When I first married Emily, I thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. She never meddled in our business, never lectured us on life, and didn’t dish out endless advice like so many wives’ mums do. On top of that, her cooking was divine, she was always polite, and her old-fashioned outlook on life even had its charm. The perfect mother-in-law, you’d think. But as they say, every rose has its thorn…
At first, everything was lovely. We lived separately, visited her on weekends for tea and scones, and listened to stories from her past. It all ran smoothly until Emily and I had our son, Oliver. That’s when things changed. At first, Grandma started popping over once a week. Then every other day. Before long, she’d moved in.
Out of politeness, we said nothing. After all, the extra help was welcome, especially with a newborn. Emily went back to work, and Mum came to the rescue—roast dinners on the table, floors sparkling, laundry folded, baby fed and happy. Sounded like a dream. Until that dream turned into a suffocating nightmare. Without asking, she’d stay for a week, then two. She’d go back to her place “just to grab a few things”—only to return.
She ruled our home like it was hers: rearranged furniture, hid my favourite mugs, baked Victoria sponges when I just wanted scrambled eggs. We stopped feeling like it was our flat. I tried hinting to Emily—maybe her mum needed a break at home—but she’d brush it off: “How can you say that? She’s lonely. Can’t you be a bit patient?”
So I was. Until fate handed me a brilliant solution.
Oliver was two. One night before bed, he told me he was afraid of the dark. “Daddy, the Bogeyman lives in the dark…” he whispered, frightened. I did my best to comfort him. “If you’re scared, just laugh, son. Laughter scares all Bogeymen away. You laugh, and they run!” I said, not overthinking it. Oliver nodded and went to sleep.
A few nights later, at 3 a.m., I heard my son shuffling down the hallway… cackling. Loudly. Eerily. Uncontrollably. The house echoed with his giggles. I nearly fell out of bed but realised—he was just going to the loo, “scaring off” the Bogeyman. Same thing the next night. And the next. To us adults, it was almost funny. But not to my mother-in-law.
After a few days, she cornered me, frazzled, and snapped, “I can’t sleep in this house another night! There’s something dark here, some presence! That child laughs like something’s speaking through him! It’s eerie. I’m going home. If I visit, it’ll be in the daytime. And only after you’ve cleared this place.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the message was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily just shrugged—“Mum’s being Mum.” I nearly grinned as I walked off to make coffee. Alone. In my kitchen. With my favourite mug.
Two years later, Mum only visits in the daytime—bringing scones, spoiling Oliver, chatting with Emily. But she’s gone by evening. Sharp. No hints about staying. Sometimes she complains of loneliness. Then I remember the “Bogeyman”—and everything falls into place.
The moral? Even the loveliest people can overstep. The trick is fixing boundaries—without a single argument. Sometimes, all it takes is… a little imagination.
