How I “Eased” My Mother-in-Law Out Without Saying a Word
When I first married Emily, I thought I’d hit the jackpot with her mother. She never meddled, never lectured us on life, never doled out endless advice like so many “wives’ mums” do. On top of that, her cooking was divine—she was always polite, even charming in her old-fashioned way. The perfect mother-in-law, you’d think. But as they say, every rose has its thorn…
At first, it was lovely. We lived apart, visited her on weekends for tea and scones, listened to her tales of the past. Everything ran smoothly—until our son Oliver was born. That’s when it started. First, Grandma came round once a week. Then every other day. Before long, she’d moved in.
Out of politeness, we said nothing. After all, help around the house is nothing to sniff at, especially with a baby. Emily went back to work, and Mum was there—beef stew on the stove, floors gleaming, laundry folded, the baby fed and content. A dream, you’d think. Except dreams can curdle into nightmares. Without asking, she stretched her stay—first a week, then two. Then she left “just to fetch a few things” and returned right back.
She ruled our home like a queen: rearranged furniture, hid my favourite mug, baked Victoria sponge when I just wanted scrambled eggs. We no longer felt at home in our own flat. I hinted to Emily—maybe Mum needed a break at her place? But Emily brushed it off. “She’s lonely, can’t you be patient?”
So I was patient. Until chance handed me the perfect solution.
Oliver was two when it happened. One night at bedtime, he whispered, “Daddy, I’m scared of the dark. The Bogeyman lives there.” I tried to comfort him. “Just laugh, son. Laughter scares all Bogeymen away. You laugh, and they’ll run!” I said it offhand, not thinking much of it. Oliver nodded and went to sleep.
Then, a few nights later—three in the morning—I heard him shuffling down the hallway… cackling. Loudly. Terrifyingly. A full-bellied laugh echoing through the house. I nearly fell out of bed but realised—he was off to the loo, “scaring off” the Bogeyman. Next night, same thing. Night after night. To us, it was amusing. To Granny? Not so much.
After a week, she cornered me, frazzled. “I can’t stay here another night! There’s something wrong with this house—something dark! The boy laughs like he’s possessed! I’m going home. If I visit, it’ll be daytime only. And you’d best sort this out.”
She didn’t say “exorcist,” but the message was clear. I nodded solemnly. Emily sighed—”Mum’s just being Mum.” And I, fighting a grin, brewed my coffee. Alone. In my own kitchen. With my favourite mug.
Two years on, Granny visits strictly by daylight—dropping off scones, playing with Oliver, chatting with Emily. But by dusk, she’s gone. No hints about staying over. Sometimes she complains of loneliness. Then I remember the “Bogeyman”—and everything falls into place.
The lesson? Even the loveliest people can overstep. The trick is to reclaim your space without a fuss. No shouting, no grudges. Just a little… imagination.
