You know, I advised you to stop after your third child. I even got you those special pills, hoping youd
Aunt Rita Im 47 years old. Just an ordinary womanreally, I suppose youd call me a bit of a wallflower.
“All Right Then, Dear Mum! You Have Your Own Home—That’s Where You Belong. Don’t Come Over Unless We Invite You.”
My mother lives in a quaint English village, nestled beside a gentle river. A stretch of woodland starts just behind her garden, and in season, we gather bountiful berries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I’d run through familiar meadows with a basket, relishing nature’s gifts. I married my schoolmate, whose parents live nearby, just across the lane. Their garden doesn’t have access to the river or the woods, so when we visit from the city, we always stay with my mum.
Lately, mum’s changed—perhaps it’s her age, or perhaps jealousy over my husband—leading to holiday visits that spiral into arguments. Peaceful resolutions became rare. Once, when we stayed with my in-laws, mum picked a fight with her own beau over trivial matters. My mother-in-law was so upset, she shouted so loudly the whole lane could hear their long-standing grievances.
A month later, once tempers cooled, my husband and I hatched a plan—to build our own home, so no one’s feelings would be hurt and we’d have a place to truly belong.
Sorting out the land took ages, but we managed. My in-laws eagerly pitched in; my father-in-law was a constant presence on our building site.
But mum was nothing but trouble—coming over, offering unsolicited advice, insulting our progress, making peace impossible. Building the house became a nightmare.
A year passed; the house was finished, but relief was short-lived. Mum wouldn’t stop dropping by, accusing us of selfishness and threatening to withdraw her help—forgetting how my husband had always been there to mow her lawn or fix her roof.
One day, mum asked:
“Why do you even come here anymore? Stay in your city home—when you visit, you’re just flaunting what you have.”
That broke my husband’s patience. He calmly approached his mother-in-law, but there was something in his calm that made her edge toward the door.
“What are you doing, son-in-law…?” she asked.
“Nothing, dear mum! You’ve got your house—so live there. Don’t come here unless we invite you. Let us have a weekend to ourselves now and then. If you need help, call us; if there’s a fire, we’ll come running!”
“What do you mean, what fire?”
At those words, mum made a hasty exit. I stifled laughter watching her hurry out the gate. My husband, after calming down, raised his hands:
“Well, maybe I did go a bit far with the fire comment.”
“No, you’re quite right.”
We laughed together, recalling the look on mum’s face. Since then, peace has reigned in our new home. Mum no longer pops by, graciously accepts my husband’s help, but only speaks in simple yes or no answers. I suspect she’s still thinking about that imaginary fire. Nothing, Mum! Youve got your own house. Thats where you live. Dont come round here unless we invite you.
Oh come off it, Lucy, dont make such a fuss! A few mates round to watch the footie, whats the harm?
Is this what you’re looking for? she stretched out the letter towards him. Nick turned pale.
Michael froze: from behind the oak tree, a dog gazed at him with such sad eyes that he would have recognized
I will tell you why I choose not to leave my children with their grandmothers. I am now thirty-one years
Mum, are you serious? What do you mean, spa retreat? Youre going to Bath for three weeks? Our flights
Is this what you’re looking for? she stretched out the letter towards him. Nick turned pale.
A Little Girl Who Couldn’t Eat: The Night My Stepdaughter Finally Spoke and Everything Changed
