Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She’s got her own house and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she managed to convince my husband she needed help. Said she was scared and lonely, so he rushed to bring her into our tiny two-bed flat.
Margaret Wilkins—that’s her name—is a right handful. She’s always got to be the centre of attention, no matter what. When her husband was alive, she left us alone. I was relieved, honestly—after all these years of marriage, I never did manage to get on with her.
“Oh, love, you should doll yourself up before your husband gets home. I’d never let myself go, even at my age. And you really ought to cook the roast properly—maybe take some classes, since your mum never taught you.”
Those were the sort of comments I’d get from her. According to her, she does everything perfectly, and I’m just hopeless. When we only saw her at holidays, I bit my tongue, but putting up with her every single day has become unbearable.
Her husband passed last year. We knew it was coming—he’d been ill with cancer for years. After he died, Margaret was a wreck. Barely ate, barely drank—just wandered around like a ghost. We didn’t leave her alone for the first month.
But eventually, she snapped out of it and went right back to her old self. The snide remarks and nitpicking started again. I took it as a sign she was back to normal. Little did I know—she started working on my husband, saying she couldn’t cope alone.
“I’m so lonely, and no one cares about me. It’s terrifying being in that big house, and my heart’s been playing up. Maybe we should live together?” she’d sob.
My husband wasn’t thrilled, but he gave in. The constant calls and guilt trips wore him down. I held my ground as long as I could—I *never* wanted to live with her. She even suggested we move into her place because it’s bigger. Sure, but then I’d never feel like it was my home. And our flat’s right in the city centre—easy for work and the kids’ school.
I knew better than to fall for her act. On her turf, she’d make my life hell. My husband tried to understand, but at the end of the day, it’s his mum. He promised it’d only be temporary, that he’d keep her in line and make sure she didn’t pick on me.
Six months in, and our marriage is hanging by a thread. I’m permanently on edge, running round after her like a maid.
Make her tea, take her for walks, put her rubbish telly on… and then listen to her moan about how no one pays her any attention. And if I slip up? Suddenly, she’s clutching her chest, demanding an ambulance.
We tried to book a holiday by the coast, but she threw a fit, crying that we were abandoning her. Said we had to take her with us. What kind of break is that? My husband just shrugs, and I’ve had enough. If he’d rather put his mum first, fine. We’ll get a divorce.
