**Diary Entry – 16th October**
Had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from treating our flat like her own.
Harry and I have been married for a year now, and his mother still refuses to accept that her son’s life isn’t following her grand plan. She’d dreamt of him marrying some tycoon’s daughter—someone who’d drown him in luxury and drag her along for the ride. No clue where she got such lofty ideas. The truth is, we’re an ordinary couple—tightened our belts, took out a mortgage, live in my one-bed flat while renting out the new one. Next on the list is a car. Nothing extravagant, but we’re hardly scraping by.
Still, she clings to her fantasies, dead-set on wrecking our marriage. Her methods? Downright absurd. Lipstick stains “miraculously” appearing on Harry’s shirts, his clothes reeking of perfume, condoms “found” in my handbag. Every time, it sparked rows, suspicion, interrogations. Thankfully, we always uncovered the truth, but the resentment lingered.
A few weeks ago, Harry got sent to Manchester for work—a new direction for his firm, and they wanted him to oversee the launch. A proper career opportunity, so we jumped at it. Off he went, while I carried on here alone.
Then things got odd. Things misplaced. The wardrobe clearly searched. At first, I thought Harry had popped back—it’s just an hour’s drive. I rang him; he swore he hadn’t been home. An hour later, he called back, grim. “Mum,” he said. Turns out he’d given her a key ages ago before a trip—”just in case”—and never took it back.
Next day, I left work early and had the locks changed. Told Harry if he ever handed out keys again, he’d be sleeping on the landing. That evening, everything in the flat was back in place. Proof it was her. Then I checked the wardrobe and found it—a tiny camera, tucked on the top shelf.
I called Harry straight away. He went silent, then laughed—probably sheer disbelief. I tore the cupboard apart, searching for more, but found nothing. Didn’t kick up a fuss, Harry asked me to wait till he got home to handle it.
Next day, she rang. Probably realised her key didn’t work. Asked if I was home—”just popping round for tea.” I lied, said I was out, but we’d do tea another time. Half an hour later, Harry called. She’d already whinged to him that the house was empty and I was “gallivanting about.”
We laughed. Started placing bets on what excuse she’d use next to barge in. And she delivered—daily calls. A parcel delivered to our address by mistake. Her glasses “left behind.” Just fancied dropping off some scones.
When Harry came back, she announced her visit within hours. We were ready. She arrived, handed over the scones, then made a beeline for the bedroom instead of the loo. We followed. Caught her elbow-deep in our wardrobe. Harry pulled the camera from his pocket and held it up.
Cue the meltdown. Shrieking about my “endless affairs,” how I was deceiving her poor, blind son. Even clutched her chest like a soap opera widow. Then slammed the door and flounced off like some wronged saint.
Honestly? I nearly applauded. Oscar-worthy performance, and not a single rehearsal. But this was just a battle. The war’s far from over. Still, I’m glad we stood our ground this time. Made it clear—our marriage isn’t her stage for theatrics.
**Lesson learned:** Set boundaries early, or live in a circus.
