Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She has her own house, perfectly capable of looking after herself, but somehow she convinced my husband she needed help. Claimed she was frightened, lonely—so he rushed to bring her into our cramped two-bed flat.
Margaret Winchester is a difficult woman. She craves attention, no matter the cost. While her husband was alive, she left us alone. I was grateful—in all our years of marriage, I never managed to get along with her.
*”Oh, darling, you should always freshen up before your husband comes home. Even at my age, I wouldn’t dream of looking like this. And really, you ought to learn how to cook meat properly—shame your mother never taught you.”*
Comments like that were constant. According to her, everything she does is flawless, while I’m utterly hopeless. Before, when we only saw her at holidays, I bit my tongue. But enduring her daily jabs? That’s another matter.
Her husband passed last year. We knew it was coming—he’d battled cancer for years. After he died, Margaret was a ghost. Barely ate, barely slept. The first month, we didn’t dare leave her alone.
Then, slowly, she snapped back to life. And with it, the snide remarks returned. I almost took it as a sign she was recovering—until she started whispering in my husband’s ear about how hard it was living alone.
*”I feel so isolated. So unwanted. The house feels haunted, and my heart races at night. Maybe… maybe we should live together?”*
My husband wasn’t thrilled, but he caved. The phone calls, the guilt—it wore him down. I fought it. Living with her? Absolutely not. She even suggested we move into *her* place—bigger, she said. But I’d never be more than a guest there. Besides, our flat is central. Convenient for work, for the kids’ school.
I knew better than to let her win. On her turf, she’d devour me whole. My husband swore it was temporary—promised to keep her in line, shield me from her meddling.
Six months in, and our marriage is crumbling. I’m frayed, snapping at every little thing, running around like her maid. Make her tea, take her for walks, switch on her soaps—all while enduring lectures about how *no one cares.* And if I slip up? Suddenly she’s clutching her chest, gasping for an ambulance.
We planned a trip to Brighton—just us. Cue the waterworks. *”You’re abandoning me again! Take me with you!”* A holiday with her? No, thank you. My husband just shrugs. And I? Well. I’ve reached my limit. If he chooses her, then he can have her. We’ll end it.
