How I “Politely” Encouraged My Mother-in-Law to Move Out Without Saying a Word Against Her
When I first married Emily, I thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. She didn’t meddle in our affairs, didn’t lecture us on life, and, unlike so many wives’ mums, never doled out endless unsolicited advice. On top of that, she cooked like a dream, was always polite, and even had this charmingly old-fashioned way of looking at the world. By all accounts—the perfect mother-in-law. But as they say, every silver lining has a cloud…
At first, everything was lovely. We lived separately, attended Sunday roasts at her place, sipped tea with scones, and listened to her tales of the good old days. Life rolled along smoothly—until our son, Oliver, was born. That’s when things took a turn. First, Granny started dropping by once a week. Then every other day. Before long, she’d practically moved in.
Out of politeness, we said nothing. After all, an extra pair of hands around the house isn’t the worst thing, especially with a newborn. Emily went back to work, and there Mum was—shepherd’s pie on the stove, floors polished to a shine, laundry folded, baby cooing contentedly. A dream, right? Well, dreams have a funny way of turning into sleepwalking nightmares. Soon, she was staying over for a week. Then two. Then she’d pop home “just to grab a few things”—only to reappear on our doorstep with an overnight bag.
She settled in like she owned the place—rearranged furniture, hid my favourite mug, baked Victoria sponges when all I wanted was beans on toast. Our flat no longer felt like ours. I dropped hints to Emily—”Maybe your mum would like a break at hers?”—but my wife would just wave me off. “Oh, don’t be like that. She’d be lonely there. Can’t you just humour her?”
So I humoured her. Until fate handed me the most brilliant solution imaginable.
Oliver was two at the time. One night at bedtime, he tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Daddy, there’s a boggart in the dark…” I did my best to soothe him. “Buddy, if you’re scared, just laugh. Boggarts hate laughter. You laugh, and they run off!” I blurted, not thinking much of it. Oliver nodded and toddled off to bed.
Then, a few nights later, at three in the morning, I heard my son padding down the hallway… cackling. Loudly. Maniacally. The kind of laugh that sends shivers down your spine. I nearly fell out of bed before realising—he was off to the loo, “scaring off” the boggart. Next morning, same thing. And the night after. The grown-ups found it oddly entertaining. My mother-in-law? Not so much.
After a week of nocturnal giggle fits, she cornered me, looking positively frazzled. “I can’t stay in this house another night! There’s something… unnatural here! That child laughs in the dark like he’s possessed! It’s giving me the creeps. I’m going home. And if I visit, it’ll only be in daylight. Preferably after you’ve had the vicar round.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the implication was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily shrugged—”Mum will be Mum.” Meanwhile, I fought back a grin as I brewed my coffee. Alone. In my kitchen. With my favourite mug, retrieved from its hiding spot.
Two years on, Granny visits strictly by daylight—bearing scones, fussing over Oliver, and catching up with Emily over the latest gossip. Come evening? She’s out the door. No lingering. No hints about staying. Occasionally, she complains about loneliness. But then I remember the “boggart”—and suddenly, everything falls neatly into place.
The moral? Even the sweetest people can overstay their welcome. Sometimes, all it takes to reclaim your space is a little… imaginary pest control. No arguments, no grudges—just a well-timed laugh in the dark.
