**Diary Entry**
I came home early today and caught my mother-in-law ironing my clothes—now I’m afraid to leave even my laundry in the flat.
I never thought of her as a bad person. In fact, I respected her deeply—as the woman who raised my husband, as someone who brought up a good man. But respect doesn’t give anyone the right to barge into my life uninvited. And there I stood, frozen in the middle of my own living room, watching her press *my* silk dresses while her friend sipped tea from *my* favourite mug. I wanted to scream—from humiliation, from anger, from sheer helplessness.
From the start, I knew moving in with her was out of the question. My husband argued—saving money, having support, extra help—but I already understood: we were different people. Kind, efficient, full of energy? Sure. But I’d never be able to breathe freely in her house. We stayed in my flat. I insisted we keep it—just in case—so we’d always have a fallback. He thought it was excessive at first but agreed in the end. This was *our* space, *our* rules, *our* life.
She visited often. Too often. When it was just while we were home, I gritted my teeth. She was a whirlwind with a duster—spotting every stray hair, every speck of dust under the sofa, every towel left damp. If she wasn’t scrubbing the fridge, she was attacking invisible marks on the walls. My husband would say, *”Mum, sit down, relax,”* but it was like talking to a hurricane. Resting wasn’t in her vocabulary.
I tolerated it. Between work, freelance jobs, and keeping up the house, I was exhausted. If she wanted to clean the bathroom twice, fine. I wasn’t in her way—all I asked was the same courtesy.
Occasionally, she’d fuss—ask for some rare ingredient or make a fuss over a greasy pan. Annoying, but manageable.
Then came the moment that split everything into *before* and *after*. I was out delivering papers for my boss when a car sped through a puddle and drenched me. Mud to the waist, soaked to the bone. The office told me to go home—no one wanted me dripping on reception.
I walked in still dripping, hearing voices. My heart leapt—maybe my husband was back early! But no. It was her. And her friend. On the ironing board—*my* clothes. *My* expensive silk pieces, the ones I handwash carefully, separately. And there she was, ironing them. With a regular iron. Her friend was chatting away, laughing, completely unaware I was crumbling inside.
I choked out, *”How did you get in?”* She just shrugged. *”A mother can’t visit her son? I have a key.”* A key *he* gave her—*”just in case.”*
How do I explain that *just in case* doesn’t mean rifling through my laundry, touching my things? That now I open my wardrobe and wonder if she’s been in there? That the thought of strangers handling my underwear makes my skin crawl?
They left eventually, almost offended. I stood in the bathroom for ages staring at the dress she’d ruined with the iron, unsure what hurt more—the fabric or my pride.
The next day, I changed the locks. Told my husband—no more spare keys. I’m considering a camera in the hallway now, just so I *know* who’s been in our flat.
I can’t relax anymore. I don’t feel safe in my own home. It’s not about the mess or the iron. It’s about someone stealing my right to privacy. And the worst part? My husband doesn’t even see the problem.
**Lesson learned:** A home isn’t just walls—it’s the one place you should never have to guard.
