How I “Kicked Out” My Mother-in-Law Without Saying a Word Against Her
When I first married Emily, I thought I’d struck gold with her mother. She never meddled in our affairs, didn’t lecture us on life, and spared us the endless advice so many wives’ mums love to dispense. On top of that, she cooked like a dream, was always polite, and even had a charmingly old-fashioned outlook on things. The perfect mother-in-law, you’d think. But as they say, every silver lining has a cloud…
At first, everything was lovely. We lived apart, visiting her on weekends for tea and biscuits while she shared stories from her youth. It was all smooth sailing—until our son, Oliver, was born. That’s when things changed. At first, Granny started visiting once a week. Then every other day. Before long, she’d practically moved in.
Out of politeness, we didn’t say a word. After all, the extra help around the house was a blessing, especially with a newborn. Emily went back to work, and her mum was always there—roast in the oven, floors gleaming, laundry folded, the baby content. A dream, right? Except that dream quickly turned into a suffocating nightmare. Because without asking, she’d stay for a week, then two. She’d pop back to her place “just to grab a few things”—only to return and settle in again.
She ruled our home like it was hers: rearranging furniture, hiding my favourite mug, baking scones when all I wanted was a simple fry-up. We stopped feeling like it was our own flat. I tried hinting to Emily—maybe her mum needed a break at her own place—but Emily would wave me off: “She’s lonely, can’t you be a bit patient?”
So I bit my tongue. Until fate handed me the perfect solution.
Oliver was two at the time. One night, just before bed, he whispered, “Daddy, I’m scared of the dark. The Bogeyman lives in there.” I did my best to soothe him. “Just laugh, mate. Laughter scares all Bogeymen away. You laugh, and they run!” I said offhand, not thinking much of it. Oliver nodded and toddled off to bed.
A couple of nights later, at three in the morning, I heard my son shuffling down the hallway… cackling. Grinning wildly. It echoed through the house—a spine-chilling, unhinged sort of laughter. I nearly fell out of bed before realising he was off to the loo, “scaring off” the Bogeyman. The next night? Same thing. And the next. Us adults found it a tad amusing. My mother-in-law? Not so much.
After a few days, she cornered me, visibly rattled. “There’s something not right in this house. Some… darkness. That child laughs in the night like something’s speaking through him! I can’t stay here. I’ll visit in the daytime—only after you’ve sorted this mess.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the implication was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily just shrugged—”Mum’s being mum.” Meanwhile, I fought back a grin as I brewed my coffee. Alone. In my kitchen. With my favourite mug.
It’s been nearly two years now. She only comes over in daylight—dropping off cakes, fussing over Oliver, gossiping with Emily. But she’s always gone by evening. No hints about staying. Sometimes she complains about loneliness, but I just think of the “Bogeyman”—and everything falls into place.
The lesson? Even the sweetest people can overstep. The trick is setting boundaries—without rows, resentment, or drama. Sometimes all it takes is a little… creativity.
