Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She has her own home and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she managed to convince my husband that she needed help. Claiming she was frightened and lonely, he rushed to bring her into our modest two-bedroom flat.
Edith Whitmore—that’s her name—has always been a difficult woman. She craves attention, no matter the cost. While her husband was alive, she left us alone, and I was grateful for it. In all the years of our marriage, I never managed to see eye to eye with her.
“Oh, dear, you really ought to make yourself presentable before your husband comes home. Even at my age, I’d never let myself go like that. And really, you should learn to cook meat properly—perhaps take some classes, since your mother never taught you.”
Such remarks were common whenever she spoke to me. According to her, everything she did was flawless, while I could do nothing right. Before, when we only saw her on holidays, I bit my tongue and endured it. But having to bear her antics every single day became unbearable.
Her husband passed last year. We’d known it was coming—he’d battled cancer for years. After his death, Edith was a shadow of herself. She barely ate or drank, wandering about like a ghost. For the first month, we hardly left her alone.
Then, eventually, she seemed to recover. She snapped back to her old self, sharp-tongued and fault-finding. In a way, it was a relief—proof she was healing. But my relief was short-lived. Soon, she began wearing my husband down, whinging about how difficult it was to live alone.
“I’m so lonely, so frightened,” she’d weep. “My heart races something awful in that empty house. Wouldn’t it be better if I lived with you?”
My husband wasn’t keen on the idea, but he relented. The endless calls and tales of woe wore him down. I, however, stood my ground. The thought of living with Edith appalled me. She even suggested we move into her house instead—it was bigger, she said. True, but there I’d never be mistress of my own home. Besides, our flat was in the heart of town, convenient for work and the children’s school.
I knew better than to fall for her games. On her turf, she’d devour me whole. My husband tried to understand, but a mother is a mother. He promised her stay would be temporary, swore he’d keep her in check and shield me from her jibes.
Six months have passed now, and our marriage has frayed to the point of near ruin. I’m irritable, worn thin from waiting on her hand and foot—making tea, escorting her on walks, turning on her programmes, all while enduring lectures about how no one cares for her. And if I slip up? She clutches her chest, demands an ambulance, plays at fainting spells.
We planned a seaside holiday once, but Edith sobbed and carried on until we agreed—or rather, my husband did—to bring her along. A holiday with her? No, thank you. He just shrugs, but I’ve reached my limit. If his mother matters more than his wife, then so be it. Let it end.
