I got home early and caught my mother-in-law ironing my clothes—now I’m even scared to leave my underwear in the flat.
I never thought she was a bad person. In fact, I really respected her—as my husband’s mum, as the woman who raised him right. But respect doesn’t mean she can barge into my life unannounced. And now here I am, frozen in the middle of my own living room, watching her iron MY silk dresses while her mate sips tea from my favourite mug like it’s nothing. I want to scream. From humiliation. From fury. From feeling completely powerless.
From the start, I knew moving in with her wasn’t an option. My husband tried to convince me—said we’d save money, have support, all that. But I always knew we were just too different. Sure, she’s kind, tidy, full of energy—but I’d never feel like I could breathe in her house. So we stayed in my flat. I even offered not to rent it out, just in case we ever needed our own space again. At first, he thought it was unnecessary, but he came around—our home, our rules, our life.
She visited often. Too often. But as long as it was while we were there, I tried not to let it bother me. She was like a whirlwind with a duster—spotting every stray hair on the floor, a bit of dust under the sofa, a damp towel left out. One minute she’d be scrubbing the fridge, the next scrubbing marks off the wall I hadn’t even noticed. My husband would say, “Mum, just sit down, relax,” but she never listened. Resting wasn’t her style.
I put up with it. I had my job, a side hustle, the flat to manage—I was exhausted. If she wanted to clean the bathroom twice, fine. I wasn’t in her way, and I just wished she’d stay out of mine.
Sometimes she’d fuss—ask me to buy something obscure, make a scene over a dirty pan or a plastic tub that “really ought to be replaced.” It was annoying, but manageable.
Then came the moment that changed everything. I was dropping off some papers for my boss when a car drove through a puddle and drenched me. Soaked to the bone, covered in mud. I called the office, and they told me to just go home—no way I could sit at reception looking like that.
I let myself in, still dripping, and heard voices. For a second, my heart leapt—maybe my husband had come back early too! But no. It was her. With her friend. On the ironing board—MY clothes. MY expensive silk dresses that I only ever handwash, carefully, separately. And there she was, ironing them. With a normal iron. Her friend was chatting away, laughing, not even noticing how the ground had just dropped out from under me.
I barely managed to ask, “How did you get in?” She just shrugged. “Can’t a mum visit her son? I’ve got a key.” A key my husband had given her—for emergencies.
But how do I explain that an emergency isn’t her deciding to rewash my clothes or rifle through my laundry? That now I’m scared to open my wardrobe in case she’s already been in there? That the idea of her—or anyone—touching my underwear makes my skin crawl?
They left eventually, acting almost offended. I stood in the bathroom for ages afterward, staring at the dress she’d ruined with the iron, not sure what hurt more—the fabric or my pride.
The next day, I changed the locks. Told my husband firmly—no more spare keys. I’m even thinking of installing a camera in the hallway, just so I know who’s been in and when.
Now I can’t relax. I don’t feel safe in my own home. And it’s not about the mess or the ironing. It’s about her taking away my right to privacy. And the worst part? My husband doesn’t even think there’s anything wrong with it.
