter. My music playing. My life—uninterrupted, uninvaded.
Yes, it stung. But I’ve learned: love isn’t licence to intrude. Even family must respect boundaries. At last, I feel it again—this is *my* home. And I’m the one who decides. That’s worth every ache.
