**Sunday, June 12**
I never thought my mother-in-law’s obsession with grandchildren would nearly tear my marriage apart.
Emily and I married without any fuss—just a quiet, cosy ceremony, exactly as we’d both dreamed. We had a short but lovely honeymoon in the Lake District, then settled back into ordinary life, full of love and plans for the future. For six months, it was just us, until Margaret—Emily’s mother—started creeping into our peaceful little world.
At first, her visits were rare, almost unnoticeable. She’d pop round briefly, bring a pie or some biscuits, glance around as if inspecting whether everything was in order. But gradually, her presence became suffocating. She stayed longer, turned up unannounced, sometimes without even a text. Her excuse was always the same: *“You both work so hard—I just want to help. A quick hoover, a homemade shepherd’s pie—it’ll make your lives easier.”* It sounded caring, but something in her tone made me suspect it was all just a pretence.
Emily would soothe me, saying, *“Mum’ll tire herself out soon—it’s just a phase.”* I wanted to believe her, but things only got worse. Margaret acted as if our flat in Manchester was hers too—rearranging our things, tutting at our lifestyle, until one day she let herself in with a spare key Emily had apparently given her *“for emergencies”* years ago.
Weekends were my only respite. At least then, I knew I’d have two days alone with my wife. But even that didn’t last. Margaret began arriving at dawn on Saturdays, as if on purpose. Some evenings, I lingered at the office just to avoid going home, where every day felt like an interrogation. On weekends, I’d escape to my parents’ or mates’ places. Emily always refused to come, claiming she had chores. I knew the real reason—her mother.
A quiet distance grew between us. I felt like a stranger in my own home, as if living with the three of us was normal. When I finally brought it up with Emily, she murmured, *“You’re right… we should sort this out.”* But nothing changed. Margaret kept ruling the roost, while Emily drifted between her loyalty to me and her mother’s demands.
At some point, I started thinking about divorce. We were still young—we could start over without this suffocating interference. But admitting that to myself was terrifying. A stubborn hope remained: maybe things would improve?
The final straw came last Sunday. It was barely light when the doorbell rang. I opened it to Margaret. No greeting, no small talk—just immediate accusations: *“This isn’t a proper marriage! A year in and still no children! I’ve bent over backwards for you—cleaning, cooking—just so you’d settle down, and all you do, Harry, is gallivant with your mates while my daughter sits here lonely. For God’s sake, when will you give me a grandchild?”*
I clenched my jaw, silent, until I snapped: *“And how exactly are we supposed to have a child when you’re always here? Should we just carry on with you in the room? Thanks for the help, but we’re done.”*
*“You’d be lost without me!”* she shrieked. *“All my friends have grandchildren—some even have great-grandchildren! And I’m still waiting!”*
Emily tried to intervene, but Margaret cut her off: *“Don’t you dare backchat me!”*
That was it. I stood, opened the door, and—without raising my voice—said, *“Leave. I won’t tolerate disrespect in my home.”* She slammed the door on her way out but kept shouting in the hallway.
Later, she rang my own mother to complain, manipulate, play the victim. To her shock, Mum took my side: *“Not everyone gets to be a grandmother on demand.”*
It’s been a week now. No calls, no surprise visits. Emily admitted she hasn’t felt this relaxed in years. And I know I did the right thing. I won’t apologise.
