My mother-in-law is fiercely protective of her son. Each day, during the holidays, my husband pops over to her house for lunch, leaving me to wonder if there’s ever a meal he eats without her supervision. Every day, she sends him endless textsmysterious riddles bursting onto his phone like clockwork. If he needs anythinga worrisome thought, a missing £10 noteoff he dashes, straight to her terraced house.
Tonight, as Im unlocking the door after work, I find her standing in our kitchen, suitcase in hand crammed with odd trinkets and novels.
“Evening, Margaret,” I say, trying not to stare at the suitcase. “What’s all this, then?”
“I’ve decided to stay the week,” she declares, her voice echoing with authority. “Ill help with the chores, the little one, and your husband. After all, you do have to keep him well fed. And youre always so terribly rushed.” She gives me a knowing nod. “Busy at that funny new job, arent you?”
Of course, Margaret is a force of natureproper iron-willed and fussing. I decide not to argue or explain, just slip out to talk to my husband about this peculiar invasion.
His reaction leaves me lost in a haze, as if my dream were twisting inside out.
“Love,” I say, “I dont understand. Your mum’s set up camp here without asking? Claims Im not capable of keeping the house afloat?”
He shrugs and sips his tea. “Ive no quarrel with it. Let her stay, shes no bother. Whys your mother allowed to come for a week and mine cant? Is my mum worse somehow? When yours stayed round last year, did I complain?”
“Hold on… My mum lives in Manchestershe comes twice a year if lucky! Im not sending her off to a Travelodge. Yours only lives round the corner and drops by nearly every day!” I protest.
The dream morphs further, colours shifting as I picture Margaret prowling about, opening drawers, peeking behind curtains, her fingers poking through our shelves while Im away.
My husband is oddly comfortable with his mother’s relentless attention. Hes already sporting streaks of grey, yet Margaret still whirls in bringing reheated stew, dabbing at his chin as if he were five. Our arguments about this happen in a blur, looping through my mindI am bothered by his failure to detach, and Margaret resents my reluctance to mother her precious son. Her constant advice is like cryptic messages rearranging themselves in the air: how to live, what to cook, how to care for “her boy.”
When we wed, she was there daily, scrubbing his socks, waiting for him to return to her roast dinner. I grew weary, talked it over with my husband, who then spoke to herafter that, she dialled back, visiting two or three times a week. When our son arrived, she was back at it, her visits multiplying like rabbits.
Now, in this dream, Im floating with a suitcase through strange rooms, pondering the prospect of renting a flat for myself if Margaret takes control. I tell my husband: “Ill move out if your mum stays.”
He sighs, eyes half closed. “Mum only wants to help,” he says, his words twisting into a question.
“And do I really need her help?” I reply, as the walls ripple and the kettle whistles its answer.
