Nothing, mum, thats all! Youve got your own housego and live there. And please, only come round if we invite you.
My mother lives in a tiny, charming village bordering a gentle English river. Behind her garden, an ancient thicket stretches out; in summer, the hedgerows and woods yield a bounty of blackberries and mushrooms. Since childhood, Id run laughing through those meadows with my basket, revelling in the wild beauty and the thrill of finding natures treasures.
I married a classmatehis parents lived not far, though on the opposite side of the lane. Their cottage didnt have the luxury of woodland or river access. So, whenever we escaped the hustle of London, we stayed with my mother.
Recently, though, my mother had changed. Perhaps it was age, or perhaps she was jealous that I spent more time with my husband, but our holidays at her place grew tense, marked by arguments and clashes. It was getting nearly impossible to keep the peace.
The few times we stayed with my husbands parents, my mother still managed to stir up trouble. She picked a fight with her own friend over some minor nonsense. My mother-in-law was so upset, she started shoutingthe whole lane could hear them airing old grievances.
A month later, with tempers cooled, my husband and I decided it was time to build our own homesomewhere to retreat, without worrying about offending anyone.
Sorting out the plot took ages, but at last, we managed it. My father-in-law and mother-in-law helped with giddy enthusiasm. Dad was always at the site, lending a hand and some much-needed wit.
Only Mum held out. Shed drop by, dispense advice, criticise our choices, and generally make each step harder than necessary. Building our dream home became an exhausting ordeal, thanks to her interference.
A year later, it was finally done. We hoped for peaceno more nagging, no more drama. But no luck. Mum wouldnt stop visiting, complaining about our selfishness, insisting shed never accept help. She forgot all the little ways my husband had always pitched inmowing her lawn, fixing the roof, and the like.
One afternoon, Mum cornered me:
Why do you even come here anymore, with all your fancy London ways? Just stay in your new houseyoure always showing off how youve made it.
That was the last straw for my husband. He strode over to my mother, calm but steely; there was firmness in his manner that made her back toward the door.
What are you doing, son-in-law? she stammered.
He replied, Nothing, mum, thats all! Youve got your own houseso live in it. Only come round if we invite you. Give us a weekends rest, just now and again. If you need help, ring us; if theres ever a fire, well be there in a flash!
A fire? What do you mean, fire!
With that, Mum almost bolted out the door, glancing around nervously as she hustled down the path. I struggled to keep a straight face, watching her hustle out, clearly miffed.
My husband, now composed, shrugged:
Maybe that bit about the blaze was a tad much.
No, its perfect, I said, and we burst out laughing, remembering her expression.
Since then, our cottage has been quiet and calm. Mum hasnt dropped in unannounced; she accepts my husbands offers to help but only says yes or no. I suspect she still thinks about the fire.
