A Strange Holiday with the Mother-in-Law: Why I Won’t Go Back
My mother-in-law, let’s call her Margaret Wilkins, arranged a “holiday” for us that was anything but relaxing. Honestly, what’s the point of a break like that? She cooks all sorts of rustic delicacies, while my husband and I ended up buying ready meals or eating in cheap cafés just to survive. That visit taught me a harsh lesson.
**The Invitation: Expectations vs. Reality**
My husband, let’s say James, and our children, Emily and Oliver, decided to spend a week at his mum’s place in a small village in the Cotswolds. Margaret had been inviting us for ages, promising a proper countryside retreat: fresh air, homemade food, peace and quiet. James and I were thrilled—we were both exhausted from work, and the kids would benefit from some time outdoors. I pictured a cosy cottage, delicious meals, and long walks through the fields. The reality couldn’t have been more different.
When we arrived, Margaret greeted us with a smile, but within an hour, I knew this wouldn’t be the holiday I’d imagined. The house was old, with worn-out furniture and creaky floors. The bathroom only had cold water, and the toilet was outside. I tried not to complain, but for children used to city comforts, it was a shock.
**Culinary Surprises: Countryside “Delicacies”**
Margaret prided herself on her cooking and announced she’d treat us to “proper countryside fare.” For the first dinner, she served a stew with offal and a strange salad of pickled cabbage with unknown herbs. The smell alone made Emily and Oliver refuse to even taste it. To avoid offending her, I forced down a few spoonfuls, but the food was too heavy and unfamiliar. James whispered, “Mum’s always cooked like this—just bear with it.”
The next day was worse. Margaret prepared something resembling a pot roast with tripe and potatoes. Oliver stared at his plate and asked, “Mum, is this intestines?” I nearly laughed but was horrified inside. Margaret huffed, “You city folk eat all that processed rubbish—this is real food!” I stayed silent but knew the kids needed rescuing. James and I sneaked off to the local shop and bought frozen pies. That evening, we cooked them in secret while Margaret wasn’t looking.
**Living by Her Rules: Tension Rises**
Margaret had her own way of doing things. She woke us at six, declaring, “Country folk don’t lie in.” The children hated it—they were used to sleeping until nine. Then she made everyone help in the garden: weeding the vegetable patch, picking berries. I don’t mind chores, but Emily and Oliver were exhausted, and Margaret grumbled, “City kids—no stamina, no strength!”
In the evenings, she blasted the telly, watching old soap operas and commenting loudly. When I asked her to turn it down so the children could sleep, she snapped, “My house, my rules!” James tried to smooth things over, but I could tell he was uncomfortable too. I felt like an unwelcome guest, not a family member on holiday.
**Salvation at the Pub: Our Escape**
By the third day, I’d had enough. The kids and I started sneaking off to the local pub—nothing fancy, but it served normal food. Burgers, chips, apple crumble—things they’d actually eat. Margaret noticed we weren’t touching her cooking and took offence. “I slave away, and you lot run off to the pub!” she scolded. I explained the kids weren’t used to her meals, but she just waved me off. “Spoiled, that’s what they are!”
James backed me up, though gently, to avoid hurting her feelings. “Mum, it’s just not what they’re used to,” he said. But Margaret wouldn’t let it go, muttering about “modern folk not appreciating tradition.” I bit my tongue, but inside I was seething. This wasn’t a holiday—it was pure stress.
**The Decision: Time to Leave**
On the fifth day, I talked to James. “This isn’t a break—it’s torture,” I said. “I can’t do this anymore.” He agreed his mum was overdoing it but asked if we could stick it out. I refused. We packed up and left a day early. Margaret was clearly annoyed, but I thanked her politely and promised we’d visit again—though I knew we wouldn’t.
Back home, I finally relaxed. The kids were overjoyed to eat normal food and sleep in their own beds. James admitted he’d found his mum’s ways exhausting too but hadn’t wanted to upset her. We agreed that next time, we’d meet her on neutral ground—maybe at a restaurant in town.
**Lessons Learned: Setting Boundaries**
That trip showed me how good intentions can backfire if you ignore each other’s comfort. Margaret meant well, but her way of life didn’t suit us. I learned to stand my ground—I don’t have to endure misery just to be polite.
Now, James and I are planning a proper holiday—maybe by the seaside, with decent food and no six a.m. wake-up calls. And I won’t be going back to Margaret’s. If she wants to see us, she can visit—but no more “rustic feasts” or rigid rules.
