The meddling mother-in-law used to arrive unannounced as if she owned the placeuntil I gave her a taste of her own medicine.
Sometimes, life ensures the enemy within your home isnt a stranger but a mother-in-law with a smile as sweet as the dubious meat pies she brings. Im Charlotte, married for two years, and as they say, all was well between my husband and me until his mother began “brightening our hearth” far too often. Her visits were so frequent that even the postman called less than she did.
I was sorting groceries in the kitchen cupboard when suddenlythe doorbell rang. I opened it. Of coursewho else? Margaret, my mother-in-law.
“Charlotte, hello! Ive made you some meat pies!” she beamed, thrusting a plastic container toward me. “Fresh as the morning!”
I sighed. My husband and I had loathed offal since childhoodme, force-fed the stuff as a babe, and him, the son of a butcher, had eaten so much he might as well have sprouted a second stomach. Wed told her. Repeatedly. Yet Margaret carried on as if butter wouldnt melt in her mouth.
“Margaret, we dont eat liver You know that.”
“But you cant waste good food! Keep itsomeone will enjoy it!” she protested.
Yet it wasnt just those wretched pies. Her visits grew more frequent. No warning. No knock. Shed stride in as if she owned the place and commence her “inspections”:
“Oh, whats this cheese? Never tried itIll have a bite. And a slice of that ham toobest fetch more next time. By the way, Ive brought some more pies. Sharing is caring!”
With each visit, her appetites swelled. One day, she arrived with a friendno call, no warning.
“We were at the chemists and fancied warming up a bit,” she chirped. “Put the kettle on, love?”
As I stood frozen in the doorway, she was already rummaging through the fridge, producing jam, biscuits, and a wedge of Stilton, while her friend made herself at home at the table.
I felt like a lodger in my own house. My husband shrugged”Its Mum, she means well.” Means well? Id watched her tuck our last jar of marmalade into her handbag. This wasnt kindnessit was brazen trespass.
So, I devised a plan. Subtle but effective. The next day, my friend Emily and I bought the spiciest curry in town and descended upon Margarets doorstep unannounced.
“Hello! We were nearby and thought wed pop in!” I grinned, thrusting the takeaway into her hands. “Brought you a little somethingtry it!”
Margaret paled. She despised curry. Once, shed taken a bite and since referred to it as “scorched slop on rice.”
“Make yourselves comfortableIll just see what youve got tucked away,” I said, marching to her pantry. Out came a trifle, a shepherds pie, and half a fruitcakeall dumped unceremoniously on the table. Emily stifled a laugh.
“Oh, Margaret, you dont mind, do you?” I added with saccharine innocence. “I brought you curryonly fair to share, isnt it?”
Margaret stood rooted, speechless. The penny had dropped. She knew now how it felt to have an uninvited guest raid your larder.
I left with a cheery wave, promising to visit again soon.
Since then, everything changed. She rings before visiting now, her stays brief and polite. She even brings things we actually likeno more fishy horrors. Sometimes, rows arent needed. Just hold up a mirror, and theyll see themselves plain as day.
