Every Day with Mother-in-Law: How Another Woman Turned My Life into a Living Hell
When Tom and I got married, our first—and what I thought then was wise—decision was to live separately from our parents. He worked as an engineer at a reputable private firm, and I used my share from selling my grandmother’s flat to put toward the mortgage. We began building our nest, dreaming of peace, cosiness, and starting our own family. But who could’ve guessed his mother would move in with us, without ever actually setting foot in our home?
She wasn’t physically there, yet I felt her in every socket, every cupboard, every spoon. No decision, no purchase, no event happened without her involvement—whether it was picking a kettle, curtains, or even a simple bath mat.
Mention needing new curtains, and there she was—armed with folders, catalogues, and endless advice. On holidays, she’d script everything like we were competing in a talent show. Once, we planned to ring in the New Year at a countryside cottage with friends. Everything was paid for—groceries bought, transport arranged. But she staged such a performance, even Olivier would’ve applauded. Tears, accusations, wailing: “You’d abandon your own mother on a night like this?” We stayed home, lost the money, and she spent the evening criticising TV presenters from her armchair, looking every bit the queen.
When I finally got pregnant, Tom and I decided to convert the spare room into a nursery. We barely mentioned it in conversation—yet the very next morning, she was on our doorstep with two workmen and rolls of wallpaper tucked under her arms. I didn’t even get a word in—the renovation began. Her plan. Her colours. Her vision. I stood helplessly in my own home, feeling like a stranger.
I’ve told Tom a hundred times how suffocated I feel. How I don’t feel like the lady of my own house. How I want to choose things myself—from wallpaper to dish sponges. But the answer’s always the same: “Mum just wants to help. She has great taste. She does it out of love.” What about my love? My wants? My taste? Or do none of those matter simply because I didn’t give birth to “such a wonderful son”?
And then came the climax. She arrived and announced triumphantly: “Tom and I are going on holiday. To Spain. I need a break—I do everything around here.” I stood there, seven months pregnant, speechless. Tom mumbled that he couldn’t let her go alone. I said plainly: if he went with her, he could forget he had a wife.
The outcome? She stormed in shrieking that I was jealous. That she’d birthed and raised my husband, and I was ungrateful. That I couldn’t go because I’d “eaten myself into this belly,” and now I was stopping her from a well-deserved break from her “thankless life.” After all, she did *everything* for us, and we—
I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m exhausted living as three in a marriage of two. I don’t want a war, but I can’t accept this either. I feel myself slipping away—as a woman, a wife, a soon-to-be mother. I’m terrified that once the baby comes, she’ll pick not just the nappies but the name, the school, even who they’re allowed to befriend.
Ladies, any advice on surviving a mother-in-law like this? Or is it hopeless? Should I resign myself to her shadow over my life—now and forever—a voice louder than my own?
Tell me. I don’t know how to fight this madness anymore.
