For some inexplicable reason, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law dramas have been a recurring theme in my life ever since I can remember.
It all began in my childhood, marked by the “Great Wars” between my great-grandmother, Edna, and my grandmother, Doris. My parents would deposit me at Gran Doriss until a place opened up for me at nursery school. There, in that perfectly ordinary two-up, two-down in Sheffield, I witnessed genuine domestic carnage. It was as if two wholly different creatures occupied the place. One was a kindly granny, all soft cardigans and lemon drizzle cake, reading me stories and sketching wobbly pictures of foxes. The other was a perpetually vexed woman, yell-whispering at her bedridden mother-in-law, blaming her for her lifes woes and punctuating her complaints with the cheery refrain: Will you ever just hurry up and pop your clogs?
Well, Edna eventually obliged, and we ended up leaving our rented flat for Gran Dorisscue a fresh battleground: my mother, Jane, and Doris herself. The rows were so thunderous that our neighbour, Mrs. Higginbotham, began popping round to ask us to keep the volume down. But peace in the house was about as rare as sunshine in Manchester.
By the time Doris went the way of all grans, I was in the sixth form. Mum refused to mournapparently, it was a matter of principleand after nine days, she began a blitzkrieg worthy of the Antiques Roadshows nightmares, bagging all of Doriss worldly possessions (sentimentality not included) and depositing them at the nearest skip. Dad came home from work, saw the devastation, and was appalled by Mums approach to respecting the dead. That particular disagreement brewed for an entire evening and, in hindsight, probably served as the catalyst for their divorce. Six months later, Dad moved outpresumably to somewhere quieter.
My own nuptials to Tim were a modest affairbudget-friendly and with less drama, so I thought. We couldnt afford to rent, and it dawned on me shortly before the wedding that wed be living with his mother, Margaret. Memories of multi-generational melees flashed before my eyes, and I resolved to avoid the family tradition: if not best friends with my mother-in-law, surely we could at least be civil and not plot each others demise.
So I steeled myself for life with Margaret and, for about a year, mustered all my patience, refusing to bite back during her many jibes about everything from my roast potatoes to the way I hung out the washing. She never used a truly unkind word, but boy, she could drip sarcasm like a leaky tap, making it clear that I was a walking disaster and she was the reigning queen.
After one especially illuminating lesson in how to fold towels like a proper woman, I decided to face things head-on. I bought a nice Victoria sponge, asked Tim to give us a minute, and shared with Margaret the tragicomedy of female relationships in my family. I suggested we dodge the repeat scandals and aim for good neighbours at least.
Margaret gazed at me, pushed the cake away, and declared, Theres only room for one lady of the house and, well, you know who that is. Ill speak to you as I please, or not at all. Best thing for you is to keep your head down and your mouth shut. Understood?
When Tim returned, his hopeful look clashed awkwardly with my silent headshake. But Margaret sashayed in and trilled, Well, neighbour, is supper ready for your husband yet?
I replied with a smile about there being nobody to bring her a hot meal in her old age with that attitudeand suddenly, the cold war thawed into a spectacular explosion. Tim tried to play the peacekeeper, but after a year of being saintly, I finally lost it
Keeping the peace meant moving outsecuring a rented place was tough on the wallet, but so worth it for the quiet. Over time we managed to save, take out a (terrifying) mortgage, and finally buy our own home. Meanwhile, Margarets health declined, and she became dependent on constant care. Given my childhood flashbacks, I flat-out refused to become Florence Nightingale.
Instead, I suggested Tim find a family for Margaret, offering the carrot of inheriting her flat in return for her care. With a heavy heart, he agreed. We auditioned carers for months, but none lasted longer than a fortnight. Even when we paid for professional care, they left, claiming your mother is uniquely impossible. At last, a couple managed to last two months, and we drew up a contract, granting them not only the right to inherit but also the duty to provide honest reports about Margarets well-being.
Sometimes I reflect on all this and realise, perhaps it wasnt just me who had trouble with her. There must be a reason property in Sheffield isnt in higher demandStill, as the years unspooled and laughter crept back into our walls, I occasionally caught myself shuddering at a phrase or a tone, recognising in my own reflection a ghostly echo of the women whod come before mesometimes sharp-tongued, sometimes stubborn as a mule, always desperate to feel at home. I realised, with a reluctant grin, that the family curse was less about warring women and more about women trying to stake a claim in a house full of someone elses rules and memories.
These days, I plant a rose bush every springone for Edna, one for Doris, one for Jane, and, yes, one for Margaretno matter how prickly their thorns. When I watch the petals open, Im reminded: family peace is messy, hard-won, full of backhanded compliments and slam-doors, but sometimes, at the oddest moments, it smells just astonishingly sweet.
